Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin tore through the halls of Camelot with the reckless abandon of a man in a hurry - because he was a man in a hurry while also trying to protect Arthur's ceremonial jacket freshly back from the tailor's after having popped a stitch. He dodged the maids, wove through pages and barely avoided various collisions with the rest household staff scurrying about like spooked mice as they rushed to prepare for yet another bloody banquet. But it hit Merlin - as hurrying near-recklessly with a piece of Arthur's precious laundry often did - with a sense of deja vu that left him missing Lancelot.

But there were to be no wine stains lifted away with a spell today. Merlin felt a small sense of satisfaction that he was finally getting better at this dodging about business. It had only taken him over five years of practice to accomplish it.

Finally having entered a clear section of castle, Merlin broke into a full run, the momentum of which had him barreling through Arthur's chamber doors, because it was either keep going or leave an imprint of his face on the wood. His reflexes had also sharpened over the years; he ducked right in time to avoid a goblet hurtling toward the barrier Merlin had just passed through, a curse following its wake. It hit the wood with a clang and clattered to the floor.

Merlin glared at a very annoyed and half-dressed Arthur.

“All right,” Merlin huffed. “I got here as fast as I could. It's not my fault the tailor's so blasted far away. No reason to get hostile about it...” Then balked at a sudden thought. “Unless you and, er... Gwen needed a bit of...? Oh, she's not here, never mind.”

Arthur, as he had done and would still do until the end of time whenever Merlin did or said anything to make him question his manservant's intelligence, rolled his eyes and turned away.

“I wasn't aiming at you, Merlin,” he said. “Although if you would like to take it as a lesson in remembering to knock before entering, please feel free.” Arthur went to his table currently buried under sheafs of parchment, and stared at those parchments with the utmost disgust. “I also think that you should take back what I said about you no longer writing my speeches for me.”

Merlin freed himself of the jacket by hanging it on the dressing screen, then did as he would most likely do until the end of time and dig through Arthur's drawers for his dress shirt.

“As well as the part about kings needing to stand on their own two feet and write their own damn speeches?” Merlin said with the faintest of smiles, in case Arthur could see and happened to have another goblet in hand. “I believe those were your exact words, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Merlin, I will throw my ink well at you.”

“Shutting up,” Merlin said. He draped the dress shirt next to the jacket. “Just use an old speech. I doubt the lords will tell the difference after a few goblets of wine.”

Arthur snorted, and Merlin felt another small sense of accomplishment at having lightened his mood, even if it was only a fraction of a difference.

“This isn't some holiday speech, Merlin,” Arthur said more soberly. “These are our neighbors, kings and queens in need of reminding that Camelot still stands strong despite Morgana's attempts to rule, and I'm the one who needs to convince them.”

“Well, then,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “Write something on Camelot's triumphs. Or, better yet, the loyalty and faith of its people. A kingdom is only as strong as its people.”

Arthur gave him the ever-so-slightly surprised look that was often the result of whenever he thought Merlin actually had it in him to be wise. “That's not a bad idea, actually.”

“Good, lovely, glad to be something akin to a muse.” Merlin swept his hands toward the dressing screen. “And you can muse on it further while you get dressed.”

Arthur smirked as he sauntered his kingly way behind the screen. “Why, Merlin, have someplace urgent you need to be other than at the armory giving my sword a good polish?”

“Already polished it. It's by your dresser. And, yes, unfortunately, I do have somewhere I need to be. Gaius is out of certain herbs and, sadly, herbs picked in the forest are a deal more cheaper than the bundles sold in the market.”

“That Gaius, such a miser with a coin,” Arthur said dryly. The shirt and jacket vanished behind the screen.

“Hey, give me an excuse any day to pick herbs over mucking out stables but that means having to hurry if I want to make it back in time to get ready.”

“Oh, poor little Merlin. It must be so difficult for you, switching jackets and neckerchiefs.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Try having a bath and changing clothes. That is, unless you want me smelling like skunk weed while I serve you venison?”

Arthur's head poked out from around the screen, gracing Merlin with an incredibly amusing combination of a scowl and disgust. “Go and pick your blasted herbs. I'm quite capable of dressing myself.”

Merlin's reply was a smile and a jaunty wave as he hurried from the chamber. It was another dash through the castle, avoiding fellow servants and a too-happy Gwaine who looked like a man in the mood for a drink and wanting plenty of company to share it with.

“You'll be getting plenty drink tonight, Gwaine, can you really not wait?” Merlin said laughingly as he passed.

Gwaine spread his arms. “Why wait I say,” he said just as laughingly.

Merlin then passed Queen Gueniv... that is, Gwen, coming the other way.

“Arthur needs a muse,” he said, trotting backwards to face her for as long as his hurrying allowed.

“Is he still struggling with his speech?” Gwen said sympathetically.

“He has an idea, now all he needs is encouragement,” Merlin hollered. He turned back around and trotted on his way.

Merlin hadn't been having Arthur on when he'd told him that he enjoyed picking herbs out in the woods. It was quiet in the forest outside the city, a good place to go when one needed time to reflect, and collecting plants was as good an excuse as any to go out and about even with a chore list that seemed to never shrink. But today, it wasn't about reflection. Today it was about enjoying the sun, the sky, the warm breezes and the wet and woody smells of nature. It was about reminding Merlin to enjoy the peace and quiet of the here and now when there was peace and quiet to enjoy, because besides developing rather impressive dodging skills, Merlin had also developed the rather unsettling habit of dwelling on what might come next. Even months after Morgana's attack, Merlin had been unable to find enjoyment in even the most simplest pleasures of life, always wondering what might be lurking in the dark, always waiting for some monster or sorcerer to come give them another dose of hell.

It was starting to make Merlin dread looking forward to anything good, and he was tired of it. Tired of wondering and waiting and waking up in a cold sweat with a racing heart when the what-ifs bled into his dreams. He was tired of not being happy when he had every reason to be happy.

And he was happy. At least more often than he had been those months after the attack. Agravaine was gone, Morgana had yet to show herself (and that was only if she was still alive) and all further attacks, be they by monsters or human, were minor at best. He had no reason not to be content. It wasn't like he was letting his guard down, simply taking matters as they came and absorbing all the good he could find along the way.

Merlin jogged lightly down the dirt road winding away from the city to the edge of the woods, and from there turned off from the hard-packed earth onto the loamy carpet of moss and leaves. Being spring, the needed herbs were plentiful, and at the rate Merlin was going he would not only have time for a bath but to enjoy it, too. He pulled up handfuls of wolf's bane, belladonna, skunk weed and bundled them together with the bits of twine he had put into his pocket before leaving Gaius' chambers this morning.

He reached for a cluster of poppy flowers growing in a patch of sunlight. A boot stepped down, blocking his way. Merlin pulled back quickly and nearly tripped standing upright. A person in a cloak stood before him, a druid cloak by the make and light color, and Merlin immediately relaxed.

“Oh, sorry. Didn't know anyone else was collecting. Did you want those flowers? Because I can look elsewhere, it's not like they're hard to find this time of year,” Merlin said with a light chuckle.

The cloaked person said nothing. Merlin swallowed, back to feeling uneasy.

“Um... should you even be in these woods, this close to Camelot? I won't report you or anything but it's really not safe and--”

Before Merlin's brain had a chance to register what was happening, the person's hand flew up and a word was hissed in the old language. Merlin had no time to so much as register the need for a counter spell right this second when darkness clapped itself like irons over his eyes.

~oOo~

Merlin woke slowly and groggily but without the usual skull-cracking pain of being put under by a hit to the head. If there was one thing he had to grudgingly give sleeping spells credit for, it was the lack of disorienting pain. His head cleared quickly, his vision with it, and the first thing he saw was the forest loam glowing gold. It was extremely off-putting, and made him wonder if the sleeping spell had been more than a sleeping spell, when he realized the glow was flickering. His eyes traveled upward to a fire crackling several feet away, close enough to give him some light but not some warmth.

His sense of touch demanded his attention next, and he suddenly wished he were still in the darkness of an enchanted sleep.

Merlin was bound with cold iron by his arms and legs. He could feel the manacles chafing the skin of his wrists. But manacles were manacles, obnoxious and uncomfortable but about as affective on a warlock as a bit of twine was in tying Percival down. A word and a flash of magic, and they would be off of Merlin in a heartbeat.

