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Chapter Text

This was madness. Complete and utter madness.

The Great Dragon roared and spewed a scream of fire at the group of knights that were still standing. They went down like puppets with their strings cut.

“No,” Merlin cried. “Stop!”

Arthur picked up a spear from a fallen knight and raised it with stubborn, desperate defiance. He stood his ground as the dragon loomed over him, but even from a distance, Merlin could tell that he was shaking. Kilgharrah stared at Arthur for several long seconds; long enough that Merlin almost hoped he would simply let Arthur go. And then there was fire again.

“Arthur!” Merlin screamed, shielding his eyes against the flames. His heart was hammering hard in his throat, panic turning his insides to ice. “Arthur!”

Spots danced in front of his eyes when the blinding fire finally ceased, and he struggled to make out the scene before him: Arthur standing beneath Kilgharrah, whose mouth hung open in agonised shock. And Arthur’s spear, buried deep in the right side of the dragon’s chest.

A deafening roar shook the clearing as Kilgharrah reared back, pulling the spear out of Arthur’s grip as he went. He swayed for one precarious moment before collapsing with an anguished cry. Dark blood streamed over broken scales, barely slowed by the blade still lodged between them, his breath heavy and laboured as he turned his head to catch Merlin’s eyes.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah wheezed.

Arthur, who had jumped away from the collapsing dragon, jerked back, jaw dropping in an expression of pure shock.

Merlin felt Arthur’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t look away from Kilgharrah. The Great Dragon, a creature of the old magic, older than the last age and the last of his kind, was dying. Despite the anger burning under Merlin’s skin at the destruction and death Camelot had suffered, a surge of sorrow and grief spurred him into motion. Urged him to approach until he could feel the heat of Kilgharrah’s breath as they held each other’s gaze.

“Whatever wrongs I have done, young warlock,” Kilgharrah spoke into his mind, “do not let the ancient power of my breed die with me.”

“How? Tell me how to save you.”

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was laced with fear.

“I recognise it now, the call of your legacy, of our bond as kin. You are the last dragonlord,” said Kilgharrah. “Your destiny still awaits, and your well is deeper yet.”

Merlin's nails dug into the palms of his tightly fisted hands as he swallowed an angry groan.

“Is now really the time for one of your riddles? Please, before it’s too late!”

“Merlin, get away from it!”

“It is already too late for me, young warlock.”

“No!” cried Merlin. “Just tell me what I have to do!”

Kilgharrah’s eyes glowed faintly as he lifted his head until they were level with Merlin’s, and he replied out loud, “What you must do, Merlin, is live.”

A brilliant flash of gold lit up the clearing, and Kilgharrah's blazing breath washed over Merlin, encasing him in a gilded cloud of radiant magic. The earth shook beneath his feet, and Merlin would’ve fallen if not for the power that thrummed through the air around him, holding him upright as the blinding mist thickened and pressed against him from all sides, seeping into him, seeping into his blood, his bones, his soul.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was over.

Merlin fell on his hands and knees, gasping for breath as the world spun around him. He heard Arthur shout his name from leagues away, echoes ringing dull and muffled in Merlin’s ears. A hand descended on his shoulder, and Merlin reached for it without thinking, relieved when his desperate hold was reciprocated with equal strength.

Slowly, his vision cleared to reveal dull golden eyes looking back at him.

“Kilgharrah,” he croaked, reaching out with his free hand.

“Remember me, young warlock.” The words were no more than a sigh, a long final exhale as Kilgharrah’s eyes fell shut, and the faint glimmer faded from his scales.

The Great Dragon was dead.

A beat of silence went by. It was just long enough for Merlin to register Arthur at his side, to ease the vice grip of his hand, before blinding pain erupted down the length of his spine. He jolted forward with a scream and would’ve fallen straight on his face if not for Arthur catching him. Within seconds, the pain spread across his back like fire over dry fields, drawing another scream from him.

“Merlin! Merlin, what’s wrong, what’s happening?!”

He couldn’t answer, too preoccupied with frantically clawing at his back, at his sides where the agony was now spreading to. Panic rose in his chest, closing up his throat and tightening his lungs until he could barely breathe. What the hell was this?

“Arthur,” he gasped as tears pricked at his eyes. Help me, he didn’t manage.

With a loud ripping noise, his tunic was torn away, allowing him to dig too-short nails directly into his skin.

Except it wasn’t skin that he felt beneath his fingertips.

For a moment, the confusion almost slowed the panic, only for it to rush back in three-fold when Arthur recoiled from him with a gasp. He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because the fire had crawled over his shoulders to travel down his arms.

No. Not fire, he realised with terror. Scales. Black, shimmering scales tearing through flesh to lay on top of his bloodied skin. Searing hot, hardened scales — like those of a dragon.

