Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’d been two days since they’d reclaimed Camelot, and four days since he’d requested Kilgharrah’s aid to help Arthur escape Agravaine and the Southrons.

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Murderer.

He was.

Because they were burning for him, all of them, to keep his secret safe.

Merlin had known he’d not be able to leave the evidence of Kilgharrah’s involvement in Agravaine’s defeat at the caves near Ealdor. The dead Southrons were too numerous, and they’d fallen too close to his home village. They’d be discovered, and questions would be asked. He’d returned as soon as he could to hide what he’d done, and to conceal what he was.

The optimism and relief he’d felt when they’d won back Camelot had dimmed before he’d started his self-imposed mission, then vanished entirely when he’d arrived at the scene of his crime. The smell of death hit him first, then the buzz of thousands of flies, and then, through the dusk ... his gut churned at the sight, what had he done?

There were so many dead and half burnt bodies, bloated and misshapen, they lay where they fell, the once living men now grotesque corpses. The ground was heavy with the scent of death, the air fly-ridden and putrid, and he breathed it in and let it fill him, because this was his doing, this was him.

Murderer.

He tried to feel nothing, wanted to feel nothing, as he’d taken it all in. So many. He’d desecrated his childhood sanctuary, now he’d forever remember it as his own personal killing field, a revelation of his sins. He wondered, and he didn’t know, had he been right to call upon Kilgharrah, or very, very wrong?

Murderer.

He looked at what he’d done in the murky light of the fading day, and tried to hold his fractured soul together. But as much as he told himself that this had been war, and the killings were justified, that they’d been after Arthur, and had invaded Camelot ... it didn’t help.

He didn’t want to be so good at this, at taking men’s lives, at killing. Kilgharrah had been nothing but the instrument of his dragonlord, they were Merlin’s kills, Merlin was the one to be held accountable for them. Not that he hadn’t killed directly too; just one glance was all it took. So easy, too easy; if the Southrons had been in the open instead of under trees he’d have been as quick and deadly as Kilgharrah ... as long as he could act and still keep his secret safe.

Murderer.

Merlin allowed himself to break, just a little, here with his dead, where it was private and no one living would see. He sobbed until his head was pounding, and his eyes were swollen and gritty. He screamed out his agony until his throat was raw. He railed to the heavens and the Old Religion at the unfairness of it all. Why, why, why? There were no answers.

Was this truly what all his power was for? Was this the way to protect Arthur, to save Camelot? There was no honour in this, it was ...

Murderer.

No poison had ever made him feel as ill as his conscience, and he clutched his stomach and retched miserably, hunched and shaking over the polluted ground. Then afterwards, exhausted and empty, he huddled on the dew-damp grass, surrounded by the reeking companionship of his dead.

He’d never felt so alone, or so lonely.

And then, much later, when dusk was a distant memory and the night was as dark as his soul, he did what he had to, what he’d always do because he was strong; he pushed aside his feelings and wiped away the vomit and the snot, and built a pyre of bodies. He had to make them burn, to disappear with his conscience, so they’d keep his secret safe.

He piled the dead with magic, Agravaine’s broken body on the top of the heap, and it was just then, as he lit the pyre with only a thought and the flames began to lick hungrily at their feast, that the Southron stragglers attacked.

He pressed an unsteady hand over the wound above his hip. Foolish men.

The sword slicing into his side had caught him unawares, and he’d reacted instinctively. He’d let his power thrum, later he told himself this time it was justified, and so it took just one glance, and four more Southrons joined their comrades in the flames.

Murderer. So many.

But Agravaine’s empty eyes were accusing, and the guilt wouldn’t go away, and Merlin bowed his head and stumbled back against a nearby tree, trying to gain comfort against the old oak that was honest and living and right. He took long, deep breaths, the warmth of the flames a traitorous comfort against the biting chill of the night.

Murderer. Too many.

Merlin didn’t realise he was crying again until the heavens began to weep with him; it began to rain.

It rained. And even as the downpour increased, the pyre continued to burn with its magical flames, and the deluge of rain building up was his own doing, the rawness of the elements growing around him a mirror of the tempest in his heart.

The storm grew, and he let the power coarse through him, he welcomed it. Wind screamed its fury and spat debris, leaves peeled away from branches and whipped his face. The shelter of the tree was no protection from the storm, heavy rain drove through the canopy, the magical flames he’d conjured sizzled angrily under the downpour, fighting against the driving onslaught as they did their dreadful work. Yet for all its violence and fury, the storm was soothing too, for it made him feel he was living amongst the dead.

And the storm protected him too; it was localised and it ensured that no one from Ealdor would venture out and discover what he was doing, and so this explosion of his magic too would help ... keep his secret safe.

Always safe, always hidden, these deaths his truth amongst all the lies.

Merlin watched, as Agravaine and the Southrons burned for him. He watched for a long time, as their bodies writhed and crackled in the flames as the storm pounded down. And slowly, as the adrenalin that kept him going faded and the angry battle of the elements began to ease, he shivered, again.

He was wet, and very cold.

Merlin cradled his injured side through the sodden material of his jacket. He’d instinctively slowed down time as soon as he’d felt the slice of the sword pierce his skin, and he thought he’d acted soon enough. But now he wasn’t so sure. It hadn’t hurt that much at the time, so he’d assumed it wasn’t a serious injury, but now in the light of the pyre he could see the streaky moisture soaking his clothes wasn’t just water, it was blood, a lot of it.

He blinked slowly, the rain cool on his face. His body felt like it didn’t quite belong to him. He felt strangely heavy and sluggish, yet light, like he could float away. He shut his eyes, pained by the horror that burned in front of him and by his wound. He was cold and wet, and he didn’t like it. He thought. The rain stopped.

Did the end always justify the means? He didn’t know, he didn’t know.

Murderer.

He swayed slightly, his free hand pressed against the tree trunk to steady himself, and his thoughts drifted. Once, he would have longed for his father’s advice, but dreams of parental guidance belonged to a boy who had ceased to be. It had been years since he’d truly craved father-son support, he yearned for the acceptance of the one who also had to make the choices as he did, the one who also had to judge what was right and wrong, the one whose decisions would also affect the lives of many.

But this could never be.

The bodies twisted as they burnt, and the flames hissed at him.

He wiped the dribbles of water from his face.

He hurt, his side hurt, his heart hurt.

He gazed at the flames, at his dead, and as he stood looking at the evidence of his worst sin yet, he accepted a truth he’d fought against; Merlin knew there would never be any escape from the loneliness of his existence.

His destiny was with Arthur but it would not be shared with him, their paths would remain separate, and the loneliness that sometimes choked him was something he must accept. That was how it was, and how it would always be.

There was no one he could talk to about the burdens placed on him. Not with Gaius, who saved lives and didn’t take them.

Not with Lancelot, not now. If things had been different, he might have confided in Lancelot, at times he’d almost been desperate enough. Lancelot had been a warrior, he’d understood war and love and fighting for what you believed in, and his moral compass had been strong. But Lancelot was gone, and he wasn’t who Merlin needed either.

He had no one, no one at all.

There was no one to confess to that he’d killed Agravaine. There was no one to confess to that he thought he could have saved Isolde, but he hadn’t even tried. She was his dead too, another sacrifice to keep his secret safe, he was a coward and a ...

Murderer.

He had no one to talk to, no one at all.

There was no one, there’d never be anyone, and it was time he accepted it. His destiny was great, but it demanded much personal sacrifice, and he’d give it. There’d be no love, no honest connection and true friendship, that was the price he’d have to pay, for Arthur, for magic, and for the people of Albion.

No one for him.

No one who’d be able to listen to him vent the anger and frustration that kept building up.

No one to say, I understand.

No one to say, I know and I still care.

No one to say, You’re not a monster despite it all.

There was no one, no one at all.

And he knew this now, he accepted this now, and he promised himself he’d not fight it any more. His chance was gone, that road and its possibilities had diverged long ago, he’d missed that point somewhere and now there was no going back.

He promised himself he’d be stronger for accepting it, instead of fighting against the truth. He could, he would.

Merlin’s eyes were golden in the light of the flames, his breathing was shallow because the movement of his chest made the gash in his side sting, and he was so tired, so very tired.

He hurt, everything hurt.

Slowly, Merlin came out of his stupor, and stumbled back a step to lean heavily against the trunk of the oak tree. His side hurt, he clutched at it again. He realised his legs were shaking, and he was finding it difficult to stay upright. He slid down the rough bark and onto the muddy ground, choking back a cry as the movement increased his pain, he gritted his teeth, he deserved the punishment.

The pyre continued its dreadful work, its flames lower now as it burnt away the evidence of his crime. Because it was a crime, wasn’t it, what he’d done to them all?

Had Uther ever burnt this many, all at once? Merlin had counted the men as he’d piled them up, he’d counted them all. There were ninety-five men including Agravaine and the few he’d killed in the caves, as well as the four who’d wounded him tonight, in this pyre that burnt for him.

Except for Agravaine, all these men died in a war they never knew they fought in; they’d died at magic’s hand, magic piled up their bodies, and now they burnt for magic too, they burnt for him, to keep his secret safe.

He trembled, he was cold, so cold.

His thoughts were cloudy, but gradually, it occurred to him to check his wound. His hands were shaking now, and he edged aside his jacket carefully, panting at the sting as the material separated from the gash in his skin. He touched his injured side gingerly, and the light pressure was enough to increase the trickle of blood leaking from the deep slice above his hip.

Merlin stared at the injury numbly. Now that the rain had ceased it was apparent the copper stain was growing, spreading over his breeches. He knew there was too much blood, he had to do something about it, now. He thought for a moment and tried with a whispered spell to close the wound but his magic felt sluggish, and the rush of power leaving him made him gasp.

For a moment he couldn’t understand, because he’d manipulated the weather with ease, but healing magic was not his natural forte. He tried again, his head throbbed with the effort and his stomach heaved, but the blood continued to seep.

Comprehension was slow to come, but he realised he’d left it too long, he could not heal himself. He should have been able to fix it, but the pain and the blood loss meant he was unable to concentrate his focus.

Carefully, he covered the wound with his jacket again and settled back against the tree. He’d had enough training from Gaius to know severe blood loss chilled the body, created confusion in the mind, and was a very serious condition, especially with the amount of blood that seemed to be staining his breeches. Part of him knew he should be concerned about the situation he’d found himself in, yet he wasn’t, perversely he almost welcomed the punishment, it was a small penance for his transgressions, an outcome he deserved.

Defeated, exhausted, and heart-sore, he shut his eyes. He shivered, then coughed as the stench from the burning bodies swirled around him with a gust of wind. He trembled and his thoughts grew more confused as his strength slowly bled out of him.

He tipped his head back. The rough bark of the tree dug into his shoulder and hip, but he was too drained to move. He knew he had to do something to save himself, but the urgency to do anything at all was fading.

He was starting to lose feeling in his legs. His vision swam, and the pyre sparked in front of him. He remembered that he was a dragonlord ... but the words for the call slipped from his grasp. His hand trembled above his wound again, and he tried his magic once more, but this time the effort exhausted what reserves he had, and his vision fuzzed as the blackness overtook him.

He slid into unconsciousness. The flames burnt on.

Chapter Text

Arthur drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He ignored the others across the table, he was annoyed.

No, that wasn’t true. Arthur had been annoyed, very annoyed. Enraged, truth be told. And he’d been even more annoyed ... or enraged ... than he should be, because he also had to pretend to Gwen that he wasn’t annoyed, because if he’d told her why he was annoyed, then she’d be annoyed with him, since she was (also annoyingly) protective of Merlin. It was all very complicated.

And for someone who was about to get married, it’d taken Arthur an admirably short time to come to the conclusion that having a soon-to-be wife who was annoyed with him would be a situation that should best be avoided at all costs. So Arthur had stewed in private, or as private as he could do when he was actually in public all the time putting on the face of a king that his people deserved.

The king had not seen his manservant for almost three days. He’d assumed at first that Merlin’s continued absence at every single place he’d expected him to be, meant his manservant was busy helping Gaius, who certainly needed help, as the old physician was still weakened from his time in the dungeons and Merlin was apparently the most qualified to take over his role.

That assumption lasted half a day when Arthur had realised Merlin had not set foot in the room set aside for the injured. Arthur had sent George to track him down, but when, despite thorough searches of Camelot’s taverns, even the most efficient servant in Camelot’s history could find no trace of Merlin, Arthur knew Merlin was not within Camelot’s walls.

Still, just to be sure, Arthur had taken up the hunt himself, he’d checked his manservant’s room again, the door to Gaius’s chambers was locked, but Arthur had a key which he had no compunction using.

As expected, the chambers had been empty. Arthur had kicked aside a shirt on the floor of Merlin’s small room and almost managed to stab himself in the foot with his second best sword, but all in all, that only confirmed there was nothing out of place in Merlin’s room, and Arthur was still none the wiser as to his manservant’s whereabouts.

Arthur had dropped the shirt back over the sword (Merlin could kick his foot on it), and was almost out the door again when the note caught his eye, propped up against a beaker on the table.

He yanked the parchment out of his pocket and scowled at it again, ignoring Gwaine’s inquisitive stare, the knight was all too willing to be distracted from the pile of paperwork in front of him. Arthur smoothed the creases out, his eyes skimming over the words again, unnecessary as he knew them by heart now.

G, had help from K at Ealdor but outcome too visible. Going back to deal with it. Unpleasant, don’t ask. Back in a day, I hope – will take two Southron horses to swap between to make journey fast. Poor timing, I’m sorry, but I could not put it off. M.

PS: If I’m missed, the tavern thing is – just no. Something, anything else. Please?

On reading, Arthur’s emotions had cycled from anger (Merlin hadn’t asked permission, or even told me he was going), to understanding (of course Merlin needed to check on his mother), to downright worry (there were small pockets of Southrons still around, the idiot could be in danger).

But then, when Arthur’s initial anger had passed but annoyance and the worry for Merlin’s safety still churned uncomfortably in his belly, an unsettling thought emerged: just who was “K”?

A knight, or a soldier of some kind? If he was, then why wouldn’t Arthur be told about his help? And how had he helped them at Ealdor?

What did outcome too visible mean? What was unpleasant, about it all? And what was the tavern thing about?

Arthur had pocketed the letter, and sent George to Gaius to make excuses about Merlin’s whereabouts (an urgent errand for Arthur). And later, when his errant manservant returned, he was going to get to the bottom of this, whatever it was.

Arthur was fed up with being lied to and having information withheld from him. It had happened with his father, with Morgana and Agravaine, and even with Gwen. With the benefit of hindsight, he’d realised he’d paid no attention to the niggling warning signs that all three had exhibited to varying degrees, but he’d learnt from his mistakes, and this note was clearly a warning sign that Merlin too was hiding something.

Merlin had been loyal to him for so long, but if there was something going on that Arthur wasn’t privy to, then he was going to find out what it was. Arthur would not rule in a climate of hidden truths any longer, he needed to be absolutely sure those he trusted and relied on were open and honest with him.

But frustratingly, whatever the revelation about the note was would have to wait until Merlin’s return, as Arthur couldn’t puzzle out the meaning of the message.

He studied Merlin’s scrawl again. He’d considered asking Gaius if the “K” was a “K”, or an “E”, and if he knew who this “K” or “E” person was, but reluctantly he discarded the notion, partly because then he’d have to confess to taking the note when clearly it was not addressed to him in the first instance, but mainly as he did not think Gaius would tell him, and he didn’t want to give the older man the opportunity to lie to him for Merlin’s sake.

Morgana’s taunt in the throne room hadn’t escaped Arthur’s notice: Not even Emrys could save you now. The words had stayed with him, she’d sneered like this Emrys was his ally.

But who was Emrys?

There was something in the way Morgana said it, something odd, traces of both envy and fear, that made Arthur sure this Emrys was a sorcerer, for who else could provoke such emotions from Morgana?

Arthur shifted in his chair, his fingers tracing the M of his manservant’s initial.

He wondered, did Merlin know who this Emrys person was? What if the “K” was an “E”? If they’d had magical assistance somehow to escape the Southrons near Ealdor, he wouldn’t have put it past Merlin to “forget” to mention such help to him; Arthur was not deluded enough to think he was Merlin’s master, he might be able to order around his manservant but that certainly didn’t stop Merlin disregarding his orders if he thought something quite the opposite.

And Arthur knew he’d never given Merlin any recent indication that he’d welcome magical assistance, particularly in light of the circumstances of Uther’s death. In truth, Arthur wasn’t sure how he really felt about it, he’d agreed he’d not persecute the druids, but to actually accept magical aid was another matter.

He hadn’t changed the laws on magic since he’d made that promise either, but he had turned the idea over and over many times since. Dislike, distrust and persecution of magic was the foundation of his father’s rule, and to go in completely the opposite direction was as good as saying his father had been wrong, and so that could not be a decision Arthur would make lightly.

And Arthur wasn’t sure if magical assistance could have been used in their escape near Ealdor, as he didn’t truly know how Merlin felt about magic. He’d teased Merlin once about being too terrified to even meet the old sorcerer Dragoon, and it was true he often seemed uncomfortable whenever talk of magic was bought up, no matter how he tried to conceal it. He was all shifty looks and lowered eyes, but despite his riling of his manservant at the time, Arthur did not truly believe Merlin was afraid of magic or magical beings, as Merlin didn’t seem afraid of anything, not even his own death when he’d sacrificed himself to the Dorocha.

Merlin was brave, and it had occurred to Arthur that maybe Merlin’s discomfort on the subject of magic was not based on fear of it, but on something else. Did he disagree with Arthur’s views on magic?

Perhaps strangely, magic was not something they discussed. Despite being willing to have an opinion on most things and happily point out if he thought Arthur was being a cabbage head or prat or his latest favourite insult, on the subject of magic, Merlin was mainly silent.

Arthur wondered why, and then he wondered if he was over-thinking it, he had much to concentrate on, and his manservant’s whereabouts and unusual thought processes, should not be taking up so much of his own thoughts.

Arthur carefully folded up Merlin’s note again, and placed it back in his pocket, then called over a guard and issued him with very specific instructions; Arthur was going to at least get some answers soon.

The guard left. Across the table from Arthur, Leon and Gwaine were conversing in lowered tones; he’d instructed them provide a tally of the available weapons in the castle, so for the past hour there’d been a steady stream of young squires in and out of the room as they reported their findings to the two knights.

Arthur had assumed Merlin would help Gaius take stock of his medicines, as there was higher demand for herbs and tonics than usual following the recent upheaval, but in Merlin’s absence, Gwen had taken on that task.

She looked up from the stack of parchment in front of her, and caught his eye, smiling at him. “Arthur, I’ve checked all of Gaius’s supplies against the lists he’s given me, and we’ll need to send someone to get a few things for him to treat the sick and injured, let me see.” She consulted the list again.

“He needs more chervil, yarrow, nettle and comfrey, and a few other things too but they’re the main ones. Gaius wants Merlin to pick them, he knows where they can all be found, but he said you already have Merlin off somewhere? Actually I don’t think I’ve seen him for a day now?” She gave Arthur an enquiring look but he avoided the question and made a point of studying the parchment, his eyes skimming down the neat list she’d detailed.

Gwen let it pass, and Arthur guessed she was suspecting that Merlin was involved in secret wedding preparations, which would have been true if he’d been here. Arthur cleared his throat. “Does Gaius require all this now? We’ll have to send a few knights out too, the woods are still too dangerous.”

“He needs the nettle and comfrey in the next few days, he said he can wait for the rest. And he said Merlin’s the only one who knows what variety of nettle he likes and the size of the leaves to pick, although I’ve gone a few times with Merlin, and I think I know enough to be able to collect it, if Merlin’s too busy.”

Arthur was non-committal. “I’ll take that into account, but if Gaius can wait a few days then we’ll leave it for now.”

Merlin should be sitting with them too, he’d been the one who had constantly nagged Arthur that a good king had to be able to delegate, and trust that others too could help him in his rule. Arthur had been smugly proud of himself at the looks that flittered in rapid succession across Merlin’s face, dismay, embarrassment, uncertainty and pride, when Arthur had told him just before he’d disappeared that it would be his role to take stock of damage to homes and businesses in the lower town after the Southron’s destructive looting spree.

Yet given Merlin’s absence, Arthur wondered if he’d been wrong to trust him with such an important task. He sighed. “Gwaine, Leon, your turn.”

Gwaine eyed his king and tossed several sheets of parchments he’d been holding on top of the large pile in front of Leon, and stretched his arms above his head, yawning. Arthur gave him a pointed look, impatient. “Are you done?”