But these manacles were all wrong, cold as ice and vibrating like a snake about to strike. It felt like they were pulling at him. No, that wasn't right. They felt as though they were pulling at his magic, tugging at it like a brute restraining a struggling child.

Merlin's experience with magical chains was few and far between, but the sensation of magic-binding chains was not something easily forgotten over time. They were like eating a piece of bad meat, a discomfort you never wanted to experience again, leaving you nervous around the food that had caused the discomfort in the first place. And that was only if he didn't try to use magic on them. If he did use magic, then mild discomfort escalated to something more akin to a thousand kicks to his body at one time.

He couldn't forget the feel of magical chains if he tried. Whoever these people who had taken him were, they knew he had magic, and he was at their mercy.

Merlin's heart beat faster.

These people also felt confident enough in the magical chains to leave Merlin where he was. The camp, as far as Merlin could see, was empty, but there was a good chance it was misleading. Night was coming, the sky deep cerulean going on violet and the shadows thick as stew beyond the fire. There were also the trappings of people intending to stay the night, bedrolls and packs scattered a safe distance from the flames.

Merlin struggled upright from his sprawled position on his side, wincing when the manacles rubbed the skin of his arm. Once up, he leaned his back against the rough bark of a gnarled tree. All the trees were thick and knotty, in point of fact, nothing remotely resembling the straight-trunked trees of the Camelot woods.

The evidence was adding up to the very real possibility that they were no longer in Camelot. Wonderful just... wonderful.

Merlin grimaced in frustration and concentration, wriggling and worming his wrists in the manacles in an attempt to slip his hands free. The problem with bringing chains along on any journey was that you never knew the size of the wrists they would have to wrap around, and some manacles seemed made only for the big and burly.

These manacles, however, were not, and Merlin succeeded only in rubbing his wrists near raw.

But he kept at it, because he was being subdued by magical chains, and that told him all he needed to know about his current situation. And all he needed to know was that he had to get away, now.

Merlin struggled until he felt the warm wetness of blood slicking his skin. Good. It would lubricate the chains. He could already feel his right hand begin to slip free, and his heart hammered with the anxiety of being so close to freedom.

A boot slammed into Merlin's ribs, knocking him to his side. The air was shoved from him with a grunt, and he was given no time to reorient when he was lifted to his knees by his neckerchief and held in place, the cloth biting into his throat and squeezing his airway.

“Wha?” he gasped, staring wide-eyed at the bodies suddenly around him, bodies wrapped within the pale cloaks of druids, faces hidden in the darkness of their cowls.

“Emrys,” said a female voice, and the middle-most druid stepped forward, pushing back her hood.

She was not young, perhaps the age of his mother, perhaps a little more, but with a beauty that seemed to come more from wisdom than from any physical attributes. Her hair was the color of wheat ready for harvest and her face weathered and tanned from a life lived outdoors. And she was tall, as tall or taller than those around her. She stepped forward, and after brushing Merlin's forehead with a long-fingered hand, she smiled, firelight dancing in her blue-gray eyes.

“Most definitely Emrys,” she said brightly. She grabbed his chin and forced his head up. “But even sensing him it is hard to believe. He is so young. Little more than a child.”

“I hope his youth isn't deterring you,” said the man to her right.

“Oh, not at all. Not at all. I am sorry, Emrys,” she said, turning his face to the right, then the left. “Believe me when I say that meeting you is an honor, and that I take no pleasure in this business.”

Merlin jerked his face free. “What business? What do you want with me?”

The woman smiled in a manner almost contradictory to the situation – not a smile of triumph, but a smile of pride, in Merlin. “You have spirit. I like that. From all I've heard you've been living as little more than the Pendragon's dog's body.” She frowned sadly. “It shames me that we have come to this.”

“Come to what?” Merlin demanded, straightening in an attempt to come off as regal as any lord. And he might have succeeded had he not been breathing so fast.

The woman stepped closer and crouched at eye level. “Our people have waited for you, Emrys, for so very long. We have waited for you to fulfill your destiny and see magic returned to this land, unmolested and unchallenged. Our brothers and sisters have faith in you, even now when nothing has changed. It is said you are to bring about an age of peace and prosperity but when, Emrys? When! When you are old and gray and we in our graves?” Her lips pressed themselves into a thin, pale line, her chin trembled and she shook her head. She said, her voice thick. “We can not wait that long. I am sorry, Emrys. I am so very sorry but we cannot stand by while the world goes on and we are left to wander and hide like animals. You will bring about change, Emrys, but it will be a change of our choosing, not yours. And I'm sorry for this.”

The woman looked up and nodded once. The neckerchief was yanked from his neck, then the opening of his shirt pulled apart, exposing his chest.

“Wha-- what are you doing?” Merlin said, struggling against the strong hands now gripping his arms. “Whatever it is, you don't have to do it. It's not my destiny alone that will bring about this age, it is Arthur Pendragon's as well. It's not just me. It's not just me!”

But the woman wasn't listening. She placed the cool, weathered palm of her hand against his chest, right in the center over his breastbone. The druids surrounding them closed in and began to chant, and the woman smiled sadly.

“Your heart races like the wings of a frightened bird,” she said sadly. “I am sorry, Emrys. Believe me when I say that.”

“Then if you're sorry don't do this! Please!”

“I wish I did not have to.” The woman spoke, her words gutteral and deep like the whispered voice of a dragonlord. Her eyes flashed gold and her palm glowed with the same burnished light.

The light burned, through skin and bone, muscle and organ, beyond the seen to the unseen, all the way to the heart of Merlin's very soul. It burned and raked and devoured him, and he screamed until he had no more breath to scream with. Until the dark took him.

~oOo~

Merlin woke to his entire body throbbing - head, torso, limbs, throat raw as ground meat and dry as a bone. When he swallowed, his throat clicked, sticking briefly together. He was thirsty beyond all comprehension, a thirst more painful than the thirst when the death of the unicorn had resulted in the water turning to sand. And he was sick, nauseas, like he'd eaten bad meat again.

The worst of it, however, was his chest burning and freezing all at once. He lifted a shaking hand to it, pressed his palm to it, and felt wet, puckered skin. Merlin snatched his hand away as though bitten. When he craned his neck down, bile shot into his throat.

The skin over his breastbone was mangled and bloody but it was not the messy work of a knife. It was intricate and impossible, a design like the Druid knots within a circle, so perfect and so precise that even smeared in blood Merlin recognized its shape as that of a dragon.

“What is this?” he said, panting and gulping, fighting back the nausea. “What did you do? Why did you--” he lost the battle with his stomach and emptied its contents all over the forest floor.

“Only what we had to, Emrys,” said the woman.

Merlin lifted his shaking head. “Stop calling me that!” he snarled, or tried to, but what should have been a growl drifted off into a weak rasp.

The woman knelt before him, still in her cloak, her long fingers fiddling with a glass bottle full of a green liquid.

“I'm sorry,” she said again. She meant it. So help Merlin, she meant it and he couldn't deny that she did. And as if to prove it, she helped him sit up against the tree, pulling his bound legs around to make him more comfortable. Merlin, shaking, ill and hurting, glared at her with every ounce of hatred and loathing he could muster.

She refused to look away, yet neither did she seem happy about it.

“Here,” she said, holding up the bottle. “For the pain.” She uncorked it, then grabbing Merlins' chin, forced the bitter fluid into his mouth and covered his mouth with her other hand, giving him no choice but to swallow.

The effect was unnervingly immediate, the pain not only dulling but taking his mind with it. He asked, while he still could, “Who are you?” His words were already starting to slur.

“Anela,” she said, wiping his mouth with her sleeve like a mother will for a child. She eased him gently back to the ground on his side. She then tucked a thin blanket around him.

“Wh-what do you want with me?”

Anela sat back, the empty bottle dancing in her fingers as she studied its flawed surface.

“Once upon a time,” she said. “There was a dragonlord. He protected the land with the gift that was given him. He had his magic, and he had his dragons, and it was enough. But those who wished to take the land knew of his power and his might, and knew that to destroy him would be difficult. So, they began to hunt and destroy his dragons. Enraged and distraught over the death of his soul kin, something stirred deep within him, something waking to the cries of pain all around him as his soul-kind perished. Then it woke, and dragonlord became dragon, and hunted the killers of his kin to the ends of the world.”