Before he could truly grasp the implications of this realisation, scorching heat flared inside his chest. This time, with no Arthur to catch him, he did fall. His vision was blurred by tears as he writhed on the ground clutching his chest, and screamed in agony. Agony that wouldn’t stop or lessen for what felt like an eternity, burning him to ash from the inside out moment by torturous moment, until darkness finally took him.

From the day he was born, Arthur had been raised to lead. And although there had been many instances in his life when he had struggled to know what to do, he had never felt as helpless as he did now staring at Merlin’s unconscious form on the ground. Because it was Merlin, even if he barely resembled himself anymore.

He resembled a dragon. A small and somewhat humanoid one, thank heavens, but a dragon nonetheless; with a long, scaled tail and leathery wings that had sprouted from his back, and two smooth, curved horns rising through the remnants of his dark hair. Dark scales covered most of his body, leaving only patches of pale skin visible.

Arthur’s thoughts kept racing in desperate circles. Did the beast curse Merlin with its dying breath? There had certainly been enough magic pouring out of its mouth, right onto Merlin who, for some reason, decided to stand right in front of it like an idiot. Why the hell had he done that? Right, because the dragon had called his name. Not only could dragons speak, apparently, but somehow this dragon knew Merlin.

There were only so many logical conclusions that could be drawn from that, and Arthur’s heart tore at the mere thought of it. Did Merlin betray him? Had he been in league with this monster the whole time? He had been so adamant to stay with Arthur, had it all been an act while in truth he had hoped Arthur would die in the battle? Had the beast cursed Merlin so he could do what it had failed at and kill him? Kill his father?

But that was not going to happen, because the curse had rendered Merlin defenceless, and Arthur’s father would not hesitate to execute a dragon no matter whether it had once been — and still partially was — human. He would execute Merlin, and no amount of pleading from Arthur or Gaius would have any chance to sway him this time. Not after the destruction Camelot had suffered.

A pained groan snapped Arthur out of his reeling, and he instinctively took a step towards Merlin before catching himself. His stomach churned with guilt when Merlin’s face came in sight as he stirred; pale skin smattered with dark scales, streaked with blood and dirt. Merlin had called out to him, desperate and in pain, and Arthur had let him fall, had done nothing but watch in horror while Merlin suffered.

Merlin, who might have betrayed him. Who was his closest friend. Who might want him dead. Who he loved so much it ached. Who—

Another groan came, but it wasn’t Merlin who made the sound this time.

Arthur’s heart dropped. The knights were waking up. If even one of them saw Merlin in this state, they’d report it to Arthur’s father immediately — if they didn’t decide to kill Merlin right here and now.

Arthur was moving before he even had a chance to actively think about what to do. In three strides he was at Merlin’s side and hauled him up, letting out a surprised grunt. He was heavier than Arthur knew him to be, more so than the wings and tail could possibly weigh on their own. The wings were an issue for a few frantic seconds before Arthur managed to push them out of the way well enough to hoist Merlin over his shoulder.

There was a rustle of chainmail from the far side of the clearing where the knights were stirring, so Arthur took off in the other direction as fast as he could under Merlin’s weight. He didn’t stop when he reached the trees, only slowed down in an attempt to move more quietly, praying that none of the knights had recovered soon enough to have seen them.

His heart was hammering fast and loud in his chest as he stumbled through the darkness, straining his ears to hear whether someone was coming after them. He was listening so intently, he nearly tripped when the knights actually began to shout after discovering his absence. Though they sounded further away than he had thought, Arthur quickened his pace again as much as the uneven ground would allow with so little light.

The knights must have assumed that Arthur had returned to Camelot, because it took no more than a few minutes for them to stop their yelling, and Arthur heard nothing to suggest that they were searching the forest for him. He kept walking anyway.

Eventually, though, his strength began to wane. Merlin was heavy, and the forest wasn’t always easy to traverse. He had to find a place to rest.

It took at least another hour before he found a rocky overhang that stretched over the bank of a small stream. Climbing down while carrying Merlin was difficult, but he miraculously made it without splitting either of their skulls. At last, he lifted Merlin from his back to lay him carefully on the ground, and let out a great sigh at the weight coming off him.

Merlin stirred, as he had done a few times while Arthur carried him, but didn’t wake. He looked peaceful in his sleep, the last traces of his agony faded during their trek through the forest. Even with dragon scales and blood on his face, he was beautiful. There was something ethereal about his features, like he was more than human. Which was true now, Arthur supposed.

“What am I doing with you, Merlin,” Arthur murmured, shaking his head. He heaved a deep sigh and forced himself back on his feet. Ripping a piece off his cloak, he went to crouch at the edge of the stream. He dunked the rag into the icy water and wrung out some of the excess before returning to wipe the dirt and blood off Merlin's face.