Gwaine yawned again, the knight had not been too interested in the administrative detail he’d been assigned to, but he’d needed something to keep him occupied while he was still injured, and if Arthur took secret delight in watching him squirm with boredom, then that was the king’s prerogative, not to mention it was Gwaine’s own fault for disclosing that he could read and write in several languages quite well, and therefore was more than up to the task he’d been given.

Gwaine threw Arthur’s question back to Leon, giving the other knight a lazy glance across the table. “Well?”

Leon was amused but answered readily enough, turning to Arthur. “Sire, yes we’re done.”

Leon picked up one of the sheets of parchment Gwaine had dropped. “The Southrons broke into the large storage room in the north quarter, but they didn’t find the one on the lower level of the dungeons.”

Gwaine scratched his nose and added, “So he means we still have plenty of crossbows, they made a mess of the bolts and the extra strings, but they’re salvageable.”

Leon nodded his agreement. “And there are swords all over the place, the Southrons left nearly three score in the armoury and didn’t touch ours. Some of them are fine workmanship too. And we should have at least ten score arrows at our disposal, but we’ll need a fletcher to finish them off.”

“What of our usual fletcher?”

Gwaine answered. “No, old man Will broke his arm in the turmoil, so he’s not up to it now. However,” he grinned wickedly, “luckily for you all, I know someone who’ll do, I drink with Will’s nephew, he’ll manage the fletching.”

Leon shuffled through another sheet. “But the bows that were kept in the north quarter are too damaged, you’ll need an artillator, and someone to make some more of the bodkins, they disappeared. Obviously Elyan could help out with the bodkins if we can’t find anyone, but ...” he turned to Gwaine and added dryly, “Gwaine probably has someone in mind for this too?”

“I do, I know just your man. Might go off to the tavern and find him now Arthur, it’s a bit urgent don’t you think, what do you say?”

Arthur gave him a pointed look, and Gwen said, “Gwaine, what did Gaius tell you about your pain medicine and alcohol?”

He gave her an irrepressible grin. “Not to mix it, which is why, you see, I’ve stopped taking the medicine.”

Gwen folded her arms and gave the knight a severe look, but Arthur could see she was struggling to keep a straight face. Then there was a knock on the closed door, and at Arthur’s nod, the guards opened it, and Geoffrey of Monmouth entered.

Arthur had thought about this Emrys person a lot during the past few days. He’d thought of asking Gaius about him, because if Emrys was a sorcerer, then Gaius would probably know. But it occurred to Arthur, as much as he did trust Gaius, he could not be sure that the old physician would tell him. So instead he’d instructed the guard to fetch Geoffrey.

“Geoffrey, good of you to come. Take a seat.” They exchanged small pleasantries for a moment then Arthur got down to business. “I need to find out everything I can about someone by the name of Emrys. He could be a sorcerer.”

“Emrys.” Geoffrey turned the name over and pondered for a moment, nodding to himself. “Sire, an interesting question indeed.”

“It is? Why?”

“Your uncle asked me about him months ago. Yes.” He acknowledged the growl of dislike from Gwaine. “And you’re correct sire, he is a sorcerer, or more accurately a warlock. Agravaine knew he was a sorcerer too. Several months ago, he specifically asked me what information I had concerning a sorcerer by the name of Emrys. I remember it well.”

“That’s odd. What did you tell him?”

“I told Agravaine nothing.”

“You had no information?”

“That’s not precisely true, sire. When Agravaine inquired initially, the name Emrys was vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t say I’d heard of him, as such. But later.” He paused for a moment and stroked his beard with the tip of a finger. “After he asked, I discussed his request with a close friend, and this proved to be very fortunate indeed, as this person was adamant that I not give Agravaine any of the information he was seeking.”

“Who was it who told you this?” Arthur thought he knew.

“It was Gaius, my lord.”

Arthur nodded, unsurprised.

Geoffrey continued, “I thought he was mad at the time, but he would only say that Agravaine may be mistaken about something, and it might not be in your best interests if he was to know anything at all about Emrys. At the time, I saw no reason Gaius’s concerns about Agravaine could be warranted, but I’ve known Gaius since we were boys, and he’s never given me any reason to doubt his loyalty to Camelot. And of course it turned out he was right.”

“You can tell me something about Emrys, then?”

“I can. I have some information, but it may not be very useful for you. There’s some detail about him in an old manuscript.” Geoffrey coughed uncomfortably. “To be precise, the manuscript is really a druid text, but the introduction was written by your great, great grandfather, which is why your father never ordered it burnt, despite its subject matter. It talks of Emrys being the most powerful warlock of his time, who protects the Once and Future King. It says, that with the assistance of Emrys, the Once and Future King will build a united Albion. The two are bonded in some way, the writing gets a bit obscure but it likens the them to two sides of the same coin, rather an odd way to describe it, if I may say so.”

Arthur felt a strange sensation ripple down his spine at the revelation. “And do you believe this time is now, or soon?” The terminology Once and Future King was not new to him.

“I cannot say, Sire.” Geoffrey was regretful. “And if Emrys exists right now, I don’t know who he is. As he’s said to be a powerful warlock, he may well be a druid, perhaps you could ask them. They’re likely to have their own predictions on this.”

“Thank you Geoffrey, you’ve been very helpful.”

The man nodded on his way out, and Arthur turned to Gwen, Leon and Gwaine, who’d stayed silent during this conversation. Arthur waited until the door had shut, then he stretched back in his chair and carded a weary hand through his hair.

And he wondered again, what if Merlin’s cautious note did refer to magic? What if Merlin had accepted magical help during their escape from the Southrons near Ealdor? As Arthur glanced around the table, it occurred to him he did not know Gwaine or Leon’s views on magic either, with Gwen he’d discussed it previously. Regardless, they were his counsel to trust, and if he’d put more faith in them after his father’s death instead of putting so much sway by Agravaine, Camelot would have been better off.

Arthur wanted Merlin’s counsel too, he would talk about it with him, but Merlin wasn’t here now. So Arthur decided he would ask for Gwen, Leon and Gwaine’s input now, he’d ask Percival and Elyan to join them later too, they were still on patrol for at least another hour yet.

Arthur’s gaze swept around the table and rested slowly on each of them, one by one. “There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Even Gwaine must have caught his serious tone, because he only nodded expectantly.

Arthur said carefully, watching them closely, “When my father was dying, Merlin and I found a sorcerer whom I hoped could heal him.”

He caught the quickly suppressed shock on Leon’s face, and Gwen reached across the table and briefly pressed her hand to his.

“It was Dragoon, the old man. The one that escaped in the courtyard a year ago.”

Gwaine’s mild curiosity sharpened. “You let that old man near your father?” Gwaine shook his head. “He’s crazy, Arthur. And dangerous. I wish you’d mentioned it at the time, I met a sorcerer once, he wasn’t a bad sort, might have been able to help Uther, instead of that crazy old man.”

Arthur shook his head. “No, it wasn’t like that. I admit, at first I thought he’d killed my father deliberately, but it wasn’t that at all. He tried to save him, but a pendant had been placed around my father’s neck that was cursed. It reversed the affect of Dragoon’s healing spell.” Gwen squeezed his hand again, the memory of his father’s death pained him still.

“I knew nothing about the pendant until Gaius told me two months ago. I’ve spoken of it to no one, although I’m sure Merlin knows. I kept quiet because I didn’t know who the traitor could have been that would have done that. Now I believe it was Agravaine, working with Morgana.”

“Arthur that’s terrible, that she would do such a thing.” Leon shook his head.

But there was another thing Arthur wanted to discuss, and again he wished Merlin was here. What if the “K” was an “E”, and Emrys was the old man, Dragoon, and Merlin knew this? Was that what the note was about? How many names did sorcerers have anyway?

It could be true. Arthur very much doubted he had more than one magical helper, and Dragoon had wanted to help, he’d known that to be true now for more than two months, yet in that time as much as he’d looked for it, he’d seen no sign of any further magical assistance, nothing except maybe that odd note from Merlin.

Gaius had shown him the necklace, and explained how it had not been the old man who’d killed his father. The conversation with the old physician had come out of the blue, at a time when he’d been taking the frustrations of his rule out on Merlin far too much. He remembered the evening well, it had been one of those few times his harshness and temper actually seemed to affect his eternally cheerful manservant; Arthur had felt immeasurably guilty when he’d seen the stark but quickly hidden distress on Merlin’s face after yet another snapped order and unjustified reprimand.

At the time, he’d wanted to apologise for his bad temper, to explain to Merlin that he didn’t mean it, but he couldn’t get the words out, and all he could manage to do to make up for it was dismiss Merlin early for the night, but, as a consolation it had only served to make Merlin quieter and more defeated. It had been that night that Gaius had knocked on Arthur’s chamber door well after the tenth bell.

When Gaius had told him about the necklace that had really killed his father, Arthur had shared the information with no one at the time, not even Merlin. And although he’d suspected Merlin was well aware of the necklace’s existence, Arthur could not bring himself to mention it, not with the one person he called his best friend. He was too ashamed, ashamed of Morgana’s failings and his own.

The necklace was further proof that she had turned away from him irretrievably, that her hate was real. It was proof of something wrong in the foundations of their family, it it made him worry that there was something wrong with him, that perhaps the way he’d treated her had something to do with the evil she was now.

He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead and pushed away the self-doubt, he’d been down that path often enough. Arthur knew he owed the old man an apology, but unsurprisingly he’d not seen any sign of him since Uther’s death. Gaius knew the old man, or at least he’d known where to find him, Arthur had thought about pressing Gaius for further detail, but something held him back.

But that wasn’t all, there was something else concerning him. He hesitated for a moment then ploughed ahead. “There’s something else that I wanted to talk to you about.” This conversation he suspected would be more difficult than the one that preceded it.

“It’s about Merlin.”

Chapter Text

Gwaine frowned, nonplussed. “You want to talk about Merlin?”

Leon gave Arthur an odd look. “Is there something wrong with Merlin, sire? Is he injured?”

“No, he’s not, at least I hope he’s not.” Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. It didn’t feel right talking about Merlin behind his back, and he didn’t know what he was going to say, he hadn’t thought this out.

Yet he wondered if Gwen, Leon or Gwaine knew more than he did about what Merlin was doing. Had Merlin confided in one of them? Not Leon, but had he told Gwen or Gwaine, and would they tell him or continue the deception? He couldn’t ask, because they wouldn’t tell him, and he wondered if it had been when he became the king that he’d become less trusted. He was weary of it all.

“You hope?” Gwaine was cautious.

For a moment Arthur didn’t follow, and he ran a hand through his hair as he replayed his earlier words. He caught up. “Yes, Gwaine, I hope he’s okay, but I haven’t seen him for a few days now.”

“Gaius said you sent him on an errand.” Gwaine’s tone sharpened, sensing danger. The knight had mellowed a lot in the time he’d been in Camelot and usually now he was as respectful as Arthur wanted him to be, but his hackles raised at any perceived injustice, and he was still very protective of Merlin. “Where’d he go?”

Arthur shook his head. “I didn’t send him anywhere, I told Gaius that so he wouldn’t worry. Merlin left a note, he’s ... I don’t know why ... he had to go ... well, I know where he’s gone but I don’t understand why.”

Gwaine sat up straight, his shoulders rigid. “Merlin has left?”

Arthur blinked. “No, not left. Not for good. By the note I expected him to be back by now.”

Gwaine settled back into his chair and eyed him thoughtfully, his gaze flicking over Leon and Gwen too. He considered for a moment and said slowly, “What Merlin may or may not be doing is his business, Arthur. You’d best leave him be. All men have their secrets.”

For some reason the knight’s about-face into this suddenly calm demeanour irked Arthur. “Do you know what he’s up to then?”

Gwaine put up his hand placatingly. “No, I don’t. But he’s my friend and I trust him. If he’s disappeared for a while and didn’t want to speak about it to any of us, then let him be. It’s been a hard time for all of us, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed myself much lately either, and if I could ride a horse I wouldn’t mind nicking off for a while by myself too, especially since you won’t let me near a tavern. One thing I know about Merlin, is he’ll always do what’s right, he always has his friends’ best interests at heart.”

Arthur opened his mouth but Gwaine was on a roll and barely paused for breath. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, Arthur, but I know how upset he was that time Gaius was kidnapped, yet he wouldn’t talk about it at all, but you could see it if you cared to look. And he was well able to handle things when we went to rescue him, he took charge of the mission, he would have gone with or without me. Looking back, I know now he was suspicious of Agravaine even then, yet he didn’t say so directly to me. Wish he had, I would have listened. He sees more than you’d think. The quiet achiever is our Merlin, just gets the job done.”

Arthur looked at him, eyebrows raised. “That’s quite a speech.”

“Yeah, and I could go on, I could tell you –“

Arthur cut that off quickly. “No, Gwaine, we’d be here all night.”

Leon was frowning, and Arthur didn’t know if it was at Gwaine’s impertinence or the subject matter, but Gwen spoke first.

“Arthur.” All eyes turned in her direction, and Gwen hesitated. “I’m ... loathe to admit it, but Gwaine’s right.”

Gwaine grunted his satisfaction and shot a smug grin at Arthur, and Arthur gave him a half-hearted glare.

Gwen ignored the byplay. “Merlin will be okay. He’s capable of more than you think.” She hesitated again as Arthur remained unconvinced. “Listen, all of you.” She worried her lip nervously. “Gaius and Merlin didn’t want to tell anyone. But I didn’t agree, and I wouldn’t agree that I wouldn’t tell, if I thought it needed to be said. And now, I guess ... well ... Arthur, do you remember that time Merlin went missing and you’d sent out search parties?”

Arthur nodded impatiently, of course he did.

Gwen continued, “He was captured and enchanted by Morgana.”

“What? Merlin was enchanted? By Morgana? She could have killed him.”

“But she didn’t.” Gwen said patiently, reading the concern behind Arthur’s outburst. “She didn’t. She put some sort of snake in the back of his neck. He was enchanted to kill you.”

Leon gave a muffled exclamation but Arthur’s attention stayed focussed on Gwen. “And you kept this from me?” He was hurt, but he wouldn’t show it.

“We didn’t really think he’d harm you, Arthur.”

“It’s not that.” And it wasn’t. He struggled, and the irony struck him, he wouldn’t have had to explain to Merlin, Merlin would have understood. Arthur pushed aside his chair and began to pace in long, irritated strides. “It’s just ...” He needed honesty from Gwen to make their relationship work, after Lancelot he could not settle for less.

He cleared his throat. “Gwen, he was captured by Morgana, and injured, yet you didn’t think I should know?” He remembered what else had happened, and he added with some heat, “I punished him, he’d disappeared again, I thought he was at the tavern, or slacking off! I made him take lessons with George, and now you’re telling me that it’s undeserved, yet he said nothing about what happened, and you said nothing either?”

He realised he was almost shouting, and he made a concerted effort to calm himself. “This is not some trivial matter. You didn’t think the safety and well-being of a friend was important enough to talk to me about?”

Gwen wasn’t one for telling Arthur what he wanted to hear if it interfered with the truth. “No, Arthur, it’s not that either. It’s just that, well ...”. She paused, then lifted her chin, glancing across at Leon and Gwaine as she did so. “Arthur at the time, you’d been impatient with him, and easily irritated. Merlin never said so, but I know him, and I know you, and I saw it. And you were like that, for weeks, longer even.”

Gwaine agreed, nodding slowly, watching Arthur as he paced. “You were short with everyone, Arthur. You even managed to bruise me a few times in training sessions and we all know that’s not easy.” Arthur shot him an annoyed look and he shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s true, you hardly ever get a strike in, admit it.”

Gwen halted the argument she could see building. She stood up from the table too. “But Merlin. He’s closest to you Arthur, no, it’s fine, I know he is. But it upset him, the way you were with him, he never said so, but I knew it did. I tried to talk to him, tried to get him to tell you about the snake, but he insisted you were too busy and you didn’t need something else to worry about, and that he was okay once he’d gotten rid of the snake. And he didn’t want to tell you as he didn’t know what you’d do, whether it would be to put him off as your manservant for a while, or do something risky like try and find Morgana and confront her.”

“I value Merlin, Gwen,” Arthur said tightly. He turned and strode over to the window, his back to the room, shoulders stiff. “He should know that. So should you.”

Gwen didn’t back away from the repressed anger she could hear his voice, instead she walked to his side. “I do know, Arthur, I know you. And so does Merlin.” She placed a hand on his chest and smoothed down his tunic. “But you don’t show it, and sometimes you need to, Merlin isn’t like you.”

Arthur couldn’t help the eye roll but Gwen wasn’t amused.

“He’s very open, very caring with others Arthur, you know it. But when it comes to certain things he’s very close mouthed. He didn’t want you to know, I told him he was being silly but he was ashamed too, that she’d enchanted him.”

“But that’s ridiculous! It was Morgana, what chance did he have?”

“I know, I said the same thing. But he begged me not to say anything to you, and Gaius agreed, so I didn’t, until now.”

“How can your loyalty be first to him, and not to me? You should have told me. We’re getting married, Gwen.”

“It’s not like that, Arthur! This was Merlin’s secret, it was Merlin’s decision, it was his choice as to whether or not he’d let anyone know. He did what he believed was right at the time. He’s probably not going to be happy with me now for telling you. But now I think you should know, and I can only hope he’ll understand that.”

Arthur wasn’t mollified. Is this really what his friend, and his soon-to-be wife thought of him? That he’d be around for the good times but if the going got rough, he’d want out? That they’d be worthless to him if they were less than perfect?

He wondered what else she kept from him, what Merlin kept from him, what else they thought wasn’t worthwhile bothering him about. The lack of trust hurt, and he was almost angry enough to ask, to demand the answers, but he swallowed down his anger and tried to think objectively, because he loved her, and he wouldn’t ruin what they had with careless words.

He glanced across at the two knights, Leon was very pointedly not looking in their direction, but Gwaine wasn’t so particular. Arthur forced himself to put aside his hurt at Gwen’s revelation, and his thoughts shifted to Merlin again. That Merlin continued to be his friend and care for him even when Arthur had treated him as less than a friend and more than a servant was a true measure of his character. Arthur had known Agravaine had come between them during the past few months, Merlin had known the truth about his uncle, but he hadn’t turned away, even when Arthur had pressed him to set aside Gaius, the one man Merlin could call a father.

Arthur had been wrong, he’d been wrong for a long time, but he still had Merlin by his side, and it occurred to him that Merlin did show his trust and his faith in Arthur, because Merlin always stayed, he never failed him, no matter what the provocation. The thought humbled him.

And Arthur decided, if Merlin wanted to pretend he was simple and an idiot (and really, he was some of the time), then Arthur would go along with it. Insults and teasing were part of the foundation of their friendship, not girly hugs and meaningful conversations.

But perhaps it was time to have a meaningful conversation. Merlin was the few constants in his life that he could depend upon to be there for him. But was he there for Merlin in the same way? A king didn’t have to be there for anyone, but Merlin was more than a servant, he was his best friend, yet perhaps Merlin didn’t know it. Friendship had to be about equal give and take, and Arthur was guiltily aware he’d been the one taking, and Merlin giving, for far too long.

Calmer, he sighed audibly and took Gwen’s hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over the palm of her hands. Mindful of the others in the room, he allowed her to see some of the vulnerability he rarely showed, and he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, the love and belief she felt for him reflected in her face. “I understand. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, I should have, I was wrong. And I know you’re worried about him. But he’ll be okay.”

He made a face. “Not that worried.”

She gave him a speaking glance. It was true, he was concerned, because he couldn’t lose Merlin again. Merlin should be back by now, Arthur still remembered the sick, creeping dread he’d felt when all the sweeps of the forest had failed to find him, and somehow, it made it worse now that he knew Morgana had taken him. Arthur wouldn’t go through that again, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t.

He signalled a guard over. “Rowan, alert the gate, bring Elyan and Percival here as soon as they return from patrol.” Almost from the time he’d first read Merlin’s note, Arthur had been resisting the urge to send some of his knights to Ealdor to check on Merlin, but as his absence lengthened, Arthur’s unease about it grew, and now he was angry with himself for waiting when Merlin’s safety was at risk. He’d send Percival and Elyan with another six knights, he’d give specific instructions to the two of them about their mission, but the official reason would be to thank Ealdor and Hunith for sheltering him when they’d been fleeing the Southrons.

“Yes, sire.” The guard left, and Arthur caught Gwaine’s eye.

Despite this, Arthur hadn’t lost his focus, he would search for the truth in his dealings with his friends, he’d demand it. And there was one part of Merlin’s note that Gwaine may be able to shed some light on without the knight realising just what he was telling his king.