Anela set the bottle aside. “It is said that a dragonlord can call upon the dragon part of his soul to waken. Although, I will admit, the story made it sound far more simple a process than it actually is. They are mostly stories written in the moldering texts once kept deep in the heart of the Isle of the Blessed, now passed down on spoken word from druid to druid. The change is rare, difficult, and takes time. You see, it is not a change of choice, but the change that comes only when most needed, when heart and soul are torn and your dragon cannot come when called. If done right it is painless but... Emrys, we do not have time, and we know you will not do this willingly. This is the only way.”

“No...” Merlin said, wanting to say more, to say that they had it wrong, that there was another way and it would come with patience, to have faith in his destiny. But all he could force his numb tongue to say was another, “No.”

Anela brushed his sweat-soaked hair back. Merlin had no strength to pull away.

“I'm sorry Merlin.”

Merlin went under thinking how much he was starting to hate apologies.

TBC...

Chapter Text

It was a wonderful sleep. So clean, peaceful, deep, dreamless, perfect as polished crystal. A rest like nothing Merlin had ever experienced. It was the rest of the truly exhausted, the rest of one who had earned it.

Waking was a nightmare, like being ripped from the warm darkness and tossed into the freezing light. And he was ripped, and tossed, lifted by the back of his shirt and thrown without mercy to the ground. It was accompanied by laughter as he scrabbled to his hands and knees, only for a foot to the ribs to knock him back down, another kick keeping him down. Then he was lifted and tossed again. Another kick, joined by a fist to the face rattling his already addled brain. More hits, more kicks, more and more but, somehow, within the storm of abuse, he found his feet and he ran.

Somewhere deep within the shadows of Merlin's mind buried beneath terror and the need to survive was the timid thought that he should not be able to run. His hands and feet should have been bound. But terror did not tolerate logic or sense. It wanted only for the body to run, get away and go where it could no longer be hurt.

Merlin, running until his breaths tore from his lungs and his heart was a forge hammer in his chest, stumbled from the forest into a shallow river. He heard pounding feet behind him, pounding hooves gaining fast, and his next gasp was a sob.

Still running, Merlin lifted his face to the clear sky and roared.

A roar answered back just as Merlin's pursuers were at his back. The Great Dragon rose above the trees, bending them with the down thrust of his wings. He roared, tucked his wings to his body, and dove.

Merlin's hunters should have run screaming in terror. They surged forward instead, as if Merlin no longer existed.

As though he had never been their target.

Until someone grabbed Merlin and pulled him violently from the river and into the woods. Merlin heard over the scream of his own blood the gutteral chanting of the druids.

It was a trap. A trap for the dragon. Merlin opened his mouth to warn Kilgarrah away but a hand covered it. Merlin bit the flesh blocking his words. When the hand moved, Merlin screamed.

“Kilgarrah, run--!” the hand clapped back over his mouth.

Kilgarrah didn't hear him. He leveled out over the water, his chest expanding as it prepared to breathe flames. The druid chanting rose and the water level with it. Then water shot upward in ropes and tendrils and wrapped around Kilgarrah, pinning his arms and wings to his sides and clamping his jaw shut. Kilgarrah struggled but was no more successful than a worm on a hook. The water pulled him down to the ground, to the river, and held him there.

Druids poured from the forest and covered Kilgarrah's body like ants. When they cleared, Kilgarrah was in chains – manacles around his legs, a collar around his neck, chains around his wings and another around his snout. He stopped struggling.

The hand covering Merlin's mouth jerked his head back until it pressed against his captor's shoulder. The man's breath tumbled over Merlin's face like a gust of foul wind.

“Listen to me. We have no desire to kill your dragon but we will show it the meaning of pain if you do not order it to follow us, understand?”

The man's hand slowly peeled from Merlin's mouth.

“What have you done to him!” Merlin snarled. The hand that had covered his mouth fisted in his hair and pulled his head until his neck bent in half. Merlin cried out, and Kilgarrah stirred, rumbling.

“Do as you're told! Or would you rather us show you how vulnerable we made your soul-kin. Alestair, show him!”

One of the druids approached Kilgarrah as he would any man, pulled a knife, and slashed the dragon across the arm. Kilgarrah rumbled like an avalanche and writhed. Pale blood seeped from the wound.

“Those aren't any chains, boy,” the man said coolly. “They were made for dragons. Chains of the like that had kept your soul-kin trapped in the very bowels of Camelot. They were an abomination to us when they were found and they are an abomination to us now. So do us a favor and make this easy on your beast. The sooner we have finished, the sooner he can be freed. Got that?”

The man yanked on Merlin's hair. Merlin swallowed and choked out, “Yes.”

“Good,” the man said. He released Merlin's hair only to spin Merlin around and clap his wrists in irons. He was then shoved forward unkindly and would have fallen if the man had not caught him.

“You see your boy here, dragon!” the man called on stepping into the river. “He wants you to come with us. Do as we say and you both may yet live another day. Don't and see what becomes of your precious little warlock.” He scuffed Merlin across the head, hard.

Merlin winced. “Do as he says,” he said, unable to meet Kilgarrah's gaze.

There was a moment of rumbling, of ancient scales scraping over river stones, until the dragon finally rose upright radiating intense amounts of fury. Merlin cringed away from that anger, shaking.

They were marched through the woods far from the river, Kilgarrah herded like a cow by a pack of druids, the dragon dragging his feet as though the chains weighed him down, and Merlin shoved and prodded, tripping and stumbling then pulled without mercy to his feet. They came to a small clearing, a bowl of land surrounded by a short wall of stone and moss, as though thousands of years ago a giant beyond measure had passed through and this was its footprint. It was here they made Kilgarrah go, and here they hammered the great iron stakes that would hold his chains.

Merlin was shoved to his knees at the lip of the bowl. Anela stood next to him as she watched her people confine the Great Dragon.

“Why have you done this?” Merlin snarled. “To torment Kilgarrah until I'm forced to change?”

Anela snapped without looking at him, “Of course not,” as though he were a petulant child and she was tired of his whining. “I told you, the process of change is not simple, and your dragon is a part of the process. Bring him.”

Anela leaped into the shallow pit. Merlin was lifted to his feet, then off his feet and handed down to two waiting druids. He was dragged to Kilgarrah, forced to his knees, and the opening of his shirt was parted.

The dragon's golden eyes went round as dinner plates. It was the first time Merlin had seen him truly surprised. Not amused, not intrigued, but caught off guard in a way that the dragon did not like. The wound was still raw and still oozing blood in places, but the image clearer than ever.

“To change, the dragonlord needed to consume a drop of his dragon's blood,” said Anela. She cupped her hand below the still-dripping wound of Kilgarrah's cut and gathered the blood into her palm. “Little by little, so as not to overwhelm the dragon within you. He or she would open their skin, and let the blood mingle with theirs.”

Anela carried her little pool of blood over to Merlin, then smeared it over the wound on his chest.

“But we have no time to wait.”

It burned. Merlin's body reacted instinctively and curled away but the hands holding him straightened him back out.

“I'm sorry,” Anela said.

“Stop saying that!” Merlin snapped. He was shoved to the ground, where his ankles were shackled and the shackles' chains wrapped around one of the stakes – dragon and dragonlord, prisoners together.

They left Merlin but not before one final slap to the head, as though only Anela were the only one among the pathetic excuse for druids that was truly sorry. They left the pit, putting Merlin and Kilgarrah out of sight but, Merlin knew, keeping both of them still well within view.

Merlin didn't care. Pain and rage danced and swirled like a storm in his stomach, like paint smeared onto paper until it became something new, something he could not stop even if he wanted to, and tears slid down his face.

“Kilgarrah, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know this would happen. Please believe me I didn't want this to happen, I didn't know it was happening. I was scared and confused and... and--” Merlin babbled.

Something nudged his mind until all thought and all words were as jumbled a mess as his current state of emotions.

Peace, young warlock. I understand and I do not fault you. This is not your doing. You are as much the victim as I, if not more.

Merlin sucked in a shuddering breath. “It's like with my father all over again, isn't it?”