When he was done, Merlin still hadn’t shown any signs of waking up. With another deep sigh, Arthur resigned himself to wait. Given the heat Merlin was radiating, rather than spreading his cloak over Merlin, Arthur bundled it into a makeshift pillow and carefully lifted Merlin's head to tuck it under before settling down on the ground right beside him.

The sound of Merlin’s breath was the only thing that made the silence bearable. It was quiet, but deep and even; proof that Merlin was still here, that he hadn’t left Arthur.

Not yet, whispered his father’s voice.

Arthur looked down at Merlin as his heart clenched painfully in his chest. Curse or not, Merlin was a dragon. Merlin was a dragon and Arthur loved him desperately regardless.

As he waited for dawn, Arthur could only hope that his heart hadn’t doomed him.

There was fire. Not around Merlin, but blazing at his very core, flaring wild flames from deep inside to radiate through his entire being. All-consuming and inexhaustible, finding more to burn when there should have been nothing but ash left of him.

An age went by, and Merlin burned.

When change finally came, it was not that the fire subsided, but rather that the world beyond the flames began to pierce through the inferno. He registered that he was in pain; sharp and piercing, but superficial in comparison to what raged beneath his flesh. There was the sound of water, the gentle rustle of leaves interspersed with scattered birdsong, and cool air whispering over his skin in gentle contrast to the unyielding press of uneven ground where he lay on his back.

He was outside.

Just like that, unlocked by this first conscious thought beyond perception, the memories came flooding back, bringing terror in their wake. He tore open his eyes, half expecting to be in a cell despite having concluded only a moment ago that he was outdoors. The rock hanging into open pale sky that greeted him was only marginally more comforting, given that last he knew he had been in the middle of a clearing. But the question of where he was and how he’d gotten here was going to have to wait. Fighting down his burgeoning panic, he grit his teeth against the stinging pain that shot through him at every movement and forced himself to lift his head — which he was grateful to realise was resting on something soft, already elevated — to look down at himself.

He regretted it immediately as the last flicker of hope that maybe Kilgharrah’s magic had worn off evaporated. The panic he had kept at bay until now rushed in like a rockslide, squeezing around his lungs until spots danced in front of his eyes.

“Hey, shh, breathe—” A hand came down on Merlin’s arm, and he flinched, scrambling to turn around only to have his body light up with pain. “Merlin, stop, just breathe, it’s alright, it’s just me.”

Arthur, he realised.

It took endless minutes for his breath to deepen to a point that he didn’t feel like he was suffocating. His whole body ached.

“There, that’s better,” said Arthur, shifting the cushion Merlin now recognised as Arthur’s cloak underneath Merlin’s head so it was propped up a little higher. He had been talking the entire time, though none of the words had penetrated the haze that was finally lifting from Merlin’s mind.

But clarity only brought a new fear to the surface, and Merlin’s heart stopped for a moment to kick up again racing. Arthur had seen everything, had heard Merlin speak to Kilgharrah. Even if Kilgharrah hadn’t turned him into … whatever he was, Merlin wouldn’t have been able to talk himself out of this.

And yet he brought you here — wherever here is. The thought rekindled some feeble hope, and he carefully glanced up at Arthur to find open concern written on his face. It took Merlin aback a little. He couldn’t remember Arthur ever looking like that. At anyone.

Clearing his throat, Merlin broke the silence. “What happened?” Where are we? How did we get here? Why would you save me?

“How much do you remember?”

“You killed the dragon,” said Merlin, because somehow it seemed relevant.

Arthur just gave him a look, and he capitulated with a heavy swallow.

“It felt like I was burning. Like I was torn open by fire, and—” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the scales. “And these.”

“You passed out,” said Arthur, confirming what Merlin had assumed.

“So…?” he asked, when Arthur didn’t go on immediately.

“So, you are lucky I am fighting fit, because you’re bloody heavy,” snapped Arthur, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “And those wings did not make things any easier.”

“Wings?!” exclaimed Merlin. He tried to sit up and look at his back, only to slump right back to the ground when his body protested with harsh jabs of pain. It didn’t matter. Now that he knew to pay attention, he could feel them. Wings. After catching his breath for a few seconds, he found Arthur’s eyes again. “You carried me here.”

Arthur nodded.

“Why?”

A stubborn expression took over Arthur’s face, and he seemed to debate with himself before he answered, “The knights were waking up. They couldn’t see you like this.”

Hope flared bright in Merlin’s chest. He swallowed thickly, then asked again, “Why?”

“My father would have you dead,” said Arthur, without hesitation this time.

“And you wouldn’t?”

Arthur froze, and he stared at Merlin for a long moment. Then he said, “The dragon called for you. You spoke to it.”

“His name was Kilgharrah,” replied Merlin, trying to keep his voice steady even as his heart sped up again with fear.