Arthur sat back down at the table, eyeing the knight with pointed disapproval; Gwaine was stretched out in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head, his boots resting comfortably on the edge of the table.

At Arthur’s face, Gwaine shifted reluctantly and straightened, his boots on the floor again, but he still grumbled, “Hey, they’re clean.”

Arthur ignored the complaint. “Gwaine, tell me. How often does Merlin go to the tavern?”

Gwaine scuffed his boot against the table leg, a frown crossing his face before it disappeared as he raised his head. He said mildly, "Surely you’re not worried about Merlin’s drinking? Come on, Arthur, give him a break, he’s your manservant but not your slave, you can’t control everything he does.”

“It’s a simple question, Gwaine. Answer it.”

The knight did a poor job of hiding his annoyance. “Right, whatever. How often does Merlin go to the tavern? Not much, and I can tell you that on good authority, since I’m at the Rising Sun every other night and I’ve only managed to drag Merlin with me once in the past few months. He doesn’t go anywhere else, and I’m sure he never goes there unless he’s with me. And before you ask - he never has more than two or three drinks, and only that many if we’re there for a few hours.” He scuffed his boots again. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

Arthur thought of the note. The tavern thing? Perhaps everything.

Gwaine was regarding him expectantly, but Arthur had no intention of answering, and Leon shifted in his chair, uneasy at the tension in the air. “Sire ...”

Whatever Leon was going to say was lost at the knock on the door.

Arthur said shortly, “Enter,” and the guard pulled open the heavy wooden doors.

It was Tristan. The man had been lost since the death of his beloved Isolde, it was thanks to Gwen that the man had not run from Camelot to deal with his loss in private. Arthur didn’t know how to talk to him, Isolde had died to save him, but if Tristan resented the sacrifice she’d made for Arthur he hadn’t said so.

“Tristan, what can I do for you? Will you join us?”

Tristan had an odd expression on his face, something different to the heavy grief that had been tormenting him, and he stared at Arthur for a moment then seemed to give an internal shrug like he couldn’t quite work something out and didn’t care enough to bother. “You have two visitors, from Ealdor. They recognised me, and asked if I could get them an audience with you.” Again, that strange look, and Tristan nodded slowly, as if to himself. “They’ve quite a tale to tell, you’d best hear it.”

They were in the council room, not the throne room where Arthur usually held court and met with the people, in light of the recent upheaval normal procedures were still in disarray. Arthur stood and walked around to the end of the table, as Tristan beckoned to someone just outside the door.

Two men entered hesitantly, and bowed with the uncertainty of those unaccustomed to courtly manners. They were both travel stained, the older man looked to be in his sixties, he was weary in posture, but his eyes were bright and keen. The younger of the two eyed the rich tapestries adorning the wall, and the ceremonial swords lining the back of the room, with unabashed wonder.

The older man wiped a grimy hand across his forehead, brushing a strand of tangled hair out of his eyes and leaving another smear of dirt on his face. He bowed again, awkwardly, as Arthur motioned for him to speak. “I’m Hob of Ealdor, yer lordship. I were Hob of Winchester until last Belantine, then I’se moved me family to Ealdor. There’s better pasture for me Bess, yer see. So now I’m Hob of Ealdor. And this is Rolf, me son. Of Ealdor too. Thank ye for seeing us.” He waited expectantly for Arthur’s response.

Arthur didn’t remember him, but he gave him a genuine smile. “Then I welcome you both to Camelot. And what brings you here, Hob of Ealdor? Have the Southrons given you any trouble?”

Hob clasped his hands together, then he noticed Gwen. For a moment he stared, then he beamed a smile at her, she returned the greeting. “Good to see you again, Hob. You too, Rolf.” They exchanged small pleasantries, Gwen had spent time with Hob’s wife in Ealdor, the old woman was the village’s healer.

If Hob was surprised to see Gwen seated at a table behind Camelot’s king with two important looking knights, he didn’t show it. He nodded at her happily again, then turned to Arthur. “The Southrons, yer lordship? Well, no, not them, but yer see, the thing is, we don’t know how Ealdor will go, yer Lordship. We’re right worried.”

Hob eyed the guards behind Arthur, and the other pair standing to attention at the door. “What I’se wanting to talk about is not for other ears, so we’d best talk to ye where none but we’s can hear, yer lordship. Most important, yer see.” He gave a meaningful nod in the guards’ direction, and eyed Leon and Gwaine uncertainly, clearly unsure if they could be trusted with his information or not.

It wasn’t Arthur’s first experience with villagers who were convinced of one fallacy or another that involved secrets only they were privy to, the simplest way he’d found to deal with them was to give the petitioner at least some credit until proven otherwise, and so he motioned to the guards to go to the end of the room outside hearing distance, but for Gwen, Leon, Gwaine and Tristan to stay. “Go on then.”

Hob nodded his satisfaction. “Well, yer see, we ain’t been back home for days, we came to you as soon as we seen it, it was a right long walk, ‘specially with those Southrons in the woods ‘ere and there, we had to hide a bit. You see, it was huge, real fierce.” He glanced across at his son. “Me and Rolf were right scared, weren’t we, Rolf?”

Rolf nodded anxiously, the tapestries forgotten. “Yes, sire, it was a terrifying sight. And we respectfully request some help with the bodies, we’re not able to bury what’s left of them all, there are just too many of them for us, and we’d never get a fire hot enough to burn them all, especially so close to the trees. Maybe a dozen of your men could assist.” The younger man suddenly remembered he was wearing a hat in the king’s presence, and pulled it off, twisting it between his fingers as he fidgeted under Arthur’s perplexed frown.

Arthur shook his head. “I’m not following you. What bodies? What is it you’re asking of me?”

Hob was momentarily abashed. “Oh, sorry sire. Yer see, we was hiding in the bushes near the caves, when yer all went in them near Ealdor, when them Southrons was chasing you.”

Rolf added, “We’re sorry for not trying to help you, sire, but we’re not warriors, and we had no weapons, we couldn’t do anything.”

Arthur nodded. “You need not be concerned, I didn’t expect you to fight, and I regret bringing trouble to your village. But I’m still not following you. You need help with some bodies? Did an animal attack your people?”

Hob squinted at the king for a moment, frowned, then his expression cleared and he nodded eagerly. “Right you are, yer lordship. Well, yer see, what we was thinking was, it might’ve been that big one that attacked yer here a few years back. It got them Southrons, they were gone quick, all of them, all dead, burnt. And we’re a bit worried that it might attack Ealdor next, it was right fierce. Yer can’t drive off a beast like that, not with crossbows, or spears, not much point trying fire on it, is there? That’s why we hoped yer’d talk to yer man about it. Make sure, you know.”

“Talk to my man?” A strange sense of foreboding prickled the back of Arthur’s neck.

“Yer man, you know, to fix it.” He paused expectantly but Arthur was silent so he helpfully, “We figured yer had yerself one of them special type sorcerers, them thats can make the beast do what it’s told, what’re them sorts of sorcerers called again, eh, Rolf?”

Rolf cleared his throat, sending Arthur a tentative glance. “Dragonlord, sire. My father means a dragonlord.”

“A dragonlord,” Arthur repeated blankly. He took a deep breath, he didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading.

“Yeah, yer lordship. A dragonlord, that’s what I means. Them’s the special sorcerers. Them’s what we hoped you had, and we thinks you do, we saw him, yer see. We reckon it’d be yer man ‘cause he was with you at first when yer all was running from them Southrons, then you and the others went in the caves, and he waited a bit and speaked in the strange tongue, then he went in after yer, then the beast came and got rid of them Southrons for him.”

Arthur gripped the side of his chair, hard. “A dragonlord.” He swallowed, his throat felt tight.

His heart thumped.

One of my men.

There was an odd sound behind him, and out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Leon’s pale, still face. Arthur’s heart thumped again, the world was shaking, his nose prickled, and his gut was twisting in knots.

“Yessir, yer lordship, for the dragon.” Hob stared at Leon for a moment but seemed relieved that his point had finally been understood. “We seen the beast with our own eyes. It came out of nowhere and killed all them Southrons that was hunting yers, must have been five score men. But just afore it did, we heard yer man speak in a strange tongue, the tall one with dark hair, it were that one. It weren’t him.” He pointed to Tristan, shaking his head. “It were the skinny, dark haired one.”

Arthur was silent, and Hob eyed him anxiously for a moment, then offered, “It were your other man, and right eerie it were, too. He’d be a dragonlord, and he could come’n help us, make sure the beast don’t attack Ealdor too. We’re sorry to bother yer about it, but we wandered ‘round ‘ere for a bit and we can’t find yer man anywhere, and yer other man didn’t know where he was neither.” Again he pointed at Tristan. “So he said we’d best to come right ‘ere to yer to ask.”

Hob took a deep breath and added more calmly, “We’re right worried that it might attack, yer see, it were so close. So if yer man would talk to the dragon about not attacking Ealdor, nor eatin’ our cows and pigs either, and not scaring old Bess ‘cause she’s right temperamental and she don’t plough well when she’d be skittish, and meybe you could send some help to clean up the bodies that’d be right good of you, yer lordship.”

Hob and Rolf were looking at him with a simple air of expectation, but Arthur was blind to everything but the clamouring in his mind. Icy fingers touched his spine. His heart was thumping so loudly he could hear nothing else, and he could think of nothing else, except one person, one name.

One of my men.

No.

And his mind, the rational part of him that fought for dominance, knew instantly that this was the truth. But his heart was having trouble catching up, because that would mean, had to mean ... no.

One of my men.

Tall and skinny.

Dark hair.

Arthur drew upon his lifetime at court and swallowed down his shock, it took everything he had to appear calm instead of revealing that his world had ripped apart. “I see.” But he couldn’t disguise the shaking in his hands, he shoved one in his pocket and gripped his sword with the other, the metal was safe, familiar, and comforting.

No, it couldn’t be.

He was going to cover our tracks.

One of my men.

Tall.

Dark hair.

He must have had an odd look on his face, even Hob was concerned, and said earnestly, “You don’t need worry, your lordship. We ain’t told no one, me or Rolf. Didn’t want to panic folk. And we wondered if the dragonlord were yer secret weapon, like yer weren’t tellin’ no one about him, so yer could get rid of that one that wants yer throne, the witch. That be right, meybe? We’s yer loyal servants, we ain’t going to say nuthin’ if yer don’t want us to. We came right here, we didn’t tell no one. That right, eh Rolf?”

One of my men.

He was going to cover our tracks.

Arthur couldn’t breathe, there was no air, something was in his throat, choking him. He backed heavily into the table and it shuddered behind him. What was wrong with his legs? Never, ever, had he felt like this. Arthur turned away and fisted his hand over his mouth, and bit down on his knuckles, hard, and pretended the prickling in his eyes wasn’t tears.

One of my men.

Tall.

Dark hair.

Merlin.

Chapter Text

It was an anxious chirping that woke him, that, and the young dragon nudging his chest.

Merlin opened his eyes and came face-to-face with Aithusa, who gave a growl of happiness when he saw Merlin was awake. Merlin winced as the dragon’s talons dug into his arm, he propped himself up on his elbows and blinked sleepily at his young charge and then he remembered his wound. He struggled to sit upright with the weight of the dragon on him, and Aithusa lost his balance with an indignant squawk.

Merlin’s wound was gone, in its place was a long, pink scar, and a dark bruise about the size of his hand span. “You healed me.” Aithusa flapped his wings excitedly at the sound of Merlin’s voice, but Merlin’s smile dimed as he looked beyond the small creature.

The pyre was gone, and the ground was mainly clear, all that remained was just a faint trace of smoke and a few drifting ashes over the patch of burnt earth. Off to the side, a mound of smooth grey-coloured substance remained, it was about knee high and Merlin guessed it was the remnants of the Southron’s weapons, which could now pass for an oddly shaped rock. The clearing was clean again, but the stain on Merlin’s soul couldn’t wash away so easily.

Merlin swallowed and closed his eyes, but Aithusa’s quest for attention distracted him and another thought occurred to Merlin; Aithusa was alone and the dragonlord in him was not at all happy about that. He didn’t really think he’d have managed to miss noticing Kilgharrah nearby, but he glanced around automatically, then nudged Aithusa. “Where’s Kilgharrah?”

Aithusa chirped again, but it wasn’t an answer, and the young dragon clambered onto Merlin’s lap and began tugging at a loose thread on Merlin’s neckerchief with his sharp teeth. Merlin left him to it, the neckerchief had seen better days, and Merlin’d had enough experience with the young dragon to know that he wouldn’t be easily distracted, by now Aithusa had a few scraps of clothing feathering his nest, including one of Arthur’s shirts that Merlin was sure the king would never notice was missing, he had so many after all.

It worried him, the idea of Aithusa being on his own in the forest. He shouldn’t be out in daylight like this, alone and unprotected. Aithusa had strong magic so he was hardly defenceless, however he wasn’t wise to the ways of humans, he viewed the world through innocent eyes, he had a limited grasp of the consequences of actions, and Merlin knew he’d be easily manipulated by someone if they’d gained the trust he freely gave.

It was only a short time ago Kilgharrah had said Aithusa had tried repeatedly to heal a dying squirrel, not understanding at first that old age had already claimed the animal, and to heal one element in its body was at the expense of another.

Aithusa tugged at Merlin’s neckerchief again, growling triumphantly as a thread unravelled. Merlin petted the small creature absently, he wasn’t sure what to do. It would be too much to hope Arthur hadn’t noticed his absence by now, and he had no way of getting back to Camelot quickly, the horses he’d taken had disappeared some time after he’d been attacked.

He also had no intention of allowing the young dragon to roam alone, so even the vague idea he’d had to sneak in a quick visit to his mother couldn’t come to pass. And he couldn’t call upon Kilgharrah right now, they’d be seen. The sun was shining brightly, by its position in the sky he estimated it was mid morning.

Well, there was nothing for it, he’d have to head further into the woods. They were too close to Ealdor here, he’d been lucky no one had chanced on him or Aithusa when he’d been unconscious.

Directives in human speech were still not always something Aithusa obeyed, so Merlin used the dragon tongue to command his young charge to leave the neckerchief alone, and follow me. He was guiltily aware he wasn’t spending enough time with Aithusa, Kilgharrah had stressed several times hatchlings traditionally spent about half of their first few years with their dragonlords to learn the way of humans.

Merlin found his pack in the bushes where he’d left it, he was glad he’d thought to hide it rather than leaving it with the horses. He’d taken a few apples, a chunk of hard cheese and two-day old bread with him, along with a few thin, chewy pieces of the dried trail meat that habitually stayed packed in his bag and that were consumed, usually as a stew base, if he was travelling with Arthur through land where game was sparse. The pack was fairly waterproof and his food was mainly dry, although the bread was a little soggy on one side.

He still felt weak and exhausted from blood loss, but his mind was clearing again and he dried out his damp clothes with barely a thought and warmed himself up at the same time. He wasn’t hungry but he knew he had to eat, so he made himself eat some of the bread and cheese as he followed a barely defined trail to the west, in the direction of Camelot.

Aithusa flew around him happily for the first half hour as they travelled, but then he grew fractious and it took a firm command in the dragon tongue to keep him moving. After several such clashes, Merlin picked up his young charge, and when Aithusa relaxed and snuggled in his arms without even trying to get to the neckerchief, Merlin realised the hatchling was simply tired.

Although the dragon weighed far less than the gear Merlin usually carried when he went hunting, he decided to stop. They were far enough from Ealdor now to be safe from accidental discovery, and he’d over-estimated his ability to travel far with the effects from his injury still persisting.

He edged through the thicket of bushes until he was in a small clearing well away from the path he’d been following. The trail itself did not look well travelled, but he did not want to chance Aithusa being seen. He was weary, and what he’d done was still lingering in the back of his mind. He had to move beyond it in order to be what Arthur needed him to be, and he couldn’t get there, not yet.

Aithusa’s presence was helping, he was comforting in a way that Arthur and Kilgharrah were not, because the young dragon’s demands were simple and uncomplicated by past deeds and expectations. And magically, the closer he was to the dragon, the better he felt, the slight haze clouding Merlin’s mind that he assumed resulted from blood loss, was slowly clearing.

Merlin settled between the roots of a large tree, and stretched his legs out, wincing slightly as the action pulled against his tender side. Aithusa flopped onto his lap and went straight back to sleep, and Merlin curled his hand over the fold of the dragon’s wing, and let the peace and the warmth of the day fill him. Aithusa was still young enough that his hide, though tough, was smooth, even a little soft, quite unlike Kilgharrah’s hide which was rough enough in places to slice human skin.

Arthur and Camelot tugged at his conscience and his heart, but Merlin resisted the compulsion to hurry back, and a large part of him wasn’t in a hurry at all. Merlin had already decided he’d ask Kilgharrah for a ride back to Camelot, yet, in the end, he didn’t call Kilgharrah at all that evening when he had his chance under the cover of darkness. Merlin knew he should, if he waited until the following night it would mean he’d be absent from Camelot for at least three full days.

But he couldn’t, he needed some time alone, and he wasn’t ready to face the world yet and be the person people expected to see. In the last week all his focus had been on Arthur, he’d put so much effort into helping and motivating Arthur, and keeping him safe as they reclaimed Camelot, and he now needed some time alone to think, and to reconcile his feelings with his actions.

Experience had taught Merlin that his conscience would always trouble him from time-to-time as a result of the choices he’d have to make. More often than not, he felt this sadness when he’d taken human life, or when the lies of omission were piling too high and threatening to come crashing down, and the possibility of Arthur’s discovery of the truth, and the subsequent ending of all semblance of friendship between them, was all too real.

Merlin was astute enough to know that he could not allow his conscience to fester, burying his thoughts did not work for him in the long run. He understood he had to take time to think about what he’d done and how he felt about it, so he could regain some perspective of his situation. He’d analyse the decisions he’d made, then he’d piece himself back together and carry on.

He knew his emotions were off kilter more than they’d usually be, due to the effects of the trauma to his body as well as the enormity of his recent actions. He was certainly still very sleepy, and knew that physically he was still weakened.

He stroked the tip of Aithusa’s wing. There was a good chance by now that Arthur had grown suspicious of whatever excuse Gaius had dreamt up for his absence, but with recent events and his impending wedding, Arthur had a lot on his plate, and Merlin was hopeful that Arthur would be too distracted to give Merlin’s absence much thought. And it wasn’t like Gaius would worry if he was a bit late, the old physician had learnt over the years that Merlin was well able to look after himself.

Merlin wondered if he’d be able to get away with not mentioning the attack by the Southrons to Gaius, he was feeling a lot better, just weak, and blood would replenish itself in time, surely?

Merlin half dozed for a while, but eventually he roused himself, shifting Aithusa off him so he could get a piece of the dried meat from his pack. It wasn’t very appetising, but he made himself start chewing on it, he couldn’t be bothered making it into stew.

Now fully awake, Aithusa eyed the food with curiosity and slight confusion as Merlin ate. Despite the folklore that lingered, Aithusa was not a predator like his nearest wyvern relations, nor did he require plant-based food. Instead he subsisted from the same magic that fed into the bare elements themselves. He did not require food at all, but from the first time he’d seen Merlin eating, his curiosity had been provoked by his dragonlord’s bizarre behaviour, and he hadn’t yet lost interest in the strange textures and smells of the the things his dragonlord kept putting in his mouth.

Merlin didn’t know what he’d expected Aithusa would be like, if anything he’d just assumed Aithusa would be a miniature Kilgharrah, born wise and spouting advice about destinies and anything he cared to stick his snout into, and, although Kilgharrah had said that type of knowledge was there, at present it was yet unawakened, as the young dragon was just too immature to cope with it.

It was evident to Merlin fairly early on that dragon hatchlings were not much different to most young animals, Aithusa was playful, curious, energetic and generally interested in anything and everything.

Merlin swallowed a mouthful of the dried meat and grimaced, it wasn’t very appetising. His thoughts turned again to the men he’d burnt, as he scratched a path along Aithusa’s spine, and the small creature arched into the touch. Merlin said quietly, “The taking of any life should always be your last resort, Aithusa. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”

Aithusa blinked. “Emrys.”

“Why do you call me that? Not even Kilgharrah does.”

Aithusa stretched his wings out and tipped his head to the side. “Young warlock.”

Merlin was all too willing to be distracted from the direction his thoughts were heading again, and his mouth quirked at the mimicry of Kilgharrah’s deeper tone. Aithusa crept closer to the hand that was holding the food and Merlin broke off a small piece of the dried meat and held it out to him.