Your father was in his right mind. You were not. Even so, Balinor did not foresee the betrayal that would come by helping Uther. He believed he was aiding Uther, calling me to come and make peace with the king. But I was wounded, and would have been killed if your father had not made the deal he had – to imprison me rather than destroy me, and Uther enjoyed the thought of having a dragon in chains far too much not to agree. It was the only way your father could think to save me. He might have freed me had he not had to flee.

Merlin scrubbed the embarrassing display of child-like blubbering from his face with his sleeve. “I'm still sorry.”

Something warm and solid pressed against Merlin. When he looked over it was to see Kilgarrah's forearm pressing against his side.

Not as sorry as I, young warlock. For what these who dare to call themselves practitioners of the old ways have planned is terrible beyond reckoning. It is a deed that their brothers and sisters of the old ways would execute them for, as Uther had executed those possessing magic.

“They said they're going to wake the dragon within me. I – I think it means... I become a dragon? Is that what it is?” Merlin asked.

Yes. It is a difficult gift, one that requires days of meditation, of coaxing the dragon part of your soul to wake and come forth. And it is dangerous, for some that became dragons loved the form and the power so much that the dragon part of them took over, and their humanity was lost. But that they are forcing this change on you, young warlock... even I cannot imagine what the consequences will be. It is rare for me to admit such a thing but... I fear for you.

Merlin shuddered. “I already fear for me. What will they do to you?”

Kilgarrah's expression melted to one Merlin had never seen on the dragon – sadness. Oh, Merlin. To force the change through me they would have to kill me, and I know they will not do that. They are not so desperate, yet. Whatever they do, it will be to you.

Merlin's head sank to his knees with a groan. And here he had thought he'd never let his guard down, that it was possible to enjoy the here and not have to dwell on all those pesky, dire what-ifs that haunted his dreams. This was why it was next to impossible for him to look forward to anything.

How bloody pathetic was it that twenty minutes of peace came with a price? A bloody price, literally.

I am so sor-- Kilgarrah began.

Merlin shook his head. “No! No, please, just... no more apologies. At least let me have that.”

Kilgarrah's breath exhaled like the rush of a storm wind. If that is what you wish, young warlock. It is all I have to give.

~oOo~

Merlin did not feel any different, not in a way that he would associate with his body changing, or with something inside his soul “waking up.” Maybe he didn't have an exact reference to go by but he knew enough about alterations by magic to know it wasn't the kind of change that slipped in like a thief in the night. It wanted to be known, whether through excruciating pain or the mild discomfort of aging bones and aching muscles because you had changed yourself into a ninety year old man. All Merlin felt was the pain of his wound and having been kicked and punched.

The change has not begun. That is all, Kilgarrah said, and with a sour expression stating that this was neither good nor bad.

“How will I know when it begins?” Merlin asked.

It is difficult to describe, but those dragonlords who had undergone the change always knew, even with no previous knowledge of what to look for when the change began. But the change cannot happen without a catalyst. There needs to be a reason for the change, a yearning that surpasses the emotions of the conscious and pierces to the very center of the soul. The mark upon your chest is a spell, part of that catalyst but only half of a whole. Were this a matter of choice it would have been inked on your own skin by your own hand, or the hand of one you trusted. It is the request for the dragon within you to waken. Your desire for it to wake is the plea. But without that plea, the dragon will remain dormant.

But whatever the method needed to make Merlin beg his dragon-half to come out, for all their talk of being in a hurry, the druids were being remarkably patient about it. It had been a day since Kilgarrah was captured, and the only eventful note was whenever one of the druids thought to bring Merlin a bit of food and water. They were pathetic meals, a little cheese, a bit of bread, a piece of jerky at one point, enough to keep him alive but his stomach under the constant impression of being empty.

Merlin didn't think they were trying to keep him weak. In fact, personal experience had taught him that the better nourished the body the better the magic, and if they wanted Merlin to go terrorizing Camelot in a fit of dragon rage then they should have been feeding him a banquet.

Desperation, then? Drive Merlin to the brink of bodily needs until the dragon within him came out to fulfill those needs?

No, too simple, because that might have sent him tearing off and ravishing the countryside's population of deer but it wouldn't send him barreling toward Camelot. And that terrified Merlin. Not the hunger, but that whatever they did, however they woke the dragon, it would be in a way that when the change occurred, Merlin would be pointed toward Camelot and not think twice about heading straight for it.

And yet the druids had yet to do anything besides starving him a little.

What they seemed to be doing – whenever Merlin stood up to stretch his aching legs – was sitting around camp fires, talking. Where their were councils, there were plans, Merlin knew. Whatever they were going to do, they were making sure it would be done right.

The next day brought the only change when Anela and two of her people joined Merlin and Kilgarrah in the pit. Merlin tensed, preparing himself for what they had in mind for him, only for Anela to brush past him toward Kilgarrah.

With a wave of her hand, the chains around Kilgarrah's snout clicked open and fell away. Merlin gaped.

“Continue to cooperate and the chains remain off,” Anela said.

Kilgarrah worked his jaw before speaking. “What you believe I am capable of that I need a muzzle, I do not know. The chains you have bound me with do more than hold me down and you know this.”

“It does not suppress your fire,” Anela said. And now that she had mentioned it, Merlin realized that she was standing rather tensely, her fingers twitching the way Merlin's often did whenever he felt he might need to cast a spell at a moment's notice. Good, she should be afraid, and a part of Merlin hoped that Kilgarrah was able to reduce them to ash before they had a chance to act.

It was with much disappointment that Kilgarrah chuckled dryly.

“My lady, what would I hope to accomplish with my flames when I can hardly move? They would only backfire on me in such confinement.”

Anela smiled, but if it was meant to be smug then her nerves betrayed her. “Good. I would have hated to use your dragonlord against you for such a simple request.”

Kilgarrah narrowed his eyes. “You will not use the boy against me. You need him far more than you need me.”

“We need him alive and we need him functional,” said a new voice, and a man jumped into the pit, two more trailing him each with a dead doe over their shoulders. He was a tall man, with the lean build and broad shoulders like the knight's of Camelot, but his dark hair long and his narrow face in a perpetual state of stubble. He regarded Kilgarrah with something like annoyance, but looking at Merlin, he smiled.

Merlin didn't like his smile. Too happy. Too certain. Too companionable as if he honestly thought Merlin understood why they were doing what they were doing and so wouldn't mind.

“You don't need to damage a body to make a man scream,” the man said. He gestured to the two behind him, who rushed forward and tossed the carcasses within Kilgarrah's reach. “Eat up, oh great one, it may be some time before the next meal.”

“Kaudiss, respect,” Anela said looking mildly shocked. Kaudiss, however, ignored her.

“I can go for days without a meal,” Kilgarrah rumbled. “Even longer, when doing little more than lying around against my will. So do not threaten me, little man.”

Kaudiss raised a jaunty eyebrow at him. “You think we won't do it?”

“I surmise nothing, druid. I know. And what I know is that you are meddling with a power you know nothing about beyond a scattered few accounts that will have been vague at best. I know that this will not end well and you are foolish to try.” The Great Dragon then heaved a sigh and shrugged. “But, I also know you will not listen. The young rarely do.”

Merlin had a feeling that last statement had been partly aimed at him. Not in the mood for pointless reprimands when he hadn't deserved it, he glared. It, of course, went unnoticed.

Kaudiss chuffed. “I like this dragon, Anela.”

“Do not take us for naïve idiots,” Anela said hotly. “We have prepared, we have been preparing. We watched and we waited, biding our time, risking our necks as we sought the perfect opportunity to take Emrys. And we captured you, did we not? I would think waking the soul of a dragon no great task compared to capturing the Great Dragon himself.”

But rather than take offense, Kilgarrah merely shook his head sadly and devoured the deer.

Anela turned her burning gaze on Kaudiss and snapped. “You took your time. How difficult is it to mislead patrols?”

“Easier than you think but a little time consuming if you want it done right,” Kaudiss said, non-plussed. “You wanted Arthur and his men looking the other way? Well, you have it. We got them going east instead of west. I don't think they'll be crossing our side of the border anytime soon.”

Merlin's heart soared one moment only to plummet the next. Arthur was looking for him, and he was going the wrong way.