There was another beat of silence.

“Do you want me dead?”

Merlin choked on a sharp inhale. “What?! No! Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” exclaimed Arthur. “Because you seem to have known the beast that nearly destroyed Camelot? Because in its dying moments it decided to speak to you of all people?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked back at Merlin. “Tell me the truth. Why— How did it know you?”

There was no way around it now. So Merlin did the only thing he could; he took a fortifying breath, and told Arthur everything. How he had been born with magic in a village far too small to go unnoticed and eventually been forced to leave, how Kilgharrah had called to him as soon as he had arrived in Camelot, and how he had used magic to save Arthur’s life more than once. How he had wanted to tell him the truth for a long time, but a lifetime of fear had held him back; fear for his life, as well as fear to lose Arthur’s friendship — his trust.

How he had only tried to keep Camelot safe, but failed.

“I understand if you don’t believe me, but I never meant for this to happen,” he pleaded. “I had no choice, Camelot would’ve fallen to Morgause had he refused his help, I had to swear on my mother’s life to convince him. I tried to make him promise— But he wouldn’t, and I had to know how to stop the sleeping curse!”

“Breathe,” said Arthur, laying a gentle hand on Merlin’s chest which was heaving in shallow gasps. The tenderness of the touch only made it harder for Merlin to hold back the tears burning in his eyes. How cruel that he should get to have this, only to have it taken away once Arthur learned the rest of his tale. Nevertheless, he tried to do as requested and took several slow, deliberate breaths, until Arthur gave him a tight but encouraging smile and said, “You did what was necessary to save the city.”

Merlin hesitated. Arthur was unknowingly offering him a way to skip over what he had done to Morgana, but with all his secrets laid bare as they were, even this lie by omission felt … wrong. It would be a betrayal, one that could not be justified with fair reasons. Only selfish ones.

“About the curse,” he began, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “It was tied to Morgana. At first I didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other explanation why she was the only one still awake, and why the knights of Medhir didn’t kill her when they had every opportunity. I never wanted to hurt her, I swear.” The tears he had managed to hold back so far spilled over. “But I couldn’t risk it, there was no way to know if she was on Morgause’s side, if she had volunteered to host the spell. I—” He had to force the words over his lips. “I poisoned her. Morgause agreed to lift the curse in exchange for the poison so she could save her.”

The horror on Arthur’s face made Merlin’s stomach turn, fuelling the cutting guilt he had been carrying ever since Morgana had looked up at him with eyes widened in terror and realisation as she clawed at her throat. But there was more to say yet, and he didn’t dare to stop now for fear of losing his courage.

“After Morgause took her away and the curse was lifted, Kilgharrah demanded that I honour my oath.” He couldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes. “My mother’s life, Arthur, I couldn’t— Not her. I would have laid down my own life before breaking those chains, it might have been a deserved punishment for what I did to Morgana, but my mother never hurt anyone. She never—” He broke off to suck in a few desperate breaths. “It’s my fault. All of it, it’s my fault; I freed him.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Merlin kept his eyes closed even as more tears escaped from under his lids, waiting for Arthur to come to the inevitable conclusion that he never should’ve saved Merlin from being seen by the knights in the first place.

“He tricked you.” The conviction in Arthur’s tone had Merlin opening his eyes despite himself to look up in disbelief. “He manipulated you, backed you into a corner in pursuit of his own ends. Whatever mistakes you made, they were honest ones.”

Speechless, Merlin stared at him, while part of him wondered if this was all just a dream. But not even in his wildest, most optimistic dreams had Arthur ever just … accepted him.

“Aren’t you furious?” he blurted, and regretted it immediately.

“I am. Or perhaps not right now, but I will be. I am anything but happy about … all of this,” said Arthur, mouth drawn into a tight frown. “But having spent the past few hours with the possibility that you were fully in league with that beast and wanting to kill me…”

“Never,” Merlin insisted fervently. “I would do anything to keep you safe. Anything.”

“I am beginning to see that,” said Arthur, a tiny smile tugging on his lips. Gently cupping Merlin’s face in his palm, he looked down at him with so much affection it took Merlin’s breath away.

Irrational hope flared through Merlin’s chest, making his heart trip over itself before kicking back in at double speed. He had long since accepted that he was in love with Arthur. He had also accepted that his feelings could never lead anywhere; because Merlin was a gangly, clumsy servant and Arthur was the Crown Prince, out of his league in every way — and even if against all odds Arthur were to have shown interest in him, Merlin’s secrets and lies would still have hung between them, an invisible wedge to drive them apart eventually.

There were no secrets left to tell, no lies left to confess. There was nothing between them but cool morning air, and Arthur was radiant despite the shadows of a sleepless night lingering in his eyes. He lowered his head to Merlin’s until their breaths mingled, foreheads resting together.