“Emrys.” Aithusa took the food and settled down across Merlin’s knees as he chewed, his expression turning inwards in concentration. Aithusa was also very affectionate, Merlin had noticed with some amusement he was slightly less effusive in his dealings with Kilgharrah, but he was all over Merlin like a rash whenever he was allowed, he was continually looking for attention and affection from his dragonlord. The slightest reprimand from Merlin devastated him, whereas Merlin had seen him try Kilgharrah’s patience more than once.

“Say Merlin.”

Aithusa paused in his chewing for a moment and then coughed and spat out the remains of the meat onto the grass, his expression both disgusted and slightly betrayed. He shook his head and coughed again, trying to rid himself of the taste. He eyed Merlin accusingly. “Emrys.”

Merlin smiled slightly at the familiar game of words, he’d never managed yet to get Aithusa to call him by his birth name. Aithusa was still snorting and coughing. “Yeah, I agree, it doesn’t taste very nice.”

He gave up on the lesson in light of Aithusa’s distraction, Aithusa still struggled with the human tongue, he was fairly good now at communicating with simple words in it using mind speech, but verbal speech was still a bit beyond him, Merlin supposed it would improve with time.

Spending time with Aithusa felt like time off from his responsibilities. It also felt vaguely selfish, to do this for himself, but as much as Arthur would always come first, Merlin too was a dragonlord, and he wanted to spend time with Aithusa, the sorrow that weighed him down seemed lighter with the young dragon’s antics to distract him.

In the end, he stayed in the clearing with Aithusa for another full night and day before he made the call to Kilgharrah. He was late already, so if he’d been missed then another day wouldn’t change how angry Arthur would get.

He’d found a patch of raspberries nearby and discovered that while Aithusa had a strong dislike for the chewy trail meat, the small creature loved raspberries, and Merlin found himself more relaxed than he had been for ages at the sight of raspberry stains all around the dragon’s pale snout.

There was also a stream not too far away, and at first Merlin had been cautious with Aithusa, but the dragon had surprised him by the delight he took in wetting the tips of his paws and blowing a small blast of fire onto the water, succeeding in raising a weak cloud of steam. Merlin realised he was indulging himself in spending this time away from Camelot, but he needed it, and he gave in to the simple pleasure of being free for a short time from his responsibilities and the burden of his destiny.

When it was dark, he made the call to Kilgharrah, who arrived almost straight away, breaking off a few tree branches as he landed, as the clearing was barely big enough for him to fit. “Young warlock.”

Merlin indicated Aithusa. “He’s still very young, Kilgharrah. Should you be leaving him alone?”

Kilgharrah tipped his head to the side and eyed the man in front of him. “It’s not me he wants right now. It’s you, as I’ve told you before.” Disapproval edged the dragon’s words. “Even now, he ventures out on his own seeking humans. He looks for you.”

“And you let him? He could be harmed, or captured!”

Kilgharrah was blunt. “I am not his keeper, young warlock, and he’s not vulnerable like a human child. He needs human contact, yet you won’t give it to him, so he seeks it elsewhere.”

“He can’t be seen by anyone, Kilgharrah. You know that. He’ll be hunted, news of a baby dragon would get back to Camelot eventually.”

Kilgharrah shifted his weight from one paw to the other. “He hasn’t been seen by anyone, not yet. But Merlin, Aithusa is your responsibility now.” Kilgharrah was vaguely sympathetic, but he had his own agenda to press. “He needs to see more of you, Merlin, you are his dragonlord. He needs to learn the ways of humans, to recognise their visual cues and body language, to understand the things they say when they are not speaking. I cannot teach him that.”

Merlin glanced across at the baby, who’d grown bored by the lack of attention paid to him and was snuffling in the dirt beneath a clump of bushes, his hide gleaming whitely in the moonlight. Merlin carded a weary hand through his hair. “We’ve been over this before, Kilgharrah. I will, I promise. I’ll spend more time with him. I want to. Just not yet. I can’t get away from Camelot easily.”

“Your excuses never change, Merlin.” Kilgharrah was growing angry. “Aithusa needs you now. And you would do well to allow him to see your king from time to time, to begin to build a bond with him, and a willingness to serve. You must.”

Kilgharrah’s temper hadn’t intimidated Merlin for a long time now, and it fed Merlin’s own, his own voice rising too. “It can’t happen yet, Kilgharrah, and there’s no point talking about it further. Arthur isn’t ready to welcome the existence of dragons, nor those who are kin to them.”

“Perhaps it’s you who is not ready to tell him, young warlock.”

There was nothing to say to that, because it was the truth too. Merlin had thought about it, he really had. But he couldn’t do this, to bring Aithusa to Arthur’s notice was not only dangerous for the young dragon, but Merlin didn’t think he could do it without revealing his dragonlord heritage, because Aithusa still relied heavily on the dragon tongue to communicate effectively, and Merlin certainly needed to use it to curb his sometimes impulsive behaviour.

Merlin sighed and turned away from Kilgharrah to watch Aithusa, this time the young creature was blowing on a clump of grass that rippled between gold and green and then a startlingly bright purple, before starting the cycle all over again.

Kilgharrah huffed in frustration then was silent for a long moment, and Merlin thought their conversation was over, but eventually the older dragon spoke again, his earlier anger muted. “Young warlock ... there were many dragons, before Uther’s purge, though not many young dragons.” He paused at the memory. “And even then, a dragon birth was a rare thing, such an event may not occur in a single human lifetime. Yet your father called forth a hatchling, when he was a little younger than you, Merlin. It devastated Balinor when she was killed almost at the start of the purge. Anya was her name.”

Kilgharrah allowed the impact of his words to sink in. “You must take Aithusa to Camelot, and keep him with you for a while. You are a dragonlord Merlin, it is your sacred duty to do all you can for him.”

Merlin met Kilgharrah’s eyes for a long moment, then turned away, aware that he was being manipulated but feeling guiltily bidden to go along with it. “I know, Kilgharrah. But I can’t.” The regret bled through his tone. “It would be too dangerous for him, and for me.”

“You must.”

Merlin shook his head. “I can’t do what you’re asking of me, Kilgharrah.”

“There is a way.” Kilgharrah waited and then added smoothly, “Hatchlings have the ability to seem invisible when required, young warlock.”

Merlin stopped his pacing and stared up at Kilgharrah, incredulous. He said flatly, “An invisible dragon?”

“Yes.” Kilgharrah was slightly defensive. “Though they are not actually invisible, but merely no man nor beast will notice their presence. It works as long as the hatchling remains quiet.”

Merlin was doubtful. “Okay.” He glanced across at Aithusa, who was now gliding from tree to tree like a large, albino bat. “And still?”

“No, the hatching doesn’t need to be still. Just quiet. The ability harkens back to the dragon wars, when the young were at risk from opposing males who fought over mates or territory. It’s not been that way for many hundreds of years now, but the magic is instinctive in the very young. It’s something he can do, which I cannot.”

Merlin thought about it.

“And it would do you well to have Aithusa with you as you heal. Aithusa healed your injury Merlin. But he was not able to replenish your blood loss. You came very close to dying, young warlock, the magic in you still does not feel normal to me. You will take time to recover. The magic you can feel, just from being near him, will help your human body recover. He is magic, as are you.”

Merlin didn’t have the strength to argue. And he wanted to do it, as crazy as it sounded. He could imagine what mischief the young dragon would get into in Gaius’s workshop, his mentor would have a fit, and the thought made him smile.

He shrugged inwardly. “Very well. But we’d better make sure I can see him all the time.” He’d have enough to worry about what a visible dragon would get up to, let alone an invisible one.

Kilgharrah rumbled his approval, and Merlin thought for a moment. “And Gaius too, I think. Yes, he’ll need to see him.” It would probably be a good idea.

But later, he’d wish he’d left Gaius out of it.

Chapter Text

Merlin was a dragonlord.

And time had no meaning.

Arthur stared silently out the window. He wanted to rage. He wanted to shout and scream, and tear apart his castle brick by brick with his bare hands. He definitely didn’t want to howl in anguish, he was the king.

He hardly heard the uproar behind him in Gwen, Leon and Gwaine’s voices. He didn’t care that Tristan leant against the wall silently watching the fallout with the mild interest of a spectator at a mediocre play. There was no room in him for their reactions, not when he felt like this.

Hob and Rolf had been ushered away. Now Arthur was alone with the people he could trust, or thought he could trust, because nothing in his life was certain any more, not after this. He’d been so sure of Morgana, of Agravaine. So sure of their loyalty, yet so stupidly blind. He’d been wrong about Gaius, he’d forsaken Gwen then later banished her, he’d killed Caerleon and started a war. His judgement had proven to be flawed time and time again ... and now ... would it ever end?

On the surface, Arthur was calm, very calm. Yet inside he felt like he could burst out of his skin.

He turned back to them.

“What are you going to do, Arthur?” It wasn’t the first time Gwaine had asked, but now the knight’s voice had lost its raw anger and was edged in despair. Leon hovered between them, his agitation evident, eyes shifting from Arthur to Gwaine and back again.

Arthur’s instructions to his knights disclosed nothing. “Go. Bring Merlin to me as soon as he returns.”

Gwaine argued, or tried to; he yelled, he demanded, he pleaded and he begged, but he could not argue with a king who stared silently through him in return.

Gwaine and Leon left, and Tristan drifted away with them.

Arthur was alone with Gwen.

He took her hand and moved to the far end of the room. There was nothing in his voice to hint at his inner turmoil. “Did you know?”

“Arthur.” She shook her head. “No. I didn’t. But ...”

Bitterly, he filled in the blanks. “But you wouldn’t have told me, if you had known. Because it would have been Merlin’s secret to tell. Is that right?”

She cradled his face between her hands, her eyes on his. “I don’t know, Arthur. I just don’t know.”

Loyalty could not be commanded, only earnt. He wouldn’t go over that ground with her again, wouldn’t pile more hurt on top of the scar that was still healing between them. But still, he asked, “What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Arthur, I’m not going to guess for you. I trust you to do what’s right.”

“You don’t have an opinion? Will you be my queen in name only?” It wasn’t what he wanted, and he knew she’d be more than that. But he didn’t want to be alone with this, he needed her counsel too, their first test together.

She stroked his cheek. “Arthur, I know you, and I know Merlin. I love you, and Merlin is my best friend. And …” Gwen paused and said carefully, “I thought he was your best friend too.”

He trembled before he could stop himself, his weakness stirred his anger again, he tensed. She slipped a hand around his shoulders and stroked the back of his neck, brushing her fingers through the hair that curled over his collar. “Arthur, if you truly want me to say something, then … I’ll caution you, don’t act rashly. Don’t let anger lead you into doing something you’ll regret. I know you’re upset, I know you’re angry. But listen to your heart, what does it tell you?”

“I don’t know, Guinevere.” He shook his head and pulled her close, giving into the comfort of her embrace, admitting to her what he’d say to no one else, something a king should never say. “I don’t know anything anymore.” And that was the crux of it. He didn’t know where the lies ended and the truth began, he didn’t know how to distinguish one from the other.

“Then what bothers you the most about this, Arthur? Is it that he’s a dragonlord? Is it that you didn’t know? Do you … do you think he has magic too?”

Of course he’d thought about it, the magic, the idea kept bubbling to the surface of the chaos in his mind. “I don’t know, Guinevere. I don’t know if all dragonlords have magic.” And he couldn’t ask Gaius. “But yes, it’s possible that all dragonlords have magic, that Merlin does too.”

“And what if he does? What if Merlin has magic too? Then what?”

He shook his head, he hadn’t allowed himself to think past what if. It was too much too soon, to work through and process rationally in his mind.

“Arthur, if he has magic, if he’s used it, do you think that means he’s evil, like Morgana?”

“You don’t, do you?”

“It’s you who has to work this out, Arthur.”

He remembered. “Gaius has magic.”

“And you stopped your father’s persecution of the druids, Arthur.” She pulled back out of his embrace a little so she could look him in the eyes. “Why did you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you end persecution of them? Was it because you believed magic could be good, and not just a source of evil? Or was it because you felt that there’s no justice in the persecution of people who’ve done no harm? Why did you make that promise to them, Arthur?”

It hadn’t been a rash decision, nor a bargain for his life. It had been the only decision he could make, because in this his father had been ... he swallowed, he’d faced the truth before, his father had been wrong.

That wound was still raw, but he wouldn’t revisit it now. “For both reasons. They’re my people too. What has happened to the druids for many years … I couldn’t allow it to continue, Guinevere.”

“Then you have part of your answer.”

He did? Was she saying that if Merlin had magic too, he could let it be?

He recognised she was forcing him to think this situation through instead of letting him react blindly, and although he believed she had not already known Merlin’s secret until now, he still marvelled at her calm composure after such a revelation. Was she doing this for him, hiding her own disquiet?

Or was it just so easy for her to accept? He could not do the same. “He didn’t tell me. He didn’t trust me. The friend I thought I had, doesn’t exist.” He wasn’t hurt, he was matter-of-fact.

“Then you have to find out why he didn’t tell you, Arthur. Just please, be careful.”

“Be careful?” The idea was ludicrous. “Merlin won’t harm me, Guinevere, even if he has magic and can command a dragon, he won’t harm me.” And that at least was one truth that he hadn’t realised he’d known until he’d said it, and he felt the heavy clenching in his chest ease a little, Merlin was still there, inside this dragonlord.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant … Arthur, what is the outcome you want from this … discussion, I guess, that you’re going to have with Merlin?”

He thought about it. “I want honesty, Guinevere. That’s what I need. I need the truth. I need to be able to trust the people around me. I can’t have a friendship that’s based on lies.”

“Then you still want a friendship with him?”

He wanted to reassure her, but instead he settled for the truth. “I need to be able to trust him, Guinevere. I don’t know if I can any more.”

She nodded, very slowly.

There was a tentative knock on the door. Arthur wanted to ignore it, he’d given orders that no one could be admitted, but the knock came again, this time louder, and Leon’s voice called out, “Sire, Merlin’s back.”

It was too quick, and Arthur wasn’t ready.

But he steeled himself, and gave a curt nod to the guards who opened the door.

And there, on the threshold, stood the dragonlord.

Chapter Text

He was a dragonlord.

He was Merlin.

And Arthur couldn’t reconcile the two.

Merlin entered the room, Leon and Gwaine followed, Tristan trailing behind aimlessly. All of Arthur’s senses were on edge like he was primed for battle, but the rush of feelings that coursed through him when he saw Merlin were not the confusing mix he’d expected.

Instead, he was alarmed, and slightly worried. Arthur found himself striding towards Merlin without deliberate thought. “What on earth happened to you?”

His manservant didn’t look like a dragonlord. He looked like he’d been jumped by bandits and dragged through a bush backwards, he seemed to be favouring one foot, he had a long tear near the base of his jacket, and on the shirt underneath –

“Hold on, Merlin is that blood? Are you injured?”

“Um, Arthur. No, I’m fine.” Merlin dragged his jacket closed and glanced anxiously over his shoulder as the door started to shut behind Tristan, then the set of his shoulders lessened a little and his gaze flicked over the lines of the ceiling, and settled for moment on the floor on the far side of the room.

“Merlin, what happened? Tell me.”

Merlin was distracted, he darted a glance at the corner of the room again, then he turned to Arthur. “Uh, blood? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s not blood, well, maybe it is. From a small cut. It’s mainly mud, you see, I got lost, very lost, and it was raining, so lots of mud! I meant to clean up, but Leon and Gwaine, well Leon really - insisted that you needed me urgently now. Gwaine said you didn’t want to see me at all, so I don’t know. If you do, that is, want to see me now, um, do you?”

Merlin surreptitiously checked that his arm was obscuring most of the tear in his jacket and managed a sheepish grin. “Did George over-polish something?”

The gnawing sensation in Arthur’s belly eased at the familiar babbling, but then he realised he was being lied to again, because it was blood not mud, not to mention there was little chance Merlin had been lost on the road to Ealdor, and all of a sudden the weight of it crashed back down on Arthur, and he could hardly breathe through the pain of it.

Arthur struggled for normality, because he didn’t know what else to do, and for just a moment he wished he’d never known, never discovered this, and he despised himself for cowardice. He had to look away for a moment until he was able to speak past the heavy constriction in his throat. “Come here, it looks like blood to me. A lot of blood. Show me.”

He’d get this mystery out of the way, then he’d discover the rest.

But Merlin was unsettled by this development, his alarm poorly hidden. “No, you don’t need to bother yourself, Arthur. I’m fine. I just need to see Gaius and clean up.”

And Arthur studied the man in front of him, really studied him and tried to see where Merlin ended and the dragonlord began. But the dragonlord wasn’t there, it was only Merlin, with filthy hair in need of a trim, in the silly shabby coat he refused to part with, with the faint trace of stubble feathering his mouth and jaw and accentuating the fatigue in his eyes.

And Arthur felt like he was like looking through an opaque window where everything was hazy, and he had to see Merlin properly, to anchor himself to the living breathing man in front of him, so he’d know this situation he’d found himself in was real, because right now it felt like a nightmare he couldn’t shake.

He was close enough now to reach out and touch Merlin and he did, his fingers wrapping over Merlin’s elbow to hold him in place while his other hand pushed aside Merlin’s jacket. The back of Arthur’s fingers brushed against Merlin’s shirt; Merlin’s skin was warm under the thin fabric that was stained with his blood.

“Show me the wound, Merlin.” Arthur lifted the edge of the shirt and glimpsed a pale strip of skin before his hand was hurriedly batted away.

“Arthur! I mean, no, there’s no need. Really it’s nothing. Nothing to worry about. I’m fine. So thanks.” Obedience had never been one of Merlin’s strengths and he stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to retreat, yanking his jacket shut again.

Merlin came to a stop when he backed into one of the large support pillars in the room, he winced and rubbed the back of his head, frowning at Arthur for a moment like it was his fault then clearly thinking better of it. He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively and glanced past Arthur and, out of his peripheral vision, Arthur knew he’d caught Leon’s eye. Then Merlin went suddenly still, his expression changing into something guarded, and then, very slowly, he made himself relax and his hands dropped to his sides.

Arthur was silent for a moment, but he couldn’t push this aside. He couldn’t let Merlin push it aside. He didn’t know why an injury had to be another secret that Merlin wanted to hide from him, and it compounded the weight dragging him under, the lies were suffocating.

And he couldn’t bear it, not so soon, and not again. His father was dead, Morgana was lost to him, the family bond he’d thought he’d shared with Agravaine had been nothing but a lie, and this man in front of him was one of the few people he could almost call family that Arthur had left.

He tried another tactic. “Where were you, Merlin?” And he wondered what story he’d be told.

“Um, yes. That. I was ... I was away a bit too long, wasn’t I? Sorry about that. I should have asked you before I left.”

“Merlin?”

Merlin heard the warning note. “Okay, the thing is, I wanted to see if my mother was safe, after the Southrons found us in Ealdor.”

Arthur nodded. That was reasonable, and at least was probably true, and once he would have accepted it as the entire truth. “And was she?”

“Well ... I didn’t actually get that far before I got the wound.” Merlin seemed to realise what he’d said and backtracked hastily. “Not that I was that badly injured, of course. But you see, I lost the horse too – don’t worry, it was one of the Southron’s – and so I thought I’d better come back, because, you know, if I tried to get to Ealdor to see my mother and then get back here without a horse, I’d be gone too long, and the thing was, I’d only told Gaius I’d be away for, um, not very long. Did he uh, did he mention anything to you?”

Like the tavern? Was Merlin fishing to see where his story should go? And Arthur remembered what else Merlin had said, he’d gotten lost - on the road to Ealdor. A lie, and Arthur would call him on it. “And you were lost too, right?” Merlin regarded him blankly for a moment and Arthur reminded him, “You just told me, you got lost, it rained and so you got muddy.”

Merlin began to babble something else about taking a shortcut that turned out to not exactly be a shortcut, but Arthur only half-listened. A good lie should always be simple. Long ago he’d learnt that lesson from the group of boys he’d once called friends. He could barely remember their names now, but he’d remembered the lesson, don’t apologise for it, don’t over-embellish it, keep your story simple.

He said quietly, “Merlin.” And Merlin stammered to a stop, the slight movement of his body as he shifted from one foot to another a hint of his unease. “Will you answer me honestly?”

Arthur waited for Merlin’s cautious nod, then he said, with more gentleness than he’d ever used with Merlin, and more than he felt, “Is it your blood? All of it? Over your jacket, your shirt, your breeches, and, by the look of it, in a sock as well?”