“Come,” Anela said, leading her party from the pit. “We have much to discuss.”

Merlin moved closer to Kilgarrah. “What will happen if they wake the dragon? Do you think they'll be able to turn me against Camelot.”

“I do not know, Merlin. They have yet to take any true action to instigate the change, but I meant it when I said this was foolhardy. I have seen the change. Twice. The first time, it was a noble act in defense of ones home and family. The second time...” Kilgarrah's face softened. “The second time, that deed, too, was noble. But the fear of an attack on what the dragonlord held most dear drove him to never leave that form again. As a dragon, you take on all that makes a dragon. He lived for centuries until nothing he loved remained.”

A thought hit Merlin and he stared at Kilgarrah wide-eyed. “That dragonlord... it wasn't... was it you?”

Kilgarrah's head reared back. “Goodness no!” He snorted. “That I was ever once human. Ridiculous. Of course it wasn't me.”

Merlin smiled and shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry it's just... considering how surprising and ironic my life tends to be I honestly wouldn't have been shocked by it--”

“It wasn't me”

“Okay, okay, it wasn't you, sorry,” Merlin said with petulance.

Kilgarrah looked away, staring with slitted eyes into the air. “But... he was my dragonlord. As was his kin, and his, because a dragon cannot be a dragonlord.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, then his eyes rounded over. “Oh. Oh! Was he...?”

“Your kin?” Kilgarrah smiled at him and dipped his head.

But rather than smile back, Merlin sagged in utter dejection. “So there's a chance I might get stuck as a dragon,” he stated.

“Only if you allow yourself. I swear that I will not let that happen.”

“Even if it meant denying the world another dragon?”

Kilgarrah's stare returned to the air. “Even then.”

Merlin eyed him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Your kin did not die in the purge, young warlock. He gave up on life, the sorrow of having seen his loved ones die too great for him, and he let himself slip away.”

“Oh,” Merlin said soberly.

Kilgarrah looked at him. “I will not deny the temptation of seeing another of my kind in the world. But you would only be half a dragon, as the human side of you wasted away lamenting for what was lost.”

“A lament that isn't enough to get the body to change back.”

“It was enough,” Kilgarrah said. “But it was too late.”

Merlin shivered, settling on the ground next to Kilgarrah's warm forearm. Like hell he was going to change if he could help it at all. If meditating was supposed to wake the dragon then, well, then he'd meditate it back to sleep... or something. Maybe he could even order it to sleep, and he did so like a mantra in his head.

Stay asleep, stay asleep, please stay asleep, please.... He must have been succeeding at the meditative part when the thump of a water skin hitting the ground jolted him back to reality as though he'd been asleep. Merlin quickly grabbed it before the druid waiting for it grew impatient and took it away.

“Merlin, no!” Kilgarrah cried but it was too late. The lip was already to Merlin's mouth and the water already going down. It tasted wrong, bitter and metallic, burning down Merlin's throat. Merlin tossed the water away in disgust because he knew that flavor, remembered it from those times when he'd been hurt or sick and Gaius forced concoctions down his throat to remove the pain and make him sleep. Whatever was in that water, it was strong, concentrated and working blasted fast. The world wavered, wrapped in halos of unpleasant colors that reminded Merlin of sickness and death. Someone was calling his name out loud and in his head and it was loud, so blasted loud and he wished they would shut up. Merlin covered his ears, then he was falling, falling, and even when he hit the ground, the impact rattling his bruised ribs, he was still falling.

He dreamed with his eyes wide open.

TBC...

Chapter Text

When Merlin was a child and Will in a particularly obnoxious mood, he would tell Merlin of all the rumors and stories he heard of people with magic being executed merely for having magic. The result, as the result would be when a child heard such things, was nightmares of being burned at the stake or pushed face-down onto the chopping block. But over time the nightmares had gotten better, because Merlin would remember his magic even in his dreams and fly away, safe and sound high up in the blue sky.

Then he moved to Camelot where the dreams turned vivid, almost solid. His magic wouldn't work and he was stuck as the fires crept toward his legs or the ax came flying down, and Arthur would be there, watching with not a flicker of emotion on his face.

But Merlin knew it was a dream, because in dreams you felt nothing, only the ghost of sensation. As the fire crawled up his legs he felt no heat. As the ax dropped from the air he would wake, his neck intact, no phantom pains plaguing it. And though he might wake in a cold sweat with a racing heart, it never lasted, and there were never any qualms about going back to sleep. He knew what was real and what wasn't.

He didn't know, now. He was on fire but he wasn't burning. His body felt like it was being pulled to pieces, and yet it was still intact. People shouted at him, but faces were little more than blurs of muted, smeared colors.

“Stupid wretch,” the watery voices would say, sometimes punctuating it with a kick to his back, the only part himself he had no choice but to expose when the kicking began and he had curled up.

“Bloody sorcerer,” they jeered, kicking, hitting with fists and things that were hard and relentless.

“Damn traitor.”

“Did you come here to destroy us? To destroy Camelot? Speak, traitor!”

“The king'll have your head for this.”

“Fool.”

“Sorcerer.”

“Traitor.”

“N-no, stop, please,” Merlin stammered, because this was wrong, all wrong. Arthur didn't know. Merlin had been careful, had always been careful. He would know if Arthur knew.

Do not listen to them, young warlock. They are lies. Listen to me. Focus only on my voice.

But it was so very hard with the voices snarling at him and the hard things impacting him. The faces shifted and writhed, and sometimes... sometimes Merlin thought he knew them. Sometimes it was Arthur's face, but sometimes it wasn't, and he no longer knew if he was dreaming.

Merlin. Listen to me. Focus on my voice. I am the truth among the lies. You are not in Camelot and you are no traitor. Please, Merlin, you must listen to me.

“You damn little filth! Were you sent to kill the king!”

“He is a traitor and must burn! Burn him!”

“You will die, Merlin. For what you are. Camelot does not tolerate magic.”

Do not listen to them...

The blows were relentless, finding their way to his chest no matter how tightly he curled. He buried his head in his arms, not caring that they were exposed, only wanting the voices to stop, please stop. He was cold and tired and hurting and he did not know what he had done to deserve this.

“Please, I didn't do anything, please!”

“Liar!”

“Traitor!”

“You will die, sorcerer! Camelot demands it!”

Merlin, do not listen!

The faces spun faster and faster around him, strangers melting into friends, sneering and leering at him – Arthur, Gwen, the knights, then no one, blurs and colors that danced and wailed until his stomach clenched, then he was lurching forward and vomiting.

“I think he's had enough,” someone said.

The voices stopped, leaving him alone to flounder in the storm of color and shapes, except for one voice.

Oh, Merlin. You are not alone, young warlock. If you remember nothing else, please remember that. You are not alone.

~oOo~

Merlin woke in a state worse than any that followed Gwaine's belief that Merlin actually enjoyed getting drunk. Which he didn't, not with how poorly he tended to hold his liquor and the fallout that came the next morning.

But that fallout was nothing compared to how he felt now – like a rag, wrung out, ragged and tossed into the rubbish heap to burn and barely escaping. The sour flavor of vomit coated the inside of his mouth, while cold coated the rest of his body down to his bones. Then there was a headache, not throbbing but splitting, an ax of ice buried deep into his skull and digging deeper. He was also in desperate need of throwing up, but with nothing in his stomach to purge.

“Are you with me, young warlock?” asked a gentle voice, a voice he knew.

Merlin whimpered, “Do I have to be?” The cold darkness had been so much better compared to this physical hell, but no amount of wishing for its return could convince his body to let him sink back into it.

“I'm afraid so. You have suffered quite the ordeal but it has ended for now, and waking will aid you in ridding yourself of its last dregs.”

Of course he had to wake. Getting into a situation was always so much easier than getting out of one, as though out of punishment for getting into the situation in the first place, even when it wasn't his fault.

Even when he had no idea what had caused his current “situation.” He remembered... dreaming, being shouted at, and if the pain in his body was anything to go by, being beaten mercilessly.

So not a dream, then.

Merlin snapped his eyes open, ignoring for as long as he could the pain that ripped through his head. But he saw no Camelot square and crowds of people coming to watch him die, no dungeons full of guards looking to take their ire out on their latest prisoner. There was only the muddy and mossy wall of the pit.