“I would too,” he whispered. “Anything to keep you safe.”

“Your father—”

“Can’t have you, I won’t let him lay a single finger on you.”

A small part of Merlin wanted to press the point, because it was hardly going to be that easy. But the words would not form in his mind, any coherent thought drowned out by a tide of emotions, and Merlin moved without realising it.

Arthur met him halfway, soft lips pressing firmly against Merlin’s, a perfect counter-weight. The balance tipped a split-second later, and Merlin was pressed into the bundled cloak beneath his head as Arthur bore down on him, deepening the kiss until there was an almost desperate quality to it.

When Arthur finally drew back it was no more than a hair’s breadth, just enough for them to catch their breath on shared air. Merlin kept his eyes closed, struggling to grasp a clear thought. He didn’t get beyond the stunned realisation that Arthur had kissed him before it was happening again.

Compared to their first, this second kiss stayed gentle, chaste. It lasted no longer than a couple of seconds, then Arthur pulled away again, far enough this time to gaze down at Merlin with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

Merlin could do nothing but stare back at him, speechless.

“If I knew that was all it took to get you to shut up, I would’ve kissed you ages ago,” Arthur broke the silence after several long moments.

Merlin let out a startled laugh. “I am trying to decide whether I’m dreaming. Or dead.”

“I would never let that happen.”

“Is that why you keep giving me ridiculous amounts of chores?”

Arthur cuffed his head so lightly it was more of a pat than anything else. “I meant that I wouldn’t let anyone harm you, let alone kill you.”

A great wave of love welled up in Merlin. Gathering his courage, he reached for Arthur’s hand, relieved when Arthur linked their fingers without missing a beat. “Thank you, for saving me,” he said, voice thick with gratitude.

Arthur just squeezed his hand. It was answer enough; actions had always spoken much louder than words between them.

Chapter Text

“So, what now?” Merlin eventually asked the question Arthur had been chewing on for the past hours without finding an answer. What now? He turned to look at Merlin. They didn’t have too many options, not while Merlin wore wings and horns and more scales than skin.

“My father would have you dead,” Arthur echoed his own words from earlier. “We’ll have to stay out of sight, and away from Camelot.”

Merlin frowned. “We?”

Arthur didn’t meet his eyes, looking stubbornly out into the forest.

“Arthur, you can’t,” argued Merlin, entirely too predictable. “You are the Crown Prince, you have to return — sooner rather than later, what with Morgana’s disappearance not even a full week past.”

“And leave you out here? By yourself, for anyone to stumble over?” he snapped, harsher than Merlin probably deserved. But he didn’t want to hear it.

“Did you not listen to what I told you before? I can defend myself.”

“You can’t even sit upright by your own strength.” That had Merlin shut his mouth with an audible click, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel a brief touch of satisfaction. He wasn’t going to leave him behind no matter what Merlin said, but he was happy to cut their argument short if he could.

His victory was short-lived, however.

“I could go to Balinor’s cave.” Merlin must’ve caught Arthur’s surprise, because he quickly went on to explain, “It’s well-hidden, it was pure luck I found it on the vague description we had. He—” A shadow of grief fell over his face. “He was my father. Balinor was my father.”

Arthur couldn’t find it in him to be shocked anymore, so his first thought upon hearing that Merlin was apparently the deceased dragonlord’s son was that he had been an insensitive clotpole. Granted, he couldn’t have known that Merlin was grieving his father of all things, it wasn’t like Merlin had given any hints that might have clued him in. Other than his exceptionally strong reaction to Balinor’s death, which Arthur had promptly shut down by telling him no man was worth his tears, like an arse.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a stunned pause that lasted just a little too long.

Merlin’s expression tightened, and although his eyes remained dry, his next words came out a little choked. “I never knew him. My mother never spoke of him, and Gaius only told me the truth, about who he was to me, when we were about to go in search of him. He didn’t even know I existed.”

“That doesn’t—” Arthur broke off, unsure what he meant to say in the first place. That it didn’t change the fact that he had been his father? That, if anything, it only made it crueller for Merlin to have lost him again so soon? Words had never been Arthur’s strongest suit.

“He told me the power of a dragonlord is passed from father to son,” Merlin continued a bit more steadily when Arthur said nothing else. “He never had a chance to explain what that meant, but Kilgharrah called me the last dragonlord before he died. If I can figure out how to wield that power, I might—” He didn’t finish his sentence, casting a hesitant glance at Arthur.

“You think you might be able to control—” Arthur gestured vaguely at Merlin’s dragon-like form.

Merlin nodded.

“Have you tried to just … shift back?”

Judging by the way he blinked owlishly at Arthur, that idea hadn’t occurred to Merlin yet. He shook himself out of his stupor quickly enough though, and his gaze went vacant, blue eyes fixed without focus somewhere beyond Arthur. Then blue bled to gold.