Merlin grimaced. “Honestly, um, well, I suppose it is. And when you say it that way, it doesn’t sound very good, but, it’s not that bad, it’s nothing to worry about. Trust me, Arthur.”

Arthur took a step forwards, closing the already short distance between them. He placed a hand flat against the pillar beside Merlin’s shoulder, leaning into Merlin’s personal space, and making a concerted effort to keep a tight lid on his fraying control. “Merlin, I am trying to trust you.” And Arthur realised with some surprise that was the truth, or at least part of it. He stopped for a moment to process that thought. “I want to see the injury.”

Merlin stared at him for a long moment, and Arthur met his gaze steadily. Then Merlin turned his face to the side, his dark lashes fluttered against his pale skin as he closed his eyes and swallowed several times, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously.

Arthur waited, but Merlin didn’t speak, his lips were pressed together in a firm line. Arthur took the silence for permission, and he pushed aside the torn jacket and lifted the edge of Merlin’s shirt.

Arthur blanched. There was a long scar decorating Merlin’s skin, it was about the length of his hand-span and the width of a finger. It was recent, yet more healed than it should be, and it still had flecks of dried blood caking it. The scar ran at an angle from the bottom of Merlin’s ribs, across the top of his hip, and around the side of his stomach. It was surrounded by an angry, purpling bruise which was stark in contrast against his pale skin.

Arthur swallowed back the bile in his throat. He’d seen enough battle wounds to know it had been caused by a sword, and that the sword would have cut deep, slicing through layers of muscle and possibly to the bone. It was obvious the scar had not been healed naturally by its very size and that there was no sign of stiches, not to mention a wound of this magnitude should still be weeping blood because it would tear if the patient did not lie abed for some time.

Arthur raised his head, Merlin was watching him now, and when he caught Arthur’s gaze he flushed and turned his head away.

Arthur pulled Merlin’s shirt back down, hiding the injury, and the hand that still rested on the pillar beside Merlin’s shoulder clenched into a fist.

Arthur said quietly, “This was the wound? The source of the blood, that’s all over you?”

Merlin’s expression was cornered, but his chin came up, and he nodded, once.

“It’s almost healed.”

The answer was quiet and resigned. “Yes.”

“How?”

Merlin lowered his eyes and shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Arthur.”

Arthur kept his tone level. “I do, I’m asking. How, Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head again, his voice low and tense. “What does it matter? It doesn’t matter.”

Arthur eyed the state of Merlin’s clothing. “You could have died.” The thought was paralysing, and he had to take a moment. He wondered, had Merlin healed himself? Arthur didn’t know if that was in the realm of a dragonlord’s ability. Or had the old man or Emrys been involved?

Arthur said bluntly, because if he didn’t Merlin was going to skirt around the issue forever. “Merlin, do you think I’d rather you have died, than be healed by magic?”

Merlin twitched once at that, he bit his lip and avoided Arthur’s gaze, and Arthur didn’t miss the slight sheen in his eyes. “Arthur, I’m sorry for going off and not telling you. But you’re right, I did lose a lot of blood. And yes I was obviously healed by means you wouldn’t approve of. Can we just leave it at that? Could I please go and clean up?” His voice cracked on the last sentence.

Arthur was conscious of their audience, the two guards on the door were standing to attention and pretending the invisibility of their station, he called out across the room to them. “Petrov, Rowan, out. Secure the doors, stay outside.” The guards turned to obey, but the doors opened before they touched them, and Percival and Elyan walked in.

Elyan said, “Arthur, you sent for us?” Both knights were dirty with the grime of the trail, they were still in chain mail and had come straight from patrol.

For a moment Arthur couldn’t remember his request, but then he did, it was a lifetime ago when he’d thought to send them to Ealdor to check on Merlin, when everything in his world had been a simple black or white.

The guards left, the door shut behind them, and both Percival and Elyan hesitated as they became aware of the tension in the room. Arthur’s eyes met Leon’s, and the knight nodded at Arthur’s unspoken request, drawing Percival and Elyan aside and speaking to them in a low tone.

Merlin was as still as a hunted animal sensing a trap, he hadn’t even turned to look at Elyan or Percival. Arthur studied him for a moment longer then pushed himself off the pillar, away from Merlin, and Merlin sagged at the reprieve. Arthur strode across to Leon and said in an aside only the knight could hear, “Send one of the guards to find Gaius.”

Then Arthur turned. “Guinevere, can you ask someone to bring food and wine, enough for all of us? No, Tristan, it’s okay, stay.”

He focused on Merlin again, who hadn’t moved except to shrink further into the stone pillar behind him. As Arthur came closer, Merlin winced visibly. “Arthur ... please.”

Arthur took up his earlier stance again, leaning into Merlin’s personal space, one hand flat on the pillar near Merlin’s shoulder, so they were almost touching chest to chest.

This closeness wasn’t the way they did things, there were enough personal touches in the everyday dealings between a king and his manservant to not want to seek more out unnecessarily, but at such close range, Arthur could see the hitch in Merlin’s breath when he stumbled over his words, and the brief flicker in his eyes that betrayed the unease he was trying to hide. And Arthur tried to understand, and to see, but they were shackled both by lies and by truths that had not been said.

Arthur said quietly, “We need to talk.”

Merlin shut his eyes momentarily, a look of defeat passing over his face. “About the magic healing.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Yes.”

No, that would be something he’d discuss later. “I’m not angry that magic healed you, Merlin.” Arthur didn’t miss the slight start of surprise, and he forced a calmness that he didn’t feel into his voice. “Don’t you think it would be hypocritical of me to condemn you for the use of magic to heal when I’d sought the same for my own father?”

But the reassurance didn’t have the affect Arthur had half-expected, instead Merlin bit his lip guiltily and wouldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, and the reaction made Arthur wonder if he did have magic, if he had healed himself.

“Arthur ... I don’t ... I can’t ...” Merlin struggled, and his breath hitched. “I don’t know what to say.”

Arthur watched his unease grow, and it strengthened his suspicions. “Forget it for now. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

Merlin’s face turned cautiously relieved, but Arthur shook his head, a warning of the conversation to come. “I had some visitors from Ealdor earlier.”

Merlin’s eyes flashed to his, and Arthur answered his question even before he had a chance to voice it. “No, not Hunith. She’s fine. Hob and his son, Rolf.”

Merlin cleared his throat. “Um. I don’t know them.”

“They were worried, you see. Hob and Rolf.”

Merlin nodded uncertainly, though it was clear he couldn’t work out where Arthur was going with this.

Arthur almost wished he could turn back time, he didn’t want this. Yet he had to know the truth, he had to face it, and only then would he know what was the beginning, and what was the end. “They saw you, Merlin.”

Because he was watching very carefully, Arthur saw the brief flicker of panic before Merlin’s face smoothed into the familiar guileless expression, and the truth of Hob’s tale hit Arthur again with the shock of fresh knowledge, because the studied innocence on Merlin’s face was confirmation enough.

There would be no more deceit in Arthur’s life. He said bluntly, “Merlin, they saw you call the dragon. And they saw what happened, after that.”

For a moment it was as if time had stopped and Merlin was frozen, then he turned his head to the side and gave a shaky laugh. “What? A dragon?”

No more lies. The surge of anger that raced through Arthur was as unexpected as it was blinding, and he struggled with himself to not give it free reign. “Were you ever going to tell me about this Merlin?”

Merlin looked like he was going to say something, then he changed his mind, stumbling. “I ... Arthur. I don’t know ... I mean ...”

“What have you got to say about it?”

“I ...” Merlin gave a tiny shake of his head. “Arthur ... what?”

“How about the truth, Merlin?”

Arthur could see when Merlin realised there was no escape, when the denial and poorly concealed panic on his face changed into resignation edged with despair.

The silence between them grew into something thick and heavy, and then Merlin clenched his fists and whispered, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Merlin twisted away from the pillar, away from Arthur. He was breathing heavily. He said in a low, tight, monotone, “What was I meant to do, Arthur? There were too many of them and they were after you. I couldn’t leave them near Ealdor, Morgana knew the connection to my mother, if she’d realised she was sheltering us, she’d have killed her or even the entire village.”

He looked into Arthur’s eyes. “You tell me, what else could I do? How else could I keep you all safe?”

It was true, he’d never known this man.

It wasn’t hurt ripping Arthur apart, he wouldn’t allow it, and now he welcomed the growing anger, and took refuge in it. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

“You’re a dragonlord, Merlin?” Arthur had almost forgotten all about Gwen and the knights, Percival’s question hung in the air, and his astonishment was clear, normally he’d never interrupt his king.

Merlin hesitated for a moment, he tore his eyes away from Arthur reluctantly, and gave Percival a quick unsmiling glance and nodded briefly, once. Gwaine nudged the knight’s shoulder, shaking his head, but Merlin’s attention was focused on Arthur again, and now, Arthur saw the dragonlord.

Merlin’s chin was up, his back straight, his lanky loose limbs controlled and sure. There was nothing light in his face now, his expression was intent. He said mildly, but with the hint of a bite, “So what is the point, Arthur? You knew this, when you called me here. You want to do this in front of them? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.” His voice hard, Arthur closed the gap between them. And he was angry, Arthur realised, very angry, and he refused to admit to himself why.

Arthur took another step forward, and Merlin’s head shot up and he shook his head and backed away, putting up one hand, the gesture clear, don’t come any closer.

But Merlin wasn’t the king, and so Arthur’s advance did not hesitate.

Merlin shook his head. “Don’t.” How he could look both so shattered and so strong?

“Don’t what, Merlin?”

There was a concerned murmur from Leon, but Arthur paid it no attention, walking slowly towards Merlin like he was stalking his prey, and he was, because this was the hunt of his life.

“Back off, Arthur. That’s close enough.”

It would never be close enough, Arthur wondered if he’d ever been close to this man at all. “Or what? What’ll you do?”

Merlin shook his head, annoyance flashing across his face, and the expression was so familiar that Arthur knew the ache in his heart was a wound from love, not from hate.

“You want the truth, Arthur? You really want it?” Merlin’s hand dropped to his side. “Then you can have it.”

He met Arthur’s gaze, Merlin waited for a moment, and then … Merlin vanished before his very eyes.

Arthur blinked into the incredulous silence in the room.

“Merlin, how did you ... ?” It was Gwaine who found him first, and Arthur and the others followed his gaze. Merlin was near the window on the far wall, his shoulders tight. He was watching them expressionlessly, cataloguing their reactions, but as he took in Gwaine’s slowly growing smile, the heavy tension in him eased for a moment, before he stiffened again and shifted his attention back to Arthur.

He took a step forwards, just one. “Yes, Arthur. I have magic.” There were no excuses in his voice, but there was an old sadness. “I’m a warlock, I’m a dragonlord, I am magic. Now what?”

Arthur couldn’t allow himself to react. “Now what? Tell me, what happened at Ealdor.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Merlin’s glance flickered over the other occupants of the room and lingered for a moment on Leon. “But why? You already know, Arthur, don’t you?” He didn’t seemed to be troubled, and improbably, his focus actually shifted away from Arthur to the stone pavers beside him.

The dismissal infuriated Arthur, he strode forward angrily, and when he was only a few steps away from Merlin he could see what had captured Merlin’s attention, there was a large black beetle twirling over the floor like it was caught in a breeze, but there was no breeze in the room. It was odd, but Arthur didn’t have time to think about it, the beetle ceased its movement, and Merlin turned back to him, taking a few steps forward.

The manservant had gone. The dragonlord, the warlock, magic, paced. Merlin’s back was straight, his gaze strong. “Ealdor. What happened? Yes, I’ll tell you.” He bit his lip, and agony swamped his features for one short moment before being hidden so quickly that Arthur almost thought he’d imagined it.

“Arthur, you see to protect you, I had them killed. To protect me, I had them burnt. Ironic isn’t it, that I gave them a sorcerer’s farewell? So that’s where I went, back to Ealdor, not to check on my mother, but to burn them.” Merlin glanced across at Gwen and the knights, then he looked away, his throat working. “There were ninety-five men, I killed them, they’re all dead. I was burning them to get rid of them, so you wouldn’t discover me, so you wouldn’t know what I can do.”

“You’re lying.” Because this wasn’t the truth. “It was the dragon who killed them, there were eyewitnesses. I know it wasn’t you, Merlin.” The creature was a monster, an instrument of Death.

“No, Arthur.” Merlin was terse. “You don’t understand, you don’t understand any of it. I am a dragonlord, they’re my deaths, Kilgharrah killed under my command. My command. Kilgharrah has helped me so many times, he’s helped you, he’s saved Camelot.”

Kilgharrah. The dragon, the “K” in the note.

Arthur tried to process it, but this truth defied belief. “I see.”

“No, Arthur, you really don’t. Because I killed too, Arthur.” Merlin couldn’t keep still, he paced, quick and sharp. “Did you ever wonder what happened to Agravaine?” He waited. “Yes? I killed him, Arthur, in the caves, along with a few of his men. I lied back in the caves when I told you no one had seen me. He caught me in a dead end and I had to use magic to escape. I couldn’t let him run back to Morgana with my secret. And I couldn’t let him tell you about me, you weren’t meant to know.” The last words were bitter.

Arthur shifted uneasily, and it was nothing to do with Agravaine. “Merlin … you killed with magic?”

There was distaste in Arthur’s voice, and he knew Merlin heard it, because he stilled for a moment before he turned away, his back a stiff line that Arthur could almost reach out and touch, if he wanted to.

Did he want to?

And Arthur wondered, could they possibly overcome this?

This man was a dragonlord. This man was ... he’d said, magic. And Arthur knew him, and he didn’t know him, he didn’t know if their friendship could survive, he wondered if he cared enough for Merlin to be able to accept or at least overlook what he’d discovered, he didn’t know which way the scales would tip.

And that was where Arthur made his biggest mistake, thinking only as a king instead of also as a friend. Because he thought where he led Merlin would always follow, he thought he held all the cards in this confrontation between them, he thought it would be only him who’d decide if they still had a friendship when the dust settled.

It didn’t occur to Arthur that Merlin might be the one to end it all.

Chapter Text

“Yes. I killed with magic, Arthur.”

The gauntlet was thrown, it was there, in the open.

Merlin knew this was the real truth for Arthur, the truth that magic was evil, that it could not be trusted, that he could not be trusted. It was with a sense of resignation he accepted it, it was unsurprising, a defeat he’d accepted long ago, a familiar pain.

But still, he had to turn away from Arthur, eyes that were blind he worried would choose this time to see. His magic felt his grief, and he strode almost too quickly across to the window, to Aithusa.

The young dragon was still unsettled, the unfamiliar press of humanity and sounds of civilisation as they’d entered Camelot had been a lot for him to take in. It hadn’t helped that Aithusa was now in a situation where he was also uneasy because of the tension emitting from his dragonlord. The lack of open interaction with Merlin because of the need for Aithusa to stay undiscovered had increased Aithusa’s unease, and more than once he’d come close to breaking his cover and appearing for all to see.

But so far, the slight golden shimmer surrounding Aithusa had stayed in place, and other than anxiously changing a dead beetle carcass from black to a glossy forest green in his attempts to distract himself, Aithusa had remained safely hidden.

Merlin gazed out the window, at the bright shining sun, a perfect day, at Camelot’s citizens going about their daily business unsuspecting of the sorcerer in their midst. Aithusa nudged at his boot and Merlin wished he could openly acknowledge the dragon, but all they could settle for was contact in mindspeech.

The sun’s glare stung his eyes, and he took a deep breath.

Once long ago he’d been optimistic, once he’d had all the useless speeches planned; it’s nothing to fear, it’s saved your life, or the old warhorse, it is but a tool that can be used for good speech, all representations of futile hopes and dreams.

Once he would have begged for forgiveness, and for understanding.

Once he thought he could be accepted for who he truly was.

Once he’d been arrogant enough to think what he’d be able to say to Arthur in whatever time Arthur deigned to give him, would be enough to change a lifetime of prejudice.

Once he’d been a fool, because he knew Arthur, and this truth had broken their friendship beyond repair.

Now all that was left, was all he had to give; he had to make sure Arthur had the inner strength to work through yet another betrayal without it crushing him, because this time Merlin wouldn’t be around to pick up the pieces and to encourage him to move beyond it.

He didn’t think Arthur would become another Uther, and lay the blame at magic’s door for Merlin’s failings. But as much as Arthur was different to his father, when it came down to the heart of it all, Arthur was not ready to accept those who had magic, especially not from someone he’d trusted to be honest with him, who’d hidden such a vital truth for far too long.

Arthur had taken some baby steps in the path towards the destiny Kilgharrah had said they’d share, but Arthur’s desperate wish to save his father had turned out to be a deal with the devil for both of them, and his acceptance of the druids as his people had not resulted in any changes to the laws on magic.

The friendship that Merlin valued beyond anything else was in tatters, and the best he could hope for was that one day, in the distant future, Arthur would come to understand, and to forgive.

But now, Arthur had a kingdom to lead, a relationship with Gwen to rebuild, and the loss of his uncle to work through, and Merlin didn’t want Arthur bogged down in anger, or hurt, or any sense of betrayal because of him too. Merlin had to make it as easy as he could for Arthur, and he knew just what to do, in this, Arthur would be far too easy to predict.

And so Merlin turned and faced Arthur and said it again, quiet yet firm, so there could be no mistake. “Yes, Arthur, I killed with magic.”

Merlin took a few steps forwards, closing the gap between them, stopping when they were only a few paces apart. He glanced behind Arthur, at Gwen’s tears, at Leon’s pale face, at Gwaine’s troubled gaze, at the other knights. They weren’t all lost to him yet, but they would be, he’d make sure of it, because they were Arthur’s, not his.

He chose his words carefully, deceptively calm. “I’ve killed many times with magic. Why would I use a sword? Do you know how easy it is for me? Just a glance, and that’s it, they’re all dead. I don’t need a sword, or a crossbow, just a thought, just magic, and it’s over.”

He saw their doubt, but they were looking at the wrong person. He didn’t want it to be like this, but he’d always do what was necessary. “Watch,” he said. Seeing would make them believe. “I’ll show you.”

He sent a sharp burst of thought at Aithusa to remain quiet in his corner by the window. There would be no divided loyalties here today, when it ended even Gwaine would stay.

He waited, they watched, and he tried to remember how to breathe. For so long he’d tried not to see this truth about himself, but he accepted it now, it was him.

He flung out his hands, and all the chairs in the room lifted in synchronisation and hovered, floating in the air, a prelude to something ominous. Merlin spoke no words and left the chairs suspended above the table for a long, drawn-out moment, then at a slight movement of his fingers they began to spin, slowly at first, then gradually with ever-increasing speed until they were a blur above the table.

Merlin’s eyes flicked to his left, and the chairs flew with lightning speed and slammed into the stone wall, shattering under the impact in storm of beautiful violence. Splinters of broken wood twisted in the air and rained down like daggers near Leon, who flinched, but the shards stopped as if they’d hit an invisible barrier and clattered to the floor away from him.

The silence was louder than the cries of battle, the tension in the room a palpable thing. Merlin slowly lowered his hands and dipped his head so they wouldn’t see the sheen in his eyes. He crossed his arms to hide the tremor in them, and his voice was calm in contrast to the horror of his actions. “That’s how easy it is for me, Arthur, to kill.”

He swallowed and collected himself. “And that’s what I did to Agravaine. This is who I am, and now you know.”

He waited.

He’d never seen Arthur so lost for words. He watched the expressions flick across his face in rapid succession; anger, a trace of fear, disbelief, raw anguish, anger again ... and then a studied blankness, and somehow it was that lack which made Merlin feel worse.

It was Gwen who broke the strained silence. “Merlin ... this isn’t you ... I don’t believe it.”.

Merlin was shamed but defiant. “You’re wrong, Gwen. It is me. It’s always been me.” And it was, because his magic wasn’t all sweetness and light and cleaning Arthur’s muddy boots, there was a necessary darkness to what he did too. He couldn’t protect his king and carry out his destiny without being prepared to do whatever it took, even if it was to lie to those you loved, and to kill.

He switched his attention back to Arthur again, and to Leon, who’d come up behind his king, his hand resting on his sword hilt. United they stood against him. “Yes Arthur, this is me. What are you going to do about it?”

Something flared in Arthur’s face, and then the king reigned himself in. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you about it, that’s what.”

The explanation was too easy, whatever Arthur was feeling was held too much in check, and Merlin wouldn’t accept it. And so he pushed. “But why, Arthur? I mean, why bother? After all you’ve told me often enough what you think of magic, of me. Bit late for a conversation about it, isn’t it?”