Merlin groaned as he rolled over onto his other side. “Ugh, I had the worst night--” he flinched back when his vision was suddenly monopolized by the head of a gold dragon.

“Kilgarrah!” Merlin yelped, then yelped again when his body let him know just how much it hated moving right now.

“Feeling better?” Kilgarrah asked, and Merlin could have sworn there'd been a touch of concern in his voice.

“No,” Merlin moaned.

The dragon smiled, though it didn't seem to quite reach his eyes. “You will. Give it time.”

Merlin curled into himself against the shivers that continued to wrack him. “I don't want to give it time, I want it gone. I feel like I've been thrown from a horse into a river at winter – fifty times. What the hell happened to me?”

At this, Kilgarrah frowned. “A potent concoction was slipped into your water. I could smell it, it was so strong, but you drank before I had a chance to warn you. Merlin, you must try to avoid this drug if you can. Though it cannot bend the mind to one's will it bends the mind enough for it to become pliable. The more you take and endure the more your reality will blur.”

Merlin, pain briefly forgotten, stared with wide, frightened eyes at Kilgarrah. “Enough to turn me against Camelot?”

“Enough, I believe, to render you incapable of telling reality from nightmares.”

“But I feel... well, okay, I don't feel fine but neither do I have the overwhelming need to turn into a dragon and raze Camelot to the ground.”

“Give it time,” said another voice, not Kilgarrah. Merlin forced himself to roll back over onto his other side – quite the lesson in momentary agony – and glared at the man now sharing the pit with them.

Kaudiss, crouched on his haunches, his arms draped over his knees, smiled at Merlin. “Awake already. You're a resilient little bugger, I'll give you that.” He picked up a water skin lying beside him and held it out to Merlin. Merlin shrank back from it.

“It's not drugged, promise,” Kaudiss said. To prove it, he took a quick swig. Not that it meant anything – Merlin knew a thing or two about pretending to have a drink of poisoned water; it haunted his nightmares along with burnings and beheadings.

“It is fine, Merlin. I do not smell the draught,” Kilgarrah said.

Be that as it may, Merlin maintained his hesitation. Kaudiss shrugged and tucked the skin into his belt. “Have it your way, Master Emrys. Though If I were you I'd drink while I had the chance. You're going to want to wet your whistle eventually and you might appreciate it more if the water were untainted.”

“And you'd might appreciate it if you'd stop tainting the water before I die of thirst,” Merlin said. “It might not seem like I have many options but I can still choose whether I 'wet my whistle' and live long enough to fulfill your damn plans,” he added coolly.

Kaudiss merely laughed, much to Merlin's annoyance. “True,” he said. “But you'll find that even that wee choice is a bit lacking in your life right now.”

Then, it was with a muttered spell that Merlin found himself unable to move his limbs, and that included his neck. He knew this spell, knew it was temporary and also knew that temporary didn't matter when your intent took only seconds to accomplish. Kaudiss was on him, forcing his pliant mouth open then pouring the water down his throat, and it was either drink or drown.

Being proven wrong was always obnoxious, but being without the slightest modicum of control was terrifying. Merlin heard Kilgarrah stir behind him, but whatever means left to the dragon to attack were taken away by Merlin being in the line of fire. Kaudiss knew this, and Merlin knew he knew by the filth-eating grin Merlin would have loved nothing more than to wipe from his face – violently.

“See?” Kaudiss said when finished, patting Merlin's cheek. “That wasn't so bad.”

“This is foolish, druid,” Kilgarrah said in a tone not unlike Gaius when he was tired of warning Merlin for the upteenth time not to use his magic so recklessly, but knowing the warning would still go unheeded.

Kaudiss regarded the dragon with a tilt of his head. “Still on that bit?”

“Believe me, were Merlin's life not tangled up in your folly I would say nothing at all. It is a kindness I do not owe you and you cannot begin to comprehend how much you should appreciate my efforts. There is far more at stake than you realize, and the lives of your people are a part of it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning. You know I can do nothing. The threat will be of your own making, druid, not mine.”

Kaudiss wagged a finger at him. “Let me ask you something. As the Great Dragon, you see much, yeah? Then tell me, how is this age of Albion supposed to come forth? Hm? What is the catalyst? How and when does it come to pass?”

“It will come to pass when it is time.”

Kaudiss barked a caustic life. “You see!” he said, arms spread. “You talk with the wisdom of ages yet you're no different than all those old fools keen to wrap answers in riddles. If you can give me a straight answer then by all means do so and I will release Master Emrys. Go on. Cough it up. When and how does Albion come to be?”

Merlin wasn't facing Kilgarrah, could not see his expression, but he could feel his frustration pouring off him like a wave of heat.

“I cannot say,” Kilgarrah said, like he was pulling out his own tooth. “But it will come.”

Yes,” Kaudiss said calmly. “It will. And we'll be the ones to bring it.” He rose and walked away, taking the water skin with him.

“Fools. Idiots,” Kilgarrah hissed.

Merlin, freed from the spell, eased his body over to face the dragon. “I'm starting to feel I should apologize for all those times I didn't listen to you,” he said, mostly to be kind, though some things... some things, yes, he wished he had listened.

Kilgarrah smiled wearily at him. “One would think I would be used to it by now. Even your father, who valued my council, could be stubborn at times. It does not matter your age, you will always be like hatchlings to my old eyes – incorrigible and head-strong. It would mean little to me, but as I have said, much is at stake. These druids see themselves as in control of the matter, but control is as fragile as eggshells. Their method of waking the dragon within you is crude and cruel. The outcome will be no different.”

Merlin, swallowing, shivered, and not because of the chills. “What will happen to me?”

“I do not know,” Kilgarrah said, apologetic and sad. “But... but I will be honest. It will not be good.”

~oOo~

Merlin rested as much as he could, as best as he could, which was difficult on the hard ground with a bruised body and skin fluctuating between sweltering and freezing. Kilgarrah tried to help by scooting close enough to share his heat when Merlin was cold, then away when he was hot. Time crawled by like ants on Merlin's skin, or seemed to until he opened his eyes and saw night had come. Then he would blink, and it was morning.

With his senses butchered and time as fluid as a river, Merlin was not prepared when he heard the familiar spell that locked his joints. His mouth was forced open by Kaudiss, who smiled as he poured the bitter liquid down Merlin's throat.

“Sorry, master Emrys. But I fear it's time.”

Kilgarrah roared. Reality fractured.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin was in hell, and figured it was what he got for spending half his life lying to everyone. They would drag him from where he tried to rest, kick at him and scream at him. They called him traitor and bastard, and promised him death that never came. The faces were a mess, features as distorted as mud. Sometimes he thought he knew them, sometimes he didn't and sometimes he wondered why those familiar faces just stood there doing nothing as he was beaten into the ground.

Only one of the voices was not like the others, begging him not to listen, promising that all he was hearing were lies, but he was starting to wonder if the one voice was a lie.

No, Merlin, please, you must listen to me...!

They hung him up by his wrists at one point, tossing cold water on him during those parts of the night where his breath fogged in silver mists – punishment since to keep beating him would only result in his eventual death.

“Camelot does not need you,” they said. “It does not want you.”

Merlin was left to hang with his feet off the ground until his ribs felt ready to rip through his skin and he could no longer breathe. He gulped the air ineffectually and when they cut him down, his body crumpled like a sack on the hard-packed earth, adding bruises upon bruises. He was picked up, dragged, only to be dumped again to endure more taunts and accusations and pain.

“You accomplish little by this except to drive him to madness!” said the voice, the one that kept telling him to trust it, that what he was hearing was lies. The only voice to offer comfort rather than abuse. Merlin wanted to crawl to that voice but the world was spinning so quickly around him he couldn't move or else he would fall off.

“Then we'll make sure to point him toward his precious kingdom when he does,” said one of the cruel voices.

This had become the essence of Merlin's existence – dreaming when he was awake, reality undulating like waves and pains that were too solid and too potent to call a nightmare. Sometimes the world would clear like storm clouds parting only enough to pierce the world with shafts of teasing sunlight. In those quiet, numb moments the only pains were those of his battered body, the only movement of his own making and only when he had managed to summon up enough strength and courage to try. It was nice, these moments, when the kind voice would soothe him and remind him that it wasn't real.