Arthur failed to fully stifle a gasp. For all that he had grown up royalty, no treasure he had ever seen compared to the brilliance of Merlin’s eyes suffused with magic.

It should have frightened him. It was everything he had been raised to fear, to hate, to eradicate wherever he could. But as he watched Merlin’s irises drown behind unfathomable, radiant power, all Arthur felt was awe. This was nothing like the magic he had witnessed before, the malicious curses that promised violence in their wake. Even Morgause’s spell, benevolent in and of itself, had made Arthur’s skin crawl under its tainted touch. All his life Arthur had considered that taint inherent; the corrupting force rooted within the essence of magic that would sooner or later ruin all who practised it.

There was no trace of corruption in Merlin’s magic. It swirled around Arthur, lighter than air, fresh as a primordial spring, yet comforting as a familiar song. Beautiful as the rising sun.

Merlin scrunched his face in concentration and those bright eyes disappeared behind closed lids, snapping Arthur from his trance. He blinked a few times to shake his daze, before refocusing on Merlin just in time to see the scales come alive with a midnight lustre. They began to shift, painting their path in an iridescent dance.

Arthur sucked in a triumphant breath. It was working!

The elation didn’t last long, however. After only a few moments, the glow faded. Merlin tensed, as though trying to hold onto it by sheer willpower, then deflated with a frustrated groan, and when he opened his eyes, the gold had given way to blue once more.

“I can’t— For a moment I had it, but as soon as I tried to— It slipped right back and wouldn’t budge,” he muttered more to himself than speaking to Arthur. He took a steadying breath, setting his mouth in a determined line, and, with a slight wince, struggled into an upright position.

Arthur casually moved to sit beside him so both of them leaned against the rocky wall. As expected, Merlin sagged against his side almost immediately. He resisted the urge to wrap an arm around him, to keep him safe and steady. If their places were reversed, Arthur would not welcome obvious help either. Instead, he simply took the weight without comment, giving way just far enough that Merlin wouldn’t tip over to the other side. A flimsy illusion. Still, Merlin didn’t call him out on it.

“Another try?” Arthur asked.

Merlin nodded. This time he closed his eyes from the beginning, only a sliver of gold glinting through his lashes. It only took a moment for the black scales to light with the same iridescence as before, another for them to start their slow shift across Merlin’s skin.

The second try failed as had the first. So did the third. And the fourth. By the fifth fruitless attempt, Merlin’s exhaustion was plain as day, and it only compounded his frustration.

“Enough,” Arthur ordered with all his princely authority. Not that Merlin had ever cared much for it.

“I can’t just stop,” Merlin argued, even as he tilted precariously until he ended up with his head practically in Arthur’s lap. His eyes had fallen closed.

Arthur stared down at him, stunned, heart swelling with warmth at the effortless closeness, as though they had done this a thousand times before. “You can continue after a few minutes’ break,” he replied mildly and brushed a strand of dark hair from Merlin’s brow.

Merlin merely hummed in response.

It was a defiant surrender, but a surrender nonetheless. Arthur absentmindedly ran his fingers through Merlin’s hair as he catalogued the new pattern of scales on his face. They hadn’t remained where Merlin had managed to shift them on his last attempt, but they hadn’t quite returned to where they had been in the beginning either. He couldn’t fault Merlin for his frustration at having his efforts almost completely undone time and again.

As the quiet stretched, Arthur’s mind wandered back to the piles of truths Merlin had dumped on him not two hours ago. It stung, the realisation that Merlin hadn’t felt safe enough to tell him until he had no other choice. But Arthur’s wounded pride paled in comparison to the sense of dread that had been brewing in his gut ever since Merlin had revealed that he had been born with magic.

Born.

How many people were born with magic? How many in a year? How many since the Purge? How many innocents had died for no other crime than existing as they were? Arthur felt sick. Such bloodshed, for no other reason than blind, misguided hatred bred from lies. Because there was no denying it; his father’s teachings were lies. Even if there were some specks of truth buried among them, Arthur had no way of knowing which was which.

His gaze fell to Merlin’s face, where a frown still lingered on otherwise relaxed features. He wanted to smooth away those lines. Keep them off that beautiful face forever, keep it unmarred by the worry and exhaustion that cut through it now. He knew nothing about magic, but he knew that he trusted Merlin. Despite everything. Perhaps because of it. It was hard to truly pick apart which parts of Merlin he had missed, and which he had seen without understanding what they meant.

Without really meaning to, Arthur trailed his fingertips over the crease between Merlin’s eyes, startling him out of his half-doze.

“Mmh?” Merlin blinked up at him with mild alarm.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.”

“M-mh,” Merlin made; not a question this time but a denial. He blinked a few more times, blue eyes clearing with awareness and darting around their meagre camp. “Wasn’t asleep.”