Arthur’s mask cracked just a fraction, he took a step closer. “Now, hold on, that’s hardly fair. This was your choice to hide what you can do, what you are, from your king.”

Back down and obey me, it was said, but not in words.

But Merlin wouldn’t back down, it was too late for that. “No, I won’t hold on. I’ve hidden what I am, what I can do, all my life.” He’d weathered Arthur’s temper often enough too, but never had he seen the tightly held emotions simmering in Arthur like this, and for a moment he felt a sense of wonder that he could be the cause of so much emotion in his king.

But his wonder was quickly cast aside, because Merlin was angry too: angry, resentful, hurt. He’d had to bottle everything up for so long, to pretend he didn’t feel, to be powerless when he was anything but, to turn a blind eye when he could save a life. “How do you think it makes me feel to know the people I care for and protect would see me burn if they knew what I could do?” For just a moment the loneliness and despair was crippling, and the dull pain in his head sharpened to a vicious throb.

Arthur’s face was a war of expressions Merlin couldn’t comprehend, he said tightly, “I wouldn’t see you burn, Merlin. None of us would.”

It didn’t matter. “No, I don’t suppose you would, that was your father’s style, wasn’t it? Banishment is the best I can hope for, right?” Words had always been his weapon.

Arthur gritted his teeth, he seemed to be fighting a battle within himself, then his eyes narrowed and that was the only warning Merlin had before he launched himself at Merlin with a fighter’s speed. For a moment Merlin thought he was going to get a punch in the face, and he had a split second to gather his magic and think oh no you won’t, but instead Arthur grabbed the front of Merlin’s shirt, yanking him off balance.

The gauntlet had been taken up with vehemence, and Arthur hissed, “So you think I shouldn’t be angry? You think I shouldn’t care that you lied for so long, that you said nothing to me, not once! What do you expect of me? To let it go, to tell you I’m fine with it, just like that?”

Merlin had to grab onto Arthur’s arm to stop himself falling, magic buzzed at his fingertips and his injured side hurt again because he’d knocked it against Arthur’s hip. “Just be honest, won’t you? Because you’re not fine with it, are you?”

Arthur shook him, and Merlin stumbled again. “I am trying to be honest, but all you’re doing is arguing, and throwing your ... abilities in my face, you won’t discuss anything. What’s with you Merlin, are you goading me on purpose?”

Merlin almost laughed. “Right, Arthur. Make it about you. Of course. You asked me for the truth, I gave it to you. I have magic, I said it. Should I have told you it was harmless, that I used magic to ... grow flowers, or something? But I kill with it, I do. This is me. What’s the point of a discussion? Why? What do you think will come of it?”

Arthur’s fist was white-knuckled around Merlin’s shirt, he took a step forwards, pushing, and his other hand closed vice-like over Merlin’s elbow, his fingers hard through Merlin’s jacket. “I don’t know what to think, I’ve only known about this for half a day, how can this be easy? And you want honesty from me? Then honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do, there you have it. That’s honesty.”

Arthur was a breath away, he was too close, and for a moment there was naked anguish in his face, and Merlin didn’t want to see it, he wanted away. He wasn’t thinking when he pushed at Arthur with his magic, it wasn’t hard but it was enough, and Arthur dropped his hold and stared at him with something bordering on shocked outrage.

Merlin took the opportunity to twist away, his eyes were stinging, his head was pounding in a brutal rhythm, and the ugly bruise around the cut in his side throbbed with pain. He hunched his shoulders and squeezed his eyes shut, but one tear escaped and trickled down his face. The grief he felt as his world continued to implode around him was all encompassing, and he struggled to keep his composure.

He didn’t want it to end, but there was no other way. How had it come to this? How had he messed up so badly? Now there was nothing left, no home, no friends, the great destiny he was meant to have in jeopardy. Why hadn’t Kilgharrah warned him there’d come a time when his only option was to walk away?

Across the room, Aithusa made a tiny sound of distress, and the golden glow surrounding the dragon stuttered. It was like a cold bucket of water and Merlin was almost grateful, because Aithusa’s distress helped him remember his other responsibilities. There was a world out there that’d carry on regardless and he had to go on with it, and he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand and took deep breaths and concentrated on calming himself, and Aithusa.

He could feel Arthur’s stare burning into the back of his neck, and when he felt he was in control of himself again, he gathered his courage and turned around.

Merlin flinched, they’d almost bumped shoulders, Arthur was closer than he’d expected, only a hand span away. Merlin’s magic twisted uneasily in the pit of his stomach as Arthur gave him a narrow-eyed stare, but he kept his head up and met the challenge defiantly.

But then Arthur sighed and dipped his head, and ran a hand through his hair wearily. Whatever he’d read in Merlin’s face seemed to melt his anger away, he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his forehead, and when he spoke he sounded as tired as Merlin felt. “Why are we doing this, Merlin?”

He wouldn’t cry. “There’s not much point, is there? I’ll go, Arthur. Just ... I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s eyes were very blue. “You’re not leaving.”

He had to. “What else can I do?”

“We can get through this, Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head. “No, we can’t, Arthur. We can’t. It’s too late.” His throat choked, because he knew that to be true. The distance between them now was too wide to bridge, it was as simple as that.

Arthur’s hand closed over his wrist. “Don’t you want to even try?”

Merlin pulled away, hurt sparking. “Do you? Why, I mean, there’s no point, is there? There’s no trust now, it’s gone. I lied, I kept all this from you, and now you don’t trust me.”

“And you never trusted me, Merlin. Not with this truth about you. I thought we were friends.”

“We were friends when it suited you, Arthur. Don’t pretend that you care.”

Arthur swallowed the retort, because there was a truth there, their friendship had been too one-sided, he hadn’t been a good friend. “But I do trust you, Merlin. I trust that you would never harm me with your magic. I’ve never once even thought you would.”

“But it’s not enough, is it?” Because it wasn’t, it wasn’t enough for either of them, the truth had opened a chasm between them.

Arthur stared at him for a long moment, and then he gave a tiny shake of his head and said almost inaudibly, “I don’t know how to keep trying with you, Merlin, and I am trying.” And it went against the grain, the only other person he’d bothered with to this extent, and fought so hard to keep a connection with despite everything, had been his father. Part of him didn’t understand why he’d put himself out on a limb and fight for this friendship, and it was a fight, both with himself and with Merlin. “Why can’t you give me the same courtesy of belief, as I do you?”

But Merlin couldn’t explain. How could he believe in someone else when he didn’t believe in himself? He lied all the time, how could he expect trust and honesty when he couldn’t give it, he couldn’t expect forgiveness because it wasn’t something he deserved.

Merlin gave him a small, sad smile. “I have to go. You know I do. I can’t stay, it wouldn’t be fair, to you.”

“Don’t make this about me, Merlin. I didn’t lie. I didn’t withhold information.”

“And why do you think I did, Arthur?”

“Why did you stay, if you had such little faith in me?”

The ache was deep in Merlin’s soul, it would never ease. It had been the purpose of his life, but he couldn’t talk about destiny and what should have been, not now. “I wanted to.”

“And you don’t, now?”

“Yes. No. Well, I can’t, it won’t be the same, will it?”

Arthur asked, “Why not?”

“Because you know about the magic, Arthur. You know. You were never meant to. It wasn’t supposed to happen.” He bowed his head, it felt like they were going over and over the same ground time and time again.

“Why couldn’t you tell me? Maybe not when my father was still alive, but why not afterwards?”

Merlin’s emotions were like a wave, up and down. “Why would I tell you? Everything in my life has changed now, because you know. Do you think for a single moment this is what I wanted? And what if I had told you, a few weeks ago, or a few months ago? You valued Agravaine over everyone, Arthur. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d begged you to not to tell him about me, you would have given me up to him, then where would we be? Still out in the woods probably.”

Arthur’s hand flew up and grabbed his wrist again, his eyes were stormy. “That’s a low blow, Merlin. Not a real reason.”

“You really want to have it all out, don’t you Arthur?” Merlin couldn’t let go of the hurt and pretend it didn’t matter, it cut too deep into his soul. “You told me, you told me, magic is evil and can’t be trusted. You said it! And you’re right. I am magic, and I lie, I’ve lied all my life, it was the first lesson I learnt, hide your magic, never ever tell. Lie about who you are, about what you can do.”

Arthur tried to understand, to see past his own turmoil, because he did want to see, as difficult as it was. “I’m sorry. I am sorry. I know I said it. But I ... I didn’t mean you were evil, Merlin. I would never mean you. You must know that.”

There was a long silence. Then Merlin said quietly, “I understand. Yes, of course. I get it.”

“You do? Then – what is it?”

“It’s not about any of that.” Merlin’s head came up, he tugged at his arm, hard, and Arthur let go. “It’s a strategic decision, isn’t it? It’s tactical, about what’s best for Camelot. It’s not about accepting me, it’s not about friendship, or ... trust. It’s making sure I’m on your side, that I don’t join up with Morgana. You don’t have to pretend Arthur, I’d never help her.”

The accusation, true or not, was an insult, and Merlin knew it, but he couldn’t stop the hurtful words tumbling out of his mouth. He saw something ugly in Arthur’s eyes, but before either of them could escalate it further, Gwen was there between them, and Merlin jumped, he was so focused on Arthur he’d almost forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

She reached out and clasped one of Merlin’s hands in her own, tugging him closer so she could reach across for Arthur’s hand too. Her face was flushed, she looked on the verge of tears. “Stop this, please. I can’t listen to what the two of you are doing to each other any longer. Please don’t do this, don’t tear each other apart. Remember that you care for each other, that you’re best friends.”

Merlin’s heart was thumping too fast, and hand felt awkward in hers, he was uncomfortable and he didn’t want to be touched, he was too close to flying completely apart. Her hand was too warm and too soft, the antithesis to his, he was brittle and too ready to shatter.

And his magic mirrored his unease, it jumped around his body in the same crazy rhythm as his heart. It was automatic to duck his head to hide the golden flickering of his eyes, it had been years since he’d been so tense for such a long, drawn out period, he kept his head down and other than a tightening of his jaw there were no outwards signs of his turmoil.

Gwen sighed quietly. “Arthur, when I asked you what you wanted when we found out Merlin was a dragonlord, you said you wanted a friendship based on honesty. You both need to be truthful with each other, but it has to be done with mutual respect, please. All I’m seeing is the two of you trying to ignore your own hurt, by hurting each other.”

Merlin couldn’t look away from the floor. A friendship based on honesty. His nose prickled, and he tugged away from Gwen’s grip, tucking his hands under his arms. There was a sour taste in his mouth. “But you see, Gwen, if I’m honest about things ... then all I can say honestly is that I don’t know if I can be honest.”

He thought about the lies he’d told over the years, the poisoning, he thought about those he’d killed, how it had gone so wrong with Uther, how he’d enchanted Arthur, and misled him to save Aithusa, and how he’d do it all over again. He couldn’t talk about any of it, it defeated him. “I can’t promise to be honest. I just don’t know if I can.”

Gwen squeezed his shoulder gently. “Then we start with the small things. The two of you can do this gradually, okay?”

He didn’t want to, the idea of forcing himself to be open about things he tried not to think about filled him with unease. But at the same time the idea of a life where he wasn’t always at Arthur’s side even in some insignificant way, was unbearable. And he couldn’t understand why Gwen wasn’t pushing him away, it was something he couldn’t comprehend. Merlin risked a glance at Arthur, who was regarding him steadily.

“Arthur?” Gwen also looked at her husband-to-be.

Arthur cleared his throat. He squeezed Gwen’s hand in brief acknowledgement and then let go, turning his attention back to Merlin before glancing over once at the knights. Merlin followed his gaze; Leon was still cautious but more relaxed than he’d been previously, Percival was silent and serious, Elyan had an odd expression on his face of what might have been sympathy, Gwaine was shifting from one foot to another and holding a shattered piece of one of the chairs, and Tristan was still propping up the wall, vaguely curious but detached from them all.

Arthur touched Merlin’s arm to gain his attention, then he motioned his head to the side and strode away. Merlin followed, and when Arthur had decided they had sufficient privacy he stopped, and Merlin hesitated behind him.

It was another uneasy truce, and Arthur broke the silence. “Okay, the magic, and the dragonlord thing. I don’t know, just ... just let’s forget about it, for a moment.”

“Forget about it?” He wished it could be that simple.

Arthur pushed ahead. “There’s something ... I don’t know if this is easier, but I have to know.”

Merlin swallowed, cautious. “What, Arthur?”

“Who is Emrys, Merlin?”

It was unexpected. “Emrys?” The few steps past Arthur and away were instinctive, then he stopped, the wall was in front of him, there was nowhere left to go.

“I know about him.” Arthur was behind him, he felt too close. “Is he you?”

No, he couldn’t do this, it was too much.

Merlin’s stomach lurched, his magic had been rebelling against its constraints almost from the time his dragonlord heritage had been announced to the room, and now, with a loud crack, the stone wall in front of him fractured, and slivers of brick and mortar trickled down, sending up a hazy cloud of dust. Through the jagged break in the wall the sun beamed in, bathing him in a soft, gold light.

The shock of the damage he’d caused was enough to pull him out of his self-centred misery. It had been years since he’d lost control of his magic, sickness churned in his gut as he realised what he could have done if he’d been facing the other way, he could have killed them all.

Arthur was right not to have faith in him, and he never had, and he never would.

He whispered, “Weallstilling,” and the stone whirled back into place, the wall repaired itself, and the sun and its warmth faded away. He had to think. He felt on the verge of tears again. Emrys. Arthur. He mustn’t lose sight of the end goal, Arthur had to have faith in Emrys, if he didn’t, then Albion would never be.

Merlin pressed a hand against his forehead, the throbbing behind his eyes was increasing its tempo and moving into the back of his head. In the end there wasn’t a choice, he’d lie because he had to, again and again and again, he’d lie when Arthur had asked for honesty, when he’d demanded it from Arthur himself.

Lies, hidden truths and lack of trust would always come between them now. For Arthur to know the truth would be the end of it all, to tell another lie left the faintest chance.

Liar. Murderer. What else was he? He reached out and touched the now unbroken stone, picking at the traces of mortar with his fingernail.

“The wall ...” Arthur shook his head. “What happened then, Merlin?”

He shut his eyes. “I repaired it.”

Arthur’s voice was a low hum behind him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Merlin shook his head and swallowed, his throat working. Then he said quietly, “I’m not Emrys, Arthur.”

Arthur’s hand on his arm made him turn around, and Merlin hurriedly wiped the torment from his face. Arthur seemed troubled. “You’re not Emrys?”

Merlin knew how to deceive, he shook his head, reinforcing the lie. “No I’m not.”

“Geoffrey told me Emrys is a powerful sorcerer. A warlock.”

Geoffrey? It threw him. “Yes he is.”

“You know that?”

“It’s prophesised. Anyone magical has heard the story.”

“You speak of the prophecy concerning Emrys and the Once and Future King?”

“Yes.”

“You called me that, the Once and Future King.”

Yes. Merlin tried to shake off his sadness, it was like a blanket smothering him.

“What about the old man, Dragoon?”

“What about him?”

“I know he tried to heal my father, Merlin. Gaius told me about the pendant that reversed his healing spell. I know he meant well. Is he Emrys?”

The shock was so great, Merlin almost forgot to breathe. “You know he meant well? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought you knew.” Arthur didn’t understand the significance of his casual revelation. “If Gaius knew ... then I was sure the two of you would have discussed it. You mean, you didn’t?”

Merlin was numb. “No, we did. I just didn’t realise ... I didn’t realise that you thought ... that you didn’t blame him. I thought ... I thought you hated him.”

Arthur made a leap, and misunderstood. He said slowly, “Is he related to you, Merlin?”

He should have realised. “No.”

“Then tell me, Merlin. I need to know. Dragoon, the old man. Is he the Emrys Morgana spoke of?”

Merlin looked at him for a long moment, his fingers curled into fists and his nails dug into the palm of his hand. His mind raced, it could work. He could still see Arthur, as Dragoon. To be with him. To protect him, to start to get him to build a trust in someone with magic, all without their failed friendship coming between them.

He thought feverishly, and tried to weigh up the pros and the cons. It could be a new beginning. And after all, Morgana knew Dragoon as Emrys too. Was it fated to be?

“Merlin.”

Merlin was finding it hard to concentrate, and he needed time to think this through, to work out if more lies were better than the truth. He stalled. “You really want to know who Emrys is?”

“Merlin, do you know? Tell me.”

It wasn’t lies that were a weight around his neck, it was the truth, but they were so tangled together they almost seemed as one. Merlin ignored the little voice that cautioned him and said don’t do this, he had to believe this way out was right.

Merlin looked Arthur straight in the eye and forged ahead. “I know, and I’ll tell you. Emrys has many faces, and Dragoon is one. Yes, Arthur, Dragoon is Emrys. He’s Morgana’s greatest foe.”

It was done.

Chapter Text

Dragoon was Emrys, and Emrys wasn’t him.

The latest lie he’d told Arthur was choking him: he wondered if he’d done the right thing.

Merlin ducked his head and pressed the palm of his hand against his aching forehead; he whispered a basic healing spell, and for a moment he thought it’d worked but then his headache returned with a vengeance that had nausea scrambling to escape his throat.

He swallowed once, then again; the sick sensation subsided to a more manageable level, and he realised Arthur was speaking. Merlin struggled past the strange wooziness blanketing his head; for a moment Arthur’s words were incomprehensible, nothing but a low buzz of sound.

“Did he help you at Ealdor too? Did he heal you?”

With great effort, Merlin focused. He felt sluggish. “Who?”

Arthur gave him an odd look. “Did Emrys heal you, Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head and regretted it straight away when another wave of dizziness surged through him; he dropped his head to hide it, and backed against the wall, flattening the palms of his hands behind him on the cold stone. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “No, he didn’t.”

“Did you heal yourself?”

Merlin blinked, and caught up. Did you heal yourself? This line of questioning was starting to tread on dangerous ground: they were getting too close to Aithusa’s existence. The hole he’d dug himself was getting too deep, soon he wouldn’t be able to get out.

“Merlin?”

He shook his head, more carefully this time. “I don’t want to talk about it, Arthur. Please.” The wound in his side felt like slivers of fire licking his skin, it had been healing but the brief physical clash with Arthur had damaged something again.

There was an awkward silence between them, and then Arthur said slowly, “Okay.”

Merlin shot him a quick glance before his gaze skittered away. He allowed himself to slump against the wall, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Aithusa edge closer. For a moment he forgot to hide what he was doing, he frowned as he glanced at Aithusa properly, worried because the dragon was getting a little too close to Arthur.

Merlin didn’t want Aithusa to be discovered by being accidentally trod on by the king, but at the same time as Aithusa drew closer, he could feel the dragon’s magic reaching out to tangle with his; it helped him breathe and he did, slowly in and out.

Aithusa wedged himself between one of Merlin’s legs and the wall; the dragon’s magic made him feel good, almost like he’d shared a few cupfuls of mead with Gwaine on a warm summer’s day.

“Merlin?”

He glanced up.

“You look a bit ...” Arthur hesitated. “Are you okay?”

He was, at least he thought so, but Merlin was saved from having to provide an answer by a loud knock on the door. Arthur eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment, then he gave a curt nod to Leon, who called out to the guards outside the door.

The door opened and Gaius slowly entered the room, he was clearly weary but his steps were steady, and relief flowed through Merlin because Gaius was the other comforting presence in this ocean of uncertainty he’d found himself floundering in.

Gaius stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes finding Merlin. “Sire, you sent for me?”

Arthur nodded but didn’t elaborate: Gaius was followed by George and half a dozen other servants, all bearing platters of food and drink. They stepped around Gaius and arranged the trays with swift efficiency on the table.

George folded his hands behind his back as he made a quick survey of the room. “Sire, shall I bring in some chairs for your comfort?”

“No, George.” Arthur was firm. “That will be all, thank you.”

George gave a small bow and disappeared with the other servants.

Gaius’s attention switched from Arthur to Merlin and back again. He hesitated, and took in the shards of splintered wood from the smashed chairs that littered the room; for a moment he looked older than his years.

When Gaius spoke, his voice was a little shaky. “Sire, what’s happening?”

It was Gwaine who answered, he was sitting on the edge of the table, one foot planted on the floor and the other swinging idly as he quartered an orange with a knife. “It’s nothing to worry about, Gaius. At least, I don’t think it will be. Merlin was redecorating, and now Arthur’s having a little discussion with him about it.”

Gaius took a wobbly breath and glanced at Arthur’s face, and he said, “Oh. I see.”