What the voice couldn't offer was the promise that it would end.

Merlin wondered where Arthur was. Except it was Arthur hurting him. No, that wasn't right because none of the voices were Arthur's. His guards, then? Why hadn't Arthur come? Why wasn't he executed, yet? Because it wasn't Arthur, that was why. Wasn't it?

They forced the bitter water down his throat. The world roared and fractured. They removed his shirt and shoes today, saying a traitor didn't deserve them. They strung him up, threw cold water on him, circled him like buzzards. Something touched his skin and it hurt like fire and ice. He flinched when the touch brushed his ribs. The third touch came at him like a crack, a sting, slicing across his back. The voices laughed.

“You don't deserve a quick death, traitor. You serve the enemy. You deserve nothing. Traitor!”

“Traitor!” the voices chorused, and another sting joined the first on his back.

“No,” Merlin begged. “No, please. I've only ever served you. I did nothing but protect you. Everything I did was for you.”

“Liar!” cried the voices. “Traitor.”

“Please, I am your friend. Arthur please!”

No, young warlock! It is not Arthur!

“Traitor!”

Do not Listen!

“Liar!”

This is not real! They are the liars. Please--!”

“Listen!” Merlin begged.

Pain burned across his back with each impact, biting and stinging, and the voices laughed. They spun him around, the broken plaything of Camelot. But not Camelot, because the voice said so.

The voice never said when it would end. And Merlin knew, he knew right then that it wouldn't end. A punishment for every lie and every deed and every day living in Camelot when he should have died on the executioner's block.

Liar, they said. Traitor.

Who were they?

Camelot, they said. The voice begged to differ but the voice wouldn't take away his pain. Couldn't take it away.

A cool hand brushed his face and he flinched.

“Oh, Merlin. Camelot does not deserve you.” It was a woman's voice, kind and soothing and sad – a shaft of warm light in the storm.

“Traitor!”

“Liar!”

Merlin gasped, his chest stretched heaving as it fought for air. He couldn't breathe, he'd been hanging for too long, and the stings continued to bite into his back.

“They are the traitors, Merlin. Not you.”

Merlin, do not listen!

Suddenly, Merlin's arms were free and he plummeted down to the very heart of the earth, surrounded by silence and dark and cold. The kind hand touched his face and he leaned into it, needing it. Wanting someone, anyone, not to hate him while promising that it would be all right.

“Oh, Merlin,” said the woman. “Do not let them destroy you. Be free, Merlin. Awake and ride the winds to freedom.” She said, cold and cruel, “Reduce them to ash. It is more than they deserve. These killers of women and children. These liars who would call them your friends. Be free, Merlin, and rid yourself of their burden.”

“Liar!” screamed the voices. An impact to his side, and he felt something break.

“Traitor!” Another impact, this one to his stomach, so hard he vomited while sobbing.

“Bastard!” Another to the face, followed by another, filling his mouth with the metal tang of blood.

“Make it stop, please,” he wept, and didn't care that he was weeping. He didn't care about anything except what ever would just make it stop.

“Free yourself, Merlin. Free yourself and destroy them all.”

Merlin, came the other voice, the one that had never hurt him. Remember, Merlin. Remember your destiny, your friends. Remember the knight who gave his life for you and your king. Remember the love of the men who call you brother though you are not of their status. Remember your king who you have fought for – two sides of the same coin, Merlin, and a man cannot hate what is a part of him. Please, Merlin, you must remember. All this is a lie. You must remember the truth.

“Camelot does not want you, Merlin,” said the woman.

Camelot needs you, said the voice.

A kick to the back on the welts, causing Merlin to arch his spine.

“You're pathetic,” they said. “You deserve what you get.”

“I did everything for you,” Merlin wept.

“Well, obviously it wasn't enough. You're useless. We don't want you. Rot in hell!”

Merlin wept, then screamed, roaring into the night air.

Then, he woke up.

~oOo~

It was glorious and terrible, this waking dream.

Merlin had wings black as a moonless winter's night and twice as long as his body. They clapped the air with each down-thrust, lifting him higher into that star-flooded night sky. He shook his head and felt the weight of horns and his mane of spines. He opened his mouth, peeling back his lips from dagger teeth, and he roared. It wasn't the pathetic human half roar of dragon-calling, it was a true roar resonating deep within his ribcage and bursting from his jaws like a great peel of thunder. His eyes were sharp as blades and nothing could be hidden from him, not even in the deepest shadows.

He saw them below him, tiny things like ants scuttling over the loamy ground. There was a moment that lasted the span of his great heartbeat in which he feared them. He could hear them, those voices that had taunted him, the owners of those limbs that had hurt him, and he hated them.

So he tucked his massive wings against his body, dove like a hawk spying a rabbit, and let them taste the burning that had become his existence.

They screamed, those tormentors and, oh, how wonderful it was. Let them feast on pain and know what it was like. Let them scream and beg and plead and run, run, run like he couldn't because they wouldn't let him. He hadn't mattered so they didn't matter. He heard their cries of “what happened?” and “it came too soon?” and “not yet!” and didn't care to decipher their meaning. He burned their camp and scattered them like ash.

When he touched ground, it was only long enough to rip away the chains of their only other prisoner. No one was going to be confined by these monsters. Only they were the ones allowed to suffer. Merlin broke the chains and threw them, but he could not stand the ground any longer. He took to the air, burning, scattering, raining down fear.

Then he flew, higher, faster, further, away and away and away where no one could touch him or find him or hurt him ever again. He saw, haloed in silver and darker than the night, the jagged teeth of distant mountains and followed them. Keen ears heard the calls of the night, the wind through the trees and babbling brooks. Keen eyes saw the slate mirror of a lake and the frothy ribbon of a river. His sense of smell, as sharp as the rest of him, picked out water, the musk of animals, the stench of human sweat and terror.

It was the alliance of all his senses that found him a cave where he could hide and rest, just for a moment. He was so tired for being so exhilarated, and it had been so long since he had rested. It was a shallow cave, but Merlin landed and gathered himself at its back, huddling like a cat in the nest of his spiked tail. It was warm in the cave, so he did not understand why he was shivering, why his body begged for sleep but his eyes were determined to watch the cave entrance.

Merlin.

He was safe, now. Nothing could hurt him like this. He was free.

Merlin.

So why couldn't he sleep?

Merlin!.

Merlin hissed, uncurling so he could arch his back and ready himself for an attack. He knew that voice. The kind voice, but a voice among many that had come with the pain. The sound of wings clapping the air reached Merlin before he finally spotted the dark shape edging ever closer. When it landed, the impact shook the rocky floor beneath his feet, and skin creaked like old leather when it folded its wings.

The gold dragon was bigger than Merlin. Older, too, he remembered, and more clever. But while his mind poked at some vague familiarity about the shape of this intruder, his need to get away commanded his body. He shrank back while at the same time attempted to make himself appear bigger.

“Merlin,” said the gold dragon gently, kindly. “Calm yourself, Merlin. Think, now. You know me. You can never not know me, even with the poisons clouding your mind. Search yourself, Merlin. Think.”

Merlin didn't want to calm himself, he wanted to get away but this dragon was blocking him, cornering him. It was without thought, only mindless terror, that Merlin lunged at the dragon hoping to startle it enough to get past. He snapped, slashed with his claws, spewed flames and reveled that the dragon was backing away.

Only for it to rear up, lunge forward and pin Merlin's thrashing body to the ground.

“Merlin you will listen to me, I am your dragon!” it roared. “Now calm! And think!”

Merlin writhed, snarled, lashed his tail but the dragon was so much bigger and stronger and he was so very tired. He stilled not because he wanted to but because no energy was left to him. He trembled, and wept; such a pathetic thing, just like the voices had said. And if the dragon killed him then he deserved it. He deserved all of it.

He was useless. There was no point in existing anymore, not when he couldn't even defend himself.

“Calm yourself, Merlin,” said the dragon, his voice like a warm summer breeze after the coldest winter. Merlin tensed when he felt himself being gathered, waited for sharp teeth to tear into his scales and sharp claws to split him open.