“Of course you weren’t,” replied Arthur mildly.

“I wasn’t!” Merlin protested as he looked back up at him. Even exhausted his gaze was sharp in a way that had always made Arthur feel more seen than he was necessarily comfortable with. “Have you slept at all?”

Arthur gave him a flat look.

“Of course not,” said Merlin. “I don’t need to be able to move to defend us, you know.”

It was tempting for all of one second, he hadn’t slept since fighting a dragon, after all. Arthur shook his head. “Too much on my mind. Besides, you need the rest more than I do.”

“Don’t think too hard, you’ll hurt yourself,” Merlin teased, but it carried an undertone of concern that took all the sting out of it. When Arthur didn’t react beyond an eye-roll, he added, a bit more seriously, “What’s got you so occupied then?”

Arthur barked a laugh.

Merlin winced. “I’m sorry. Stupid question, I guess.”

“That’s not—” Arthur sighed. “I’m just coming to realise that I know nothing about magic. At all. Everything I thought I knew was a lie.”

Merlin’s gaze softened. “It’s not your fault.”

“Perhaps not, but that hardly betters my ignorance.” Arthur looked away, watching the brook's water flow smoothly over rounded stones. “I am the future King, how am I supposed to rule a kingdom without knowing the world as it is? Without knowing my people?”

“You know your people, much better than Uther ever could.”

“I didn’t know they could be born with magic.”

A beat of silence. He still didn’t look at Merlin, not wanting to see the fear that would surely flicker over his face. He never wanted to see Merlin afraid, not of him.

“Well, what do you want to know? I’ll warn you that my education has been, uh, circumstantial more than anything.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Of course Merlin would offer his help, it was Merlin. Much as he pretended to be useless, he had always been the first to help Arthur, no matter what he needed. The problem was that Arthur didn’t even know what to ask.

He arched a brow at Merlin instead. “Circumstantial?”

“It’s not like there’s a ton of information on magic just lying around in Camelot,” replied Merlin with an almost apologetic shrug.

Arthur grimaced thinking about the amount of knowledge erased in the Purge. Irreversibly lost, because of his father. And now Merlin — people like Merlin — were paying the price.

“Are there many?”

Merlin furrowed his brows. “Many what?”

“People like you. Born with magic.”

“Oh.” Mild surprise gave way to a sheepish half-smile. “Not like me, no. But there are people who develop magic throughout their lives, a natural talent of sorts.”

Arthur blew out a measured breath, wrestling down his rising guilt. “How many?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin admitted. “It’s hard to gauge with everyone hiding it as much as possible, but—” He reached up to touch Arthur’s arm. “—there can’t be that many. Gaius said it’s rare for natural potential to be strong enough to develop on its own. Most people who have the talent probably never even realise.”

“Some do. You did.”

Merlin laughed. “It was hard to miss. My mother told me I floated my toys into my crib before I could even hold up my own head.”

A smile tugged on Arthur’s lips at the image. “She must’ve despaired with you.”

“I’m sure she did,” Merlin agreed, returning the smile.

The silence stretched comfortably until Arthur’s mirth faded.

“What does it feel like?” he asked, surprising himself and Merlin both.

“It—” Merlin’s eyes drifted away from Arthur as he searched for words. “It’s hard to describe. My magic is part of me as much as my hands and feet are, I don’t notice it unless I pay attention to it. A bit like breathing.” Arthur became abruptly aware of his own breath. “It’s … warm? I guess?” Merlin shrugged and shot Arthur a glance. “I don’t know, it’s always been there, how would you describe what having a hand or lungs feels like?”

Nodding, Arthur conceded the point, though it didn’t help his unease. “So magic can’t be learnt at all,” he hedged, uncomfortable. “Not without potential.”

“Oh no, it can be. Spells are different, I guess that’s why they take practice.”

“Different how?”

“My magic doesn’t really like spells. It’s more … instinctual. But there is magic all around us,” Merlin explained, eyes going distant again. “Spells tend to draw from that.”

“Right,” Arthur said slowly.

“It’s like … water.”

“Water.”

“Say you’re swimming in a lake or taking a bath; you can feel the water around you, more than you would air, but not as much as solid ground.”

That actually made a surprising amount of sense. It wasn’t quite an answer to his initial question, but it was still the most explanation he’d ever gotten on the actual workings of sorcery. Arthur nodded.

“So, there’s water — magic — around us,” Merlin continued, “but it won’t do anything beyond what it does naturally, just like water won’t suddenly flow upwards instead of down. To create an effect, the magic has to be shaped the right way. I guess spells are like containers, then, giving the water — magic — a distinct shape.” He ducked his head. “I don’t know if that makes sense, I never tried to explain this before.”