Gaius took a half-step further into the room, and suddenly Merlin was a blur of colour and movement that vanished then reappeared in front of him in the space of a heartbeat, confirming Gaius’s suspicions.

Merlin’s eyes were suspiciously damp, and Gaius threw his arms around the younger man, rubbing a hand against his back and holding him close. “Oh my boy,” he said sympathetically.

Merlin’s embrace tightened, a fine tremor ran through his thin frame, and Gaius pressed his hand to the back of Merlin’s head, cupping his skull and weaving his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “It had to happen sometime Merlin, we always knew that.”

There was a movement behind Merlin, and Gwen said softly, “He’s been injured, I’m worried about him.”

Arthur had followed. “He’s not ... Please, can you check him?”

Merlin’s tension increased; Gaius dropped his hold and for a moment Merlin wouldn’t let go, but then he did. Gaius clasped him by the shoulder, he took in the blood staining Merlin’s clothes for the first time, and horrified, he stumbled.

Merlin put an arm out to steady him and tried to forget Arthur was right behind him. “No, I’m okay.”

“It’s all your blood?”

“Yes. But I’m okay. I am.”

Gaius looked at him more closely, Merlin was paler than usual, he had a pinched expression on his face and his eyes had dark smudges underneath them that spoke of complete exhaustion, however the retaking of Camelot had been exhausting for them all, and it might not be much more than that. But still, Gaius was concerned, there was a lot of blood coating Merlin’s clothing and he wondered just how badly Merlin had been injured, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to make light of a wound.

The physician in Gaius took over instinctively: he pulled Merlin’s shirt up to examine the newly healed wound. His forehead creased: he didn’t like what he saw. The wound had blood oozing through the cut in several places; he turned Merlin’s shirt over and was relieved to see there were only faint traces of fresh blood on it; he nodded to himself, it had only just started bleeding again.

The ugly bruise surrounding the cut was purpling; Gaius pressed gentle fingers around the edges of it and Merlin wasn’t able to hide his wince. Gaius saw through him, he gave Merlin a look that spoke volumes, and then he dropped the edge of his shirt back down.

“That needs proper cleaning and dressing to limit the chances of it becoming putrid, and a few stitches would be beneficial in places too. And you need to rest.”

Merlin made a face, but Gaius ignored him and placed the back of his hand over Merlin’s forehead to judge his temperature. “When did you receive the wound?”

For a moment it looked like Merlin wasn’t going to answer. “Two days ago.”

Gaius grunted and continued the examination, looking into his eyes and taking his wrist to count his pulse. “Your temperature feels normal. Has your skin been cold and clammy?”

Merlin shifted from one foot to another and tried not to see Arthur out of the corner of his eye. “Possibly.” Gaius regarded him expectantly, and Merlin elaborated, “But it rained, I got wet, I was cold. I’m fine now.”

Gaius frowned. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He took in the careful way Merlin was holding himself, and the set of his shoulders, and slightly stilted movement of his neck. “You have a headache, don’t you? How bad is it?”

“Well ...” It wasn’t a nice headache as such, but it wasn’t quite as bad as the three-day headache he’d had with the serket sting a few years ago, although it was getting close again now, as Aithusa was on the far side of the room again. “It’s okay.”

Gaius gave him a warning look, and the eyebrow raised threateningly. “Have you been confused, did you have trouble breathing at any time?”

“Um, I don’t remember.”

“Merlin.”

Merlin caved. “I might have, but I don’t think so. I really can’t remember.” It was the truth: he didn’t remember being confused, and his breathing had been mainly okay.

“I see. Did you lose consciousness?”

Merlin hesitated, and answered with slow reluctance, “Yes, but –“

Gaius cut him off. “This is a serious injury, Merlin. The number of symptoms and the severity of their effects allow me to gauge how extensive your blood loss was, and therefore, what subsequent treatment you’ll require. Have you been feeling anxious, or agitated?”

Merlin’s mouth parted incredulously, and he looked at Gaius in open disbelief.

Gwaine cleared his throat meaningfully, Gaius turned in the knight’s direction and gave him a questioning look. Gwaine tossed aside the remnants of the orange and offered helpfully, “The answer to that would be, yes, Gaius. He’s been very agitated. And anxious too. So has the princess, I hope it’s not catching.”

Gaius coughed and pretended not to see Arthur’s frown or the smile Gwen hurriedly suppressed. He turned his attention back to Merlin. “Yes, well. Of course. I’ll make you a tisane and infuse it with nettle leaves, that’ll help. And I still have some dried withania stored that we bought from that trader that came from over the Great Seas of Meredor, you’ll need some of it too. That will be a start, those and certain foods and rest are the most important, you must rest, too.”

Merlin didn’t want to argue, but really ... “There’s no need.”

“There’s every need. You must take this seriously, Merlin. You lost a lot of blood which is very dangerous, even for someone like you. And ...” Gaius cleared his throat and shot a tentative glance in Arthur’s direction. Clearly Arthur knew about the magic, but still ... “And one more thing. Can you ... has it ... well. The most obvious measure of injuries on you is always ...”

Gaius glanced at Arthur again, and clasped his hands in front of him, twining his fingers together a little nervously.

Merlin rescued him. “You want to know if I’m experiencing any trouble with my magic?”

“Well. Yes. Now that you mention it ... yes.”

For a moment Merlin didn’t respond, he’d felt rather than seen Arthur’s start of surprise at the open mention of magic. Merlin’s mouth twisted, and he uttered a short, self-depreciating laugh. His gaze moved to the shards of broken chairs around the room. “Samnede.”

The splintered wood rose from the floor and spun in the air, the chairs gracefully re-assembled themselves and settled quietly in their former places under the table.

He refused to look in Arthur’s direction, and pretended he didn’t hear Gwen’s soft gasp.

Gaius raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a good sign.” Then he had second thoughts. “Although of course, that’s very simple magic for you, you could do it in your sleep. In fact, I seem to remember you did, not too long ago. But I wonder ... did it feel anything out of the ordinary when you did that? Has your magic been ... normal, since you were injured?”

And Merlin remembered, well, his magic hadn’t actually been normal, not as such. Arthur’s gaze was burning a hole into him, and Merlin scratched the back of his neck and said reluctantly, as quietly as he could with Arthur standing uncomfortably close behind him near his left shoulder, “I might have accidentally ... um, you see ... I broke the wall.”

Gaius didn’t follow his lead by lowering his voice. “You broke the wall?” He glanced around the room in alarm. “Where?”

“No, it’s fine, I fixed it.” Merlin very carefully sent a thought out to Aithusa; the interrogation was making his head throb again. Come over here, now.

“You broke a wall and fixed it here, in this room? I don’t see any structural damage. Or was it just perhaps ... crumbling mortar?”

Arthur came fully into Merlin’s line of vision, he’d moved to Merlin’s side now but seemed content not to interrupt Gaius’s grilling. Merlin couldn’t look at him, he felt vaguely ashamed to be having this conversation in front of Arthur.

“Merlin?” Gaius was getting impatient.

Merlin sent the thought out again to Aithusa: Come here, quickly please.

But Aithusa was hesitant, at Merlin’s first command he’d skirted around the edges of the room and was near enough now that Merlin could feel the pulse of the young dragon’s magic somewhere behind him, but it wasn’t close enough, not yet, and Merlin was starting to feel oddly lightheaded again.

Merlin tried to send out a reassuring thought to Aithusa, but the baby was uneasy in the presence of so many people, he’d tolerated Arthur near him but Gwen and Gaius were close to Merlin as well now, and Aithusa didn’t know where to go, his tail was swishing nervously.

“Merlin, are you alright?” Arthur’s voice was oddly gentle and not something usually directed at him; it penetrated the slight haze in Merlin’s mind.

Merlin tore his attention away from the young dragon to Gaius again. “I told you, I fixed it, the wall. It was a little bit of um, I guess, a large break, the sun came through. But it was an accident.”

Gaius regarded the stone walls dubiously, they were thicker than the length of his arm from wrist to elbow. “Merlin, you don’t have accidents.” Then he hesitated. “Do you? Or did you incant?”

Any other time Merlin would have been slightly indignant, but he couldn’t summon up the energy now. “No, and I didn’t say any words, I didn’t even think them, it just happened. But I’m fine, I am, I’m sure it won’t happen again. Please, just leave it.”

“That’s not a good sign, not good at all. I wonder –“

“Gaius, please!”

Gaius broke off his sentence and looked at him intently, then he and sighed, but he was still in physician mode and hadn’t finished yet. “Did you heal yourself? Because if you did, you may find you take longer to recover properly, healing a wound of that magnitude on your own body can put a significant drain on your magic, and so in your case, put your life at risk twice over. It’s a delicate balance. You must rest, Merlin, and I’d strongly advise you to limit your use of magic for a few days at the very least.”

Merlin gave him an exasperated grimace, but before he could make a rejoinder Arthur broke in, sounding unusually tentative. “What do you mean, risk his life twice over?”

Gaius seemed pleased at Arthur’s apparent interest, and Merlin wondered why. Didn’t Gaius realise things were not going well? Couldn’t he sense the tension in the room?

It seemed not. “Sire, Merlin is a magical being. If he puts his body through too much magical strain it has the same consequences as a physical wound would on you. And magical strain, coupled with an injury of this magnitude means his health is still at risk even though he may believe himself to be recovered, so he must –“

Merlin cut in. “Gaius, leave it. I’m fine.”

He willed it to be true, and it almost was: apart from one of the worst headaches he’d ever had in his life and the vicious ache gnawing at his side, those, coupled with complete and utter exhaustion which was in itself not all that unusual, he was perfectly fine.

Mainly.

Or at least he would be fine soon, he’d be fine again for a while once he managed to convince his dragon comfort blanket to move a bit closer, however that wasn’t something he could easily explain.
Gaius finally noticed the strain on Merlin’s face and he subsided reluctantly. “Very well. We’ll talk about it later.”

Gwen took the slight lull as an opportunity to break in. “Can we continue this discussion over a meal? Merlin, surely you’re hungry?”

Merlin had to be missing something, he didn’t understand. Did they really think he’d want to sit there patiently and eat while they dissected his life over the dining table like he was one of Gaius’s frogs, then divvy out the terms of his punishment? Merlin didn’t think the strain could get any greater. The smells of the food made his stomach churn, he couldn’t sit down with them. He just wanted this uncertainly to be over, he couldn’t exist much longer in a state of flux.

Gwaine was eyeing him. “Might as well, since we have our chairs back. Merlin’s pretty useful to have around, don’t you think, Arthur?” The knight pulled out a chair and regarded them expectantly. “You both coming?”

Merlin stared blankly. Was no one taking this seriously except him? This was his life that was falling apart, how could Gwaine be so relaxed about it all, and why was Gwen bothering with something as normal as food? Leon’s tension had disappeared, Elyan had flicked a grape into Percival’s open mouth, even Tristan had been drawn over by the offerings laid out on the table. And Gaius too was at ease now, after his initial shock, Gaius’s focus had been only on Merlin’s injury instead of his discovered magic: it all seemed totally out of place.

Merlin’s head ached. He wasn’t fine, not really, not despite what he’d told himself, but it wasn’t anything to do with magical exhaustion as there’d never been such a thing for him. He had no intention of letting Gaius find out, but the injury he’d sustained was becoming more than he could handle right now. And his life had turned upside down: he’d had enough.

He couldn’t stay here with them much longer without breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, the adrenalin that had kept him going through this confrontation with Arthur was fading, and he needed to get away, to go somewhere where he could hold onto Aithusa and sink down into sleep.

He felt sick and exhausted, he didn’t know where he’d go, or what he’d do, he was sure Arthur wouldn’t order him executed, but he still didn’t know if he’d be banished from the entire kingdom or just Arthur’s sight, he didn’t know what Arthur expected of him, he didn’t know what was meant to happen now that his two separate worlds had collided.

The possibilities raced around and around his head: he couldn’t stop thinking, or worrying. He’d realised Arthur’s earlier anger had faded, but Merlin didn’t know what it had faded to: he couldn’t read Arthur because Arthur was guarding himself now in the very same way he used to do after a confrontation with Uther.

Arthur had never been like that with him before. Merlin didn’t know what Arthur felt for him now, it wasn’t hate but he feared it was at least dislike and loss of trust, or it could be, what for some reason felt the worse of all, nothing but indifference now.

Merlin wanted to be strong, because he was stronger than the sum of his broken dreams, but his vision was beginning to swim, the tears he’d been suppressing now too close to close to the surface and ready to spill over.

But he wouldn’t cry, and no matter what Gaius said he’d still use his magic if he had to, and he almost did right then, to slow down time, so he could recover his composure and take Aithusa.

He’d leave.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t, because something stopped him ... something that was bigger than him.

He listened.

It started as a single whisper coming from a direction Merlin couldn’t pinpoint, and for one sheer moment of absolute blinding terror, he feared he was hearing the Cailleach again. But then he realised that wasn’t what he was hearing, not at all ...

Emrys ...

Arthur’s hand closed around his upper arm, and he murmured something that Merlin didn’t hear.

Emrys ...

It distracted him, Merlin strained to find the source: his eyes flew around the room, but there was no one there. Arthur’s grip tightened, but Merlin hardly noticed, because the whispers came again, then again, and then bare moments later, he was almost deafened when the single voice swelled to a chorus of voices reciting his name ...

Emrys, Emrys, Emrys ...

He stilled and listened. He heard love for him, and hope, and belief.

And he hesitated, and he didn’t leave.

Not yet.

Emrys. Emrys.

He didn’t notice when Gaius did a double-take over his shoulder, because the voices were so pure, and the magical cadence so compelling, that he couldn’t focus on anything else. He twisted around wildly and Arthur was saying something but Merlin didn’t hear, because this was a message for him, and he had to understand.

He concentrated, the pull of magic was irresistible, he swayed unsteadily.

Emrys.

Then all of a sudden the voices disappeared and he felt their loss like a chasm in his soul, he stumbled over his own feet and into Arthur’s shoulder.

Aithusa brushed against his boots, and Merlin would have fallen if Arthur hadn’t held him up, and slowly, his senses cleared.

He heard Gaius again. “Merlin, I didn’t realise you’d bought the dragon with you, I didn’t notice him when I first came in. He’s amazing, isn’t he? Is he really pure white? And he’s bigger than I thought he’d be.”

Gaius’s words were a wake up call, a slap to the face, and Merlin’s comprehension was instant.

He stared from Gaius to Aithusa in horrified dismay. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

Chapter Text

No, oh no.

Aithusa was visible to Gaius: it wouldn’t be long until everyone saw him, there was no point trying to hide him now.

“Merlin, what is it?”

Merlin didn’t hear Arthur’s question. He berated himself: how could he have been so careless? Why had he thought it’d be a good idea for Gaius to be able to see Aithusa, and then forgotten all about it? And to top it off, he’d been stupid enough to call Gaius by his name, no wonder Aithusa had decided to appear to Gaius, it’d been an open invitation.

No, no, no.

Arthur asked urgently again, tense, “Merlin, what is it?”

Merlin couldn’t answer: he couldn’t speak.

But Arthur understood enough to be somewhere near the right track. “You’d better not tell me the Great Dragon is in the room with us.” The king glanced around the room like he didn’t quite believe the words coming out of his own mouth, and the knights and Gwen’s earlier relaxed air was fast fading.

Gaius was now looking as horrified as Merlin felt. He put out a hand to his shaking ward. “Merlin, do you mean I can see him, and they can’t?”

Merlin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Arthur was still holding onto him, his grip tight.

“Gaius.” Arthur’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. “Tell me. Is there a dragon in the room with us?”

Gaius shifted uneasily, his eyes darting involuntarily in Aithusa’s direction.

“That’s not a request, Gaius.”

Gaius looked at the panicking warlock, apologetic. “Merlin, I’m sorry. They can’t see him?”

Merlin managed a weak shake of his head.

Arthur shook him, but he wasn’t rough. “Merlin, you mean to tell me the Great Dragon is in the room with us? The very same dragon that attacked Camelot?”

Merlin finally found his voice. “No, of course not.”

“Merlin!”

Arthur had no idea, Kilgharrah wouldn’t even fit in the room.

Cornered, Merlin admitted shakily, “No. Not that one.”

Silence.

Arthur said slowly, “Another dragon?”

Merlin nodded.

Arthur was very calm. “Where?”

Merlin blinked through his shock at Arthur, his mind seemed completely scrambled. Aithusa had retreated to his favourite corner of the room again, he was whimpering quietly to himself, knowing he’d done something wrong. His dragonlord’s non-response to his distress had not been reassuring, and the small dragon had withdrawn well away from the swarm of people.

Aithusa nudged at the dead beetle lying on the ground; even from right across the room Merlin could see the glow of magic as it shimmered from black to green as Aithusa poured his worry into it.

Aithusa whimpered again, and this time Merlin heard his distress. He tried to make his way over to the window to Aithusa, but Arthur wasn’t letting go of Merlin’s arm: Merlin pulled, Arthur gave him a pointed stare, and in the end they stumbled across to the room together.

Aithusa was quick to clamber onto one of Merlin’s boots, and Merlin sent out a reassuring burst of thought to the dragon. Aithusa responded in kind, the connection between them calming him almost instantly.

“Merlin?” Arthur was getting impatient.

Merlin answered quietly, “He’s here.”

Arthur noticed the beetle. He stopped and stared, his forehead creasing. “He’s in disguise? He’s ... he’s a beetle?”

Merlin’s mouth parted in blank astonishment, then his brain caught up. “No!”

“Merlin!”

Merlin tried to shake himself free, but Arthur gave him an exasperated glare and switched his grip, his fingers curling vice-like around Merlin’s lower arm, just above his wrist.

Merlin stopped struggling. He said softly, “Please. He’s only a baby.”

“You’re procrastinating. Show him to me.”

Merlin was eerily calm, the game was up, so he’d let them see. “Please let me go, Arthur.” He waited, and when Arthur released his hold, Merlin bent down. Aithusa jumped into his arms, Merlin straightened and ran his fingers over the dragon’s spine, and Aithusa arched into his touch. “Aithusa, unhele.”

The golden glow around the dragon shimmered and vanished, and Arthur drew in a sharp breath as Aithusa appeared.

Across the room, Gwaine’s reaction was more colourful and Merlin winced: the thought crossed his mind that Aithusa had better not learn that combination of inappropriate words in the human tongue. But the thought was fleeting and Merlin’s attention was quick to return to Arthur: his reaction was the one he really cared about.

Arthur’s initial stunned astonishment had grown into something else, now he was eyeing the dragon with a curious but guarded expression, and Aithusa was returning his interest guilelessly.

The dragon was draped over the length of Merlin’s lower arm and tucked against Merlin’s body; Aithusa’s paws were dangling, his wings were folded in close, and his tail was circled around Merlin’s arm at his elbow. It was one of his favourite ways of being held, particularly since Merlin had made it clear months ago he wasn’t too keen on Aithusa’s claws digging into his skin or shredding his clothes, which had often happened when the dragon tried to hold on in other ways.

Arthur put his hand out as if to touch Aithusa, then he hesitated and drew it back. He shook his head slightly. “Merlin, when were you going to tell me about this?”

There was no accusation in Arthur’s voice, but shame curled like a fist in Merlin’s gut. “I don’t know. I couldn’t risk it.”

“You couldn’t risk it.”

Merlin worried his lip and shifted Aithusa’s weight on his arm; the dragon was pressed against the cut in his side, the magic emitting from him easing Merlin’s pain again, even the exhaustion and the queasiness was easier to manage with the dragon so close. He paused, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it then tried again, stopped, then finally admitted in a low voice, “I hatched him from the egg that Borden was after, from Ashkanar’s tomb.”

Arthur took in the confession; other than a brief tightening of his mouth, his expression gave nothing away. Then he put his hands on his hips and tipped his head down, his face hidden from view, seemingly studying the tips of his boots with great concentration. When he met Merlin’s eyes again, he was weary. “I see. So this is one of those things you said you can’t be honest about.”

And all of a sudden Merlin understood, it was like light after darkness: and it shocked him, what he saw. He’d never understood he’d have this power, the power to hurt Arthur; and he saw what he hadn’t seen before, that maybe, possibly, despite everything, Arthur still cared.

It was a revelation, and he wanted time to consider it and to think about what it could mean, but time was a luxury he didn’t have right now.

Instead he tried to explain, and to justify himself. “I’m a dragonlord, Arthur. It’s my duty to care for him, and to protect him from harm.” He stroked the tip of one of Aithusa’s wings with his free hand, and the dragon stuck out a claw and grabbed hold of his thumb.

“And that harm is me?”