“No, it does,” replied Arthur quickly, because it did, even if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the how. “Is that what you did earlier? Trying to give it the right shape?”

Merlin’s face soured and he shook his head. “There’s no spell for this. Or if there is, I don’t know it.” He drew in a heavy breath, shook his head again. “Whatever Kilgharrah did, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It doesn’t even really feel like a spell, or a curse. Those cling to you like cobwebs, but they’re not that difficult to get off if I get the chance to focus. This— I can’t expel it. It’s as though it is … anchored inside me and every time I try to push it out, it pushes right back.” He grimaced. “I’m not sure my magic is strong enough to overcome it.”

Arthur frowned. “When you say it isn’t a spell, what—”

“I don’t know!” Merlin exclaimed. “It burns, Arthur.” He sounded so desperate all of a sudden, Arthur’s heart clenched.

He gently cupped Merlin’s cheek. “You’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out, I promise.” His armour made bending over somewhat difficult, but he ignored the pinch of metal in his side to lean down and place a soft kiss on Merlin’s lips. “You’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Perhaps there’s a different way. An easier way.”

“Yes, and the best chance to find it is to go to Balinor’s cave,” argued Merlin, but his tone didn’t hold any conviction.

“I’m not carrying you that far, you’re heavy as a dragon.”

Merlin’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Don’t even try, there’s no rush to get there before you can at least stand on your own,” said Arthur, but Merlin shook his head vigorously.

“No, what did you just say? About me.”

“You’re heavy?”

“Dragon,” Merlin breathed. “You called me a dragon.”

Arthur arched a brow at him. He held Merlin’s gaze for a second before gesturing rather exasperatedly at Merlin’s body. “What else would you call that?”

Merlin gaped at him, and Arthur could practically see his mind working through that statement. It took a long moment, then Merlin’s face soured and he groaned, “I’m a dragon. Fuck. That does explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why it feels so different. Dragons are creatures of magic, they have their own magic—”

“Like you.”

“—and Kilgharrah must have given me his,” Merlin finished without reacting to Arthur’s comment. “It makes sense, he asked me not to let the power of his kind die with him. I thought he was asking me to save his life, but he must’ve meant this.”

“The dragon gave you his own magic?”

Merlin nodded. “To preserve it. I think.”

“And that’s why you’re all—” Arthur gestured at the wings and scales.

“I think so, yeah,” said Merlin. He scowled. “Which probably means I’m stuck like this.”

There wasn’t much Arthur could say to that; Merlin was the one who knew how magic worked, and if he thought there was nothing he could do…

“Well, it could be worse,” he tried, forcing his tone to stay light. “It could’ve been some other creature. Something uglier.”

The look Merlin gave him rivalled Morgana’s worst glare, but Arthur hadn’t spent half his life surviving her to falter now when faced with Merlin. He took Merlin’s hand in his.

“We’ll find a safe place, somewhere you can practice your dragon magic away from prying eyes.”

Merlin froze. He stared at Arthur, incredulous, for several long seconds, before his expression slowly morphed into a bright grin. “You’re the most brilliant clotpole in Camelot.”

“That’s still not a word,” retorted Arthur, mildly confused, but he couldn’t help smiling back.

Merlin ignored him in favour of shifting in his lap until he was a little more upright. His eyes burned gold once more, and Arthur could tell that this was different. A different shade of magic. Merlin’s skin began to glow like embers upon a night sky, growing stronger until it drowned out the dark shimmering scales. Growing over them, until skin was all that was left.

Merlin’s eyes returned to blue, and he grinned up at Arthur. His wings were gone, as were the horns and tail. Merlin was himself again.

“You did it,” said Arthur, stunned. Without thinking, he brushed his fingertips over Merlin’s cheek, awed when he felt nothing but soft skin. “How?”

“The right kind of magic,” said Merlin. “I was using my magic, trying to push Kilgharrah’s out — but a warlock’s magic is hardly suitable for a dragon. So, I didn’t use my magic this time.”

“You used the dragon’s magic to shift,” Arthur realised. It made sense. Letting out an incredulous laugh, he took Merlin’s face between his hands and kissed him. “You are a wonder, do you know that? We can go home.”

A blush spread over Merlin’s face, and he ducked his head. “It’s not going to be that easy. I don’t know if I can fully control this, or if Kilgharrah’s magic will come bursting out at the worst moment.”

“We’ll go on a trip then,” replied Arthur easily. “We’ll go back, gather our things, and leave again. However long you need, we’ll make it work.” He cupped Merlin’s cheek. “And when I’m king, I swear to you, you’ll be safe. You and everyone else born with magic.”

Merlin’s eyes widened with awe, and the next moment his lips were on Arthur’s, chapped and dry and demanding and absolutely perfect.

“Alright,” he breathed when he pulled away after a too short eternity. “Let’s go home.”