His mind was still playing catch-up, this truth seemed impossible. “I’m sorry. But yes, the egg, you were going to ... you said ...” Merlin tugged his thumb out of Aithusa’s grasp and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

Arthur was inscrutable again. “Can I have a closer look at him?”

Merlin hesitated but only for a split second; he knew Arthur wouldn’t harm Aithusa, not now, he had too much honour to do it under false pretences. He nodded.

Aithusa regarded Arthur solemnly. He hadn’t tried to speak: he was content to quietly observe. He was relaxed now too, his dragonlord was holding him and Merlin’s tension had also eased, which in turn reassured him further. Merlin communicated with Aithusa in mind speech. He won’t harm you, Aithusa. Will you go to him?

Aithusa wriggled at that and tightened his tail around Merlin’s elbow, making it clear that no, he wasn’t going to tolerate going anywhere now that he’d finally gotten his own way about getting held by his dragonlord.

However he was confident enough to be regal about it all, he raised his head and gave Arthur a look that Merlin saw was both a little condescending and slightly impatient, although Merlin was sure Arthur wouldn’t notice such a subtlety. Merlin nodded at Arthur, and the king moved closer and stretched out a careful hand.

Arthur was fascinated: it was all there in his gentle touches to Aithusa’s head, and his stroking of the dragon’s smooth yet hardy scales, in his careful exploration of the deceptively delicate tips of his wings, and his thorough examination of the small, sharp claws on Aithusa’s feet: even the tail that had wrapped itself around Merlin’s elbow didn’t escape Arthur’s notice.

Then Arthur sighed, but his hand stayed on Aithusa’s back, stroking slowly until he seemed to notice what he was doing, and he pulled away, shooting a quick, self-conscious glance in the direction of the others in the room.

Apparently no one was paying attention, or at least, when Merlin looked too, everyone seemed to be concentrating on the contents of the platters on the table.

The petting over, Aithusa’s interest switched to the others in the room. He eyed them curiously, his head tipped to one side as he observed them. Then he became absolutely motionless when he realised exactly what was on the table: food.

He wriggled, unwrapping his tail from Merlin’s elbow, suddenly deciding with the inconsistency of the very young that he was perfectly fine and had had enough of being held. He reached out in mind speech to his dragonlord. “Emrys, things in mouth, table?”

Merlin sighed, knowing if he answered this question wrongly, another battle, this time with Aithusa, would start, and he still hadn’t finished things with Arthur. He was tired: he needed to be able to concentrate on Arthur without a clash with Aithusa distracting him. He make a quick decision and hoped it wouldn’t go pear-shaped, and answered Aithusa in verbal speech in the human tongue, so the others could understand, “Gwen, Gaius, Gwaine, one of you?”

All three looked up along with everyone else at the table.

“Does one of you want to meet Aithusa? He wants to see what’s happening over there.”

But before they could respond, Percival put down his tankard so quickly that it clattered over and spilled ale over the table. “No way, Merlin, you can’t let Gwaine get hold of a baby dragon. I’ll take him for you, can I?”

“Hey!”

Gwaine’s protest was the start of an avalanche, and it seemed an instant later that Merlin was swamped with interest as they all crowded around him. Percival was the first one to reach him; Leon raised himself on tip-toe to peer over Elyan’s shoulder after politely making sure Gwen was in the front row, and Gwaine elbowed Arthur out of the way as he crowded around.

Only Tristan and Gaius didn’t join the fray, staying in their seats around the table, Gaius with that inscrutable look on his face that meant he was amused and covering it.

After making sure Aithusa really was okay with the change of hold from his dragonlord to the arms of a large, muscley knight, Merlin gave Aithusa a hurried instruction in the dragon tongue about being gentle and no scratching because humans don’t like it when their skin bleeds, no eating yet because there are some foods that you just can’t have (honey for one he’d discovered had the same affect on the dragon as too much sugar did on a toddler), no using magic because you might scare them (colour-changing anything was his latest favourite trick and apparently Kilgharrah had been very annoyed when he’d woken up one day with a bright red claw), no flying up to the rafters because there are too many sticky cobwebs (and hence spiders: Aithusa was also experimenting with re-sizing things).

He’d almost finished issuing his orders in the tone that said obey-me-or-else when he realised he was speaking the dragon tongue out loud in front of his friends. He flushed and glanced at them and at Arthur, but no one seemed to mind, so he ignored Gwaine’s objections and dumped Aithusa unceremoniously in Percival’s arms. “He might want a drink, he can have water but nothing else. And if you really want to win him over, scratch him here,” and he gestured to the bony protuberances on Aithusa’s back.

Percival nodded very seriously before hurrying away speedily like he was afraid Merlin would change his mind. Gwen stopped and smiled at him and at Arthur, then she followed the pack of knights back to the table; by now they were bumping shoulders in their efforts to get a closer look at the small creature that Percival was jealously guarding.

Merlin was a bit nonplussed; he’d never imagined such a situation as this, everything seemed to be happening in the opposite way to what he’d been expecting. He watched them all with the dragon for a moment: Aithusa had wriggled out of Percival’s arms and was perched on the far end of the table, fortunately away from the food.

He seemed to be holding his own well enough, and wasn’t showing any signs of agitation or distress.

Arthur was watching them too. “I guess that’s that’s their first experience of a magical creature that’s not wanting to kill them.”

Merlin nodded. “Um. Yeah. I suppose.”

Gwen was regarding the dragon with the look she reserved for babies and cuddly animals; so was Percival, which was unsurprising. Leon was wary but fascinated, Elyan was just plain fascinated, and Gwaine was ... Merlin decided Percival had a point, Gwaine and a baby dragon would be an unwise combination, Merlin could almost see Gwaine counting the possibilities for mischief unfolding in front of him. Even Tristan had lost his aloofness and had shifted his chair to better observe this situation.

They stood in silence for a while longer, then Arthur sighed. “Look, Merlin. I can’t pretend to know what I think about all this, it’s still too new. I won’t lie to you about it, but I need to know you won’t lie to me, either. The thing is, I want to try. I want to work through this. But what do you want?”

Merlin swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. It was the hardest and easiest question he’d ever had to answer. To leave Camelot as he’d thought he’d have to was to give up, but to stay and put his trust in Arthur when he’d never trusted him with the truth and never been honest with anyone at all about all his secrets, was to put his heart on the line.

And his heart was a fragile creature, it would be too easy for Arthur to break it irreparably if he found he could not accept Merlin for who he truly was.

It was a risk, and he had to either run away, or jump. Merlin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and dragged a mouthful of air into his lungs, concentrating on a breath in, then out.

“It’s simple, Merlin, when it comes down to it. You either want to try and get past this, or you don’t. Your honesty, that’s all I’m asking. Yes, or no?”

He wanted to say yes. He’d never considered himself a coward, but brave acts and deeds, and risking his life for Arthur were not the same as laying bare his heart. “Arthur, I just ...”

Aithusa reached out to him in mind speech; he’d spied raspberries on the table.

Merlin answered in kind, A dragon does not look dignified covered in berry stains. No, wait. I’ll get you something later.

Aithusa snorted his discontent and huffed out a small burst of fire; Gwen jumped in alarm, but Percival and Elyan exchanged impressed glances. Gwaine whistled his appreciation, he shot a sly look Merlin’s way, then he stuck a piece of meat on the end of a fork, waving it under Aithusa’s nose. “Again?”

Arthur waited for Merlin’s distraction to settle. “Merlin?”

He knew he wanted this with everything he had, just one more chance to make things right. But the lies he’d spun propped up more lies. He didn’t know what would happen when all his skewered truths tumbled down like a house of cards, he didn’t know if Arthur would like what he saw in the end.

His voice was hoarse. “I want to, Arthur, but I can’t be honest with you about everything. I’ve told you that. There are just some things I can’t talk about, not now, and I don’t know if I ever can. I’m sorry, I want to, but ... please, don’t expect too much of me yet.” For a moment he felt like he was being strangled and he wondered if the panic showed on his face.

Arthur shook his head, not a no, but because he didn’t understand. To him it was simple. “Why?”

Now Gwaine was waving around a smoking chunk of meat on the end of his fork, even Gaius and Tristan were smiling at the dragon’s antics.

Merlin was horrified to find he was on the verge of tears, his earlier tension was returning and he felt close to the end of his tether having to revisit shaky ground. “There are things that I’ve done. Things you deserve to know. Things I can’t talk to you about, that I won’t talk to you about, not yet and maybe not ever. Most of the things I have to do, I don’t talk about it with anyone, not even Gaius. I do it all alone, I’ve always been alone with this.”

Emrys. Berries. Aithusa tried again in mind speech. He flapped his wings.

“Then we’ll do as Gwen suggested.”

Merlin couldn’t remember. “What was that?”

Now Leon of all people was taking a turn at getting Aithusa to set alight something on the end of his fork, they all laughed uproariously when Gwaine managed to edge quite literally into the dragon’s line of fire and had to bat frantically at the thin puff of smoke spiralling off the end of his sleeve. Merlin scowled.

Arthur prodded. “Start with something simple, things you can tell me about. Show me something you like doing with your magic, something fun.”

Merlin called aloud across the room in the dragon tongue to Aithusa. Stop that, you’ll hurt them. No more fire.

He tried to concentrate on Arthur, he knew he should be thrilled that Arthur had asked him to show him some magic, let alone magic for fun, but he didn’t have it in him to feel thrilled about anything right now. And something fun? He didn’t use magic for fun, there was always a purpose. The last time he’d used it for fun, Gaius had been imprisoned by the witchfinder. That lesson had been learnt.

Arthur gave him a quizzical glance. “What did you say to the dragon? Can he understand you?”

“Not to fry them.” He answered half-absently, too exhausted and too busy watching Aithusa to censor himself, and he almost missed Arthur’s start of surprise. But he didn’t try to backtrack. “He might be a baby, but he’s still a dragon, and they’re going to find that out soon enough if they keep doing that.”

“Can he understand you? And do what you say? I mean, he’s so young.”

Merlin scuffed his boots on the floor and said quietly, “He’s a magical creature, Arthur. He’s not like a dog, or a horse. He understands everything I tell him in the dragon tongue. He’s like a human child, sometimes like the mindset of a two year old, sometimes more a ten year old, he doesn’t always do as he’s told but he’s not a vicious monster.”

Aithusa ignored another offering on a fork, he’d lost interest in that game since he’d been told not to use fire, and he was back to eying up the platter that was full of raspberries. He edged closer to temptation; Percival noticed his interest and picked up a berry and offered it to him, but the dragon had been given a directive in the dragon tongue which was difficult for him to blatantly disregard so soon.

Aithusa’s attention switched from the table to Merlin again, he flapped his wings in warning, but when no response was forthcoming from his dragonlord he switched to verbal speech.

His voice was piercingly loud, a demand. “Emrys. Berries. Now.”

Oddly, the first thing that registered in Merlin’s mind was exasperation: Aithusa was definitely more of a handful than Kilgharrah had let on. But then he saw Arthur’s shocked stare, and for a split second his reaction was a comfortable yes, Aithusa can speak, but then he realised, oh no: Emrys.

He’d been outed. He froze.

Just in case anyone had missed it, Aithusa repeated impatiently, still loud. “Emrys!”

There was silence. They were all staring at him again, and only Gaius seemed taken aback at their surprise.

“What?” Arthur stepped in his line of sight. “You said you weren’t Emrys, Merlin.”

Nothing about a talking dragon? Merlin avoided his eyes and stumbled backwards. “I just ...” No, not this, not now, not the Emrys thing too on top of everything else. Arthur couldn’t know, it was a mantra in his mind. Merlin had decided that, it was how it had to be, even though it was hard to remember why he felt so anxious about it, it felt jumbled up in his head.

Secrets were his natural forte, hiding was what he did, no one ever saw the entirety of him. He gave snippets of himself to Gaius, to the druids, to Kilgharrah, to Morgana, and to countless others but no one saw the full picture, giving this secret up to Arthur would his last stand.

Emrys didn’t have to be about Dragoon and Uther any more, it may not even be about the bond that had to be forged between Emrys and Arthur. But all the lies and the manipulation, it would all come out. His mind raced frantically. And Morgana, he was sure Morgana had seen Dragoon as Emrys in her dreams, and not him. It would explain her irrational terror of him in that form, and also why she’d never discovered his magic. It was his destiny to face her in that form, he couldn’t change his fate, the crystal cave had been a lesson in tampering with destiny.

No, no, no. He just didn’t know what he was meant to do, should he deny and mislead, again and again? Did it matter? Or was this where he was supposed to end up? All he could hold onto was one constant thing: he was always alone, he was meant to do it all alone, it was how it had always been.

Arthur advanced. “Merlin ...”

Merlin shook his head, almost frantic. “No, please. I can’t do this.” He couldn’t, it had been too much, he couldn’t go through another battle and an explanation for more lies all over again, not right now, he didn’t have it in him.

Arthur wasn’t giving any quarter. “Merlin, stop. You said Dragoon was Emrys. Is he, or is Emrys you?”

Aithusa had gone silent and watchful on the table; he’d finally decided to ignore the berries. He didn’t understand the sudden tension. “Emrys?”

The hard stone pillar against his back was the only thing holding him up. He shut his eyes, but the tears still leaked out, he was ashamed to feel them trickling down his face. He sank to the ground, and hid his face in his hands.

A hand closed over Merlin’s shoulder, and someone said in his ear, “Come on, Merlin. Breathe. Just breathe.”

He was almost beyond rational thought, and he shook the hand off. Outside, thunder boomed in the cloudless sky.

But the hand came back. “You’re okay, Merlin. It doesn’t matter right now. Just breathe, come on.”

His laugh sounded more like a hiccupping sob. He made himself say it. “Dragoon, Emrys, it’s all me. I lie and manipulate, it’s me, it was an aging spell, they’re both me.”

There was another murmur in his ear, and then there were more footsteps, he heard Gaius’s worried tone and he knew they were all there crowding around him, but it didn’t help, it made him feel hemmed in, and trapped. He clutched himself tighter, his magic was bubbling ominously, and he tried to pull himself together, but before he could try and sort through the chaos in his mind an armful of worried, frightened dragon crashed into him.

His head jerked up. Aithusa circled him like he was guarding him, he growled warningly, a sound Merlin had never heard him make before. They all backed off, all except for Arthur. But the angry hissing from the dragon was enough for Merlin to register that he had to control this situation straight away, before Aithusa acted further and caused any of them harm.

He yanked Aithusa onto his lap, the dragon letting out a snort of surprise as he was scooped up. He shoved him under his jacket, tucking him out of sight and harm’s way. He ignored everyone else and curled over Aithusa, ducking his head and murmuring quiet reassurances to him in the dragon tongue, words that grew into a rambling explanation about humans and their strange behaviours, all silly nonsense but it didn’t matter because it calmed Aithusa, and anyway, no one else could understand.

His voice was hoarse when he finally ran out of words, the room was silent, and it was then he realised the pillar he was jammed up against wasn’t a pillar or the wall at all, instead it was Arthur sitting behind him on the floor, his arms circling his shoulders and holding him tight.

Merlin breathed slowly, very slowly. He glanced up just once to see all the others were sitting around the table, all very obviously not looking their way at all.

Arthur’s chest was warm against his back.

There was a damp spot on the base of Merlin’s neck, near the collar of his jacket. He thought about it for a long time before he moved his fingers to fumble over that odd wetness, to see if it was his imagination or if it was really there.

Slowly, he rubbed back and forth at the damp patch of skin.

Had Arthur shed tears while he’d been holding him? Or maybe he’d been drooling, although either possibility seemed completely unlikely.

Merlin dropped his hand and tucked it back under his jacket, curving it over Aithusa’s back.

He shut his eyes again. And he stayed very still, for a very long time.

Eventually, Arthur moved, but it was only a little bit, just enough for Merlin’s head to fall to the side, and he left it there, his ear pressed against Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s heart was beating steadily, and Merlin lost himself in its rhythm.

Another endless amount of time had passed when Arthur finally spoke, and he was quiet, almost as if he was afraid to break the silence. “There’ll be times … when we’ll fight about it for days.” Merlin felt a fleeting touch as Arthur’s hand carded just once through his hair. “And there’ll be times when I shout at you, and you’ll shout right back.”

A tiny quirk lifted the corner of Merlin’s mouth.

Arthur’s voice rumbled against his ear. “You’ll question my decisions and call me a clotpole, but I won’t care, because I know you’re the real idiot.”

Merlin cleared his throat once, then he had to do it again before he could speak. “I’m the idiot, huh? Thanks.” His voice was husky.

He heard Arthur’s smile and felt a puff of warm breath ghost across his ear. “Someone has to be, to balance us out, and it’s not me.”

The familiar banter came easily enough in his head. He took a deep breath and found their natural footing out loud. “You know, I think … you do realise you’re hugging me, right?”

“No I’m not.” Arthur scoffed. “You looked sick, like you were going to faint. I’m just holding you up.”

“Huh. You sure? Because it feels like a hug. Didn’t think you liked them.”

“Fine, fine, alright, it might be a hug.” A shrug, and Arthur’s chest moved under his head. “It’s thanks to Gwen I’m hugging you, she likes it, you know. So I don’t mind hugging her, and I guess that means I can hug you too.”

Merlin pulled back a little, deliberately dubious, and regarded him doubtfully. “Uh … Arthur? I hope you understand … I’m absolutely not Gwen.”

“Oh very amusing, your wit knows no boundaries.” Arthur flicked his ear. “Not like that, you idiot. Like a friend. And this hugging business is not going to happen very often, this is enough so there’ll be no more for the next ten years, at least.”

Like a friend.

“Friends.” Merlin swallowed and rubbed his ear. “Is that what we are?”

“I don’t know what else to call you. Except if you are, then you’re a friend who smells. Honestly Merlin, why is it the only times I’ve ever hugged you, you smell completely and utterly rank? You really stink. It’s vile. Is it something you plan?”

Except for the planning bit, Merlin supposed that was partly true, at least in this instance: stale sweat, blood and mud combined, probably didn’t make the sweetest scent.

And he didn’t remember the other hug, he’d been enchanted then, but Gwaine had told him the story often enough, although his recounts of the occasion had depended on how much he wanted to annoy Arthur, and usually varied from he picked you up and spun you around, or I could have sworn he cried like a princess all over you, to I’m pretty sure he landed a big one on your cheek, so Merlin was never exactly sure what had happened. “I did volunteer to go and get cleaned up when I first got back here, remember?”

“Yeah, I suppose you did.”

They were silent for a moment, and Aithusa poked his head out of the top of Merlin’s jacket, he eyed Arthur unblinkingly, then he wriggled back under and slithered out at the bottom, tail first.

“Berries, Emrys,” he announced, and those at the table swiveled their heads in unison to watch as the small creature made his way over to them in single minded pursuit of his goal.

Merlin sighed, vaguely hoping Gwaine wouldn’t encourage him again with the fire trick, and feeling a sudden and deep sense of sympathy for his mother and Gaius.

Arthur bumped his shoulder. “You know Merlin, I rest my case. You really are a complete idiot: you bought a dragon into Camelot.”

Well ... there might be a small element of truth in that statement, however ... “He was invisible, no one would have seen him. And he’s only a baby. It’s not like he can do much harm anyway.”

“But still ... what on earth were you thinking?”

What had he been thinking? In all honesty, and he supposed this was something he could be honest about, even if the truth was just a little bit ...

He sighed and admitted, “Kilgharrah said it was my turn.” Then thought about it and frowned, realising he sounded more like petulant child instead of a dragonlord, but quite unable to do anything about it.

“Your turn? For what?”

“Well, you know,” Merlin waved a vague hand in Aithusa’s direction. “Dragonlordy things, I suppose.”

Arthur gave him a disbelieving glance and then, for some reason, was suddenly very cheerful. Too cheerful.

Merlin’s eyes narrowed as Arthur’s look turned smug.

“Babysit. That’s what you’re doing, Merlin. You mean babysit.”

Merlin glared, slightly put out. But then he was thoughtful. “Yes, well ... I guess so.”

Arthur pushed him aside and climbed to his feet, stretching and rubbing the small of his back. He offered a hand to Merlin, and pulled him upright.

“Merlin, I don’t know about this destiny thing, that rubbish about Emrys and Once and Future King.”

Merlin raised a questioning eyebrow, and Arthur continued to grumble obligingly, “It can’t be right, because I know you were put on this earth solely to drive me insane. Now come over and get some food, okay?” Then Arthur smiled, quick and fleeting.

“Okay,” said Merlin. “Yeah, alright.”

And he smiled right back.

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THE END
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