Instead, weathered knuckles caressed his head, between the horns and spikes. It was... nice. It made him think of different hands, old hands knicked and calloused from years of.... of making things. Potion things. Healing things. Old and strong but kind when he was hurt or tired. Hands that had wiped filth from his face and had eased the aches of having to spar with... someone. People, men, wearing shells of silver and brandishing weapons that hurt, who smiled at him, clapping him on the back, asking him to join them. One big, one serious, one who always made him laugh, one noble and dark skinned like the woman who he was kin to, who Merlin liked to make smile, who loved the man, the man Merlin sparred with. Dollop head. Prat with a destiny, regal in red and gold. The red dragon. The great king. His friend.

And the dragon, his dragon. Big, golden and wise.

“K-Kilgarrah?” Merlin said, stilling, tilting his head toward the gentle claws that did not hurt him and would never hurt him, because this was his dragon, his brother.

“Yes, Merlin. It is I.”

Merlin sniffed and hiccuped. “Is it... over? Did... it end?”

“It is over, Merlin. You are safe, now.”

“P-promise?”

“On my life.”

Merlin wept, and as he wept, he felt himself shrivel up until he was so small he could have hidden beneath Kilgarrah's claws. It was cold, this small form he was now in, cold and painful and sick, and he longed for the dragon skin that had promised him safety.

More than that, he longed for the place that danced bright and happy in his memories.

“It wasn't real, right?” he begged. “It wasn't Camelot. Or Arthur.”

“It was not,” Kilgarrah said.

Merlin nodded. “Take me home, please? I want to go home.”

Warm claws gathered around him, and Merlin burrowed into them.

“Then home you shall go, young warlock,” Kilgarrah said, and carried him away.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin must have slept. He woke to find himself lying in a meadow of green grass, staring up into an overcast sky. The air was the wet chill of an early spring morning, the grass beneath him moist and sweet smelling, the breeze gentle and coy. He wanted to sit up, see where he was, and tried to when pain ripped through his back, ribs and stomach, and he collapsed back onto the ground making a sound that couldn't decide between wanting to be a groan or a whimper.

“Easy, young warlock,” said a voice burned into his mind. Panting, Merlin craned his neck around until Kilgarrah's great head filled his vision.

“You must take it slow,” said the dragon. “For I cannot heal you at this time. The change and abuse your body underwent was too much, and forcing it to knit its injuries so quickly would do more harm than good.”

Merlin, still barely able to think, could only nod his head in understanding.

“Let me help you up,” said Kilgarrah. He slid his claws beneath Merlin's back, and keeping it slow, lifted him upright. It was easier when he didn't have to do most of the work, although getting to his feet about dropped him like a sack of grain. It wasn't just the pain, it was the continuing need for more rest, as though his nap in Kilgarrah's claws had only scratched the surface of his exhaustion.

He also must have looked as bad as he felt. Kilgarrah was watching him with open concern. “Can you walk, Merlin? I would risk taking you closer, but it would make matters... er... complicated.”

Merlin stared up at the citadel rising above the woods. He took a step forward, testing his legs that had yet to give out on him, then stopped.

Staring at that castle, that place he called home, clenched his heart until he could barely breathe, and not out of joy. He could feel himself shrinking back.

Traitor. Useless. You deserve what you get.

“It wasn't real,” he said to himself.

“No,” Kilgarrah said. “It wasn't. Home is as you left it, and your friends are waiting for you.”

Merlin took another trembling step forward. Then another, then another, his heart throbbing painfully with each one. He looked back at Kilgarrah and wished he could stay with the dragon, to fly with him forever into the sky where no one would ever hurt him--

“No!” Kilgarrah bellowed. Merlin flinched.

Kilgarrah said, more calmly. “I sense the dragon within you stirring. Merlin, it is not dormant as I thought it would be. You must be careful in both what you think and feel. You are on edge. Being home will help to calm that part of you but until that time you must not give into the desires that currently plague you. Do you understand? Do not give the dragon reason to return.”

Merlin nodded shakily. He turned back to the castle, so close but might as well be a hundred miles away.

“It is all right, Merlin,” Kilgarrah said. “I will be near enough to help you should you feel yourself giving in to that part of your soul, and it will calm once you know you are safe. But you need the people who love you around you for that. So go, now, while you can. You have rested and that will help but not for long.”

A dry snout gave him a gentle nudge to his shoulder. “Go!”

Merlin stumbled forward and the momentum kept him going. He staggered into the woods and followed the familiar path etched into memory from years of seeking Kilgarrah's advice. It had been such a small trek, then. Little more than minutes. It now felt like hours to his throbbing, burning, freezing body.

Yet, somehow, some when, he broke through the trees onto the well worn road, and the gates of Camelot gaped open in welcome.

Merlin was home.

He increased the speed of his staggering but was forced to slow when his legs warned him against such a risk by trying to give out. He angled sideways, slamming into the stone walls of the gates. He clung to them as he breathed through a sudden bout of nausea, then continued to cling to them as he made his agonizing way into the city.

But stopped when he ran out of wall.

“Hey, you all right, friend?”

A hand clutched his shoulder. Merlin jerked back, bruising his other shoulder once again against the wall. The guard who had touched him raised his hand in surprise and inched back.

“Easy there, friend, easy. By the lords, what the hell happened to you? Were you attacked? You look it. Where did it happen? Do you need the heal--” he looked Merlin up and down. “--Er.” He looked him up and down a second time. His eyes narrowed, then gradually bulged.

“You're... are you...? Wait here.” The guard moved quickly away looking frantic and a little spooked. He didn't go far, only to his fellow guard who he had swift, urgent words with.

Merlin watched them for a moment and wasn't liking what seemed to be a contagion of trepidation between the two. They kept looking Merlin's way, pointing at him, unease screaming from every line of their tense bodies. The next moment they looked away, Merlin pushed from the wall and staggered as fast as he could.

They knew. Kilgarrah was wrong. It had been real because they knew.

“Wait, hold up there!” the guard called. His voice ripped through Merlin in a stampede of panic. It coursed through his body bringing a wake of energy that allowed him to break into a limping run. But he was hurt, sick, the guard healthy and fast. He caught up to Merlin easily and grabbed his arm.

Merlin cried out in terror and shrank back, half dropping, as he readied himself for more pain.

“Whoa, easy there, Merlin, I'm not going to hurt you. Lords, what was done to you? Here, just rest here for a moment. I've sent Jiles to fetch the knights. They'll be here, soon.” The guard pulled Merlin carefully toward a house and a bench then helped him ease down onto it. Or tried to, but Merlin pulled away, shaking his head.

“No, I have to keep going. I'll stop if I sit down.”

“Well, that's somewhat the point of sitting and resting--” the guard tried.

“I can't, I can't. I have to keep going,” Merlin said. He pulled away and walked on, people parting for him, fearful and staring at the ragged, bloody man lurching and swaying as though with a foot half through death's door.

“All right, at least let me help you,” the guard said, reaching for his arm, but Merlin wouldn't have it. It hurt to be touched, reminding him of things he so desperately wanted to forget. He was supposed to be safe here, and wanted to prove it, to know he had control again and that all else had all been a lie like Kilgarrah had said. Maybe it was foolish, but he had long ago stopped caring about quite a bit. This was no exception.

But the guard kept begging him to stop, rest. The people in the lower town whispered to each other and their voices skittered down Merlin's spine like spiders. It was them again, gossiping about how useless he was, pathetic, a liar, a traitor, who deserved what he got. Their voices surrounded him like hissing snakes until he covered his ears, pressing hard, trying and failing to block them out.

Hands gripped his arms, stopping him, then pulling at him. Merlin struggled, squirming and pushing at the body restraining him. They were going to pull him down, hurt him, laugh at him and tell him he deserved it. Kick him, punch him, string him up until he couldn't breathe. Merlin fought but he was so tired and the world was spinning again and would throw him away to fall forever and ever and...

“Merlin!”

Merlin gasped, cringed, and looked up.

Arthur looked back, golden and red. He was gaping like he was frightened.

“Merlin,” he said in a voice like a child. “Lords, Merlin what-- where--”

Merlin blinked at Arthur, at the face that didn't blur or shift. He reached out with shaking fingers, touched the jaw that was solid, warm and real. But it wasn't enough. He couldn't be sure.

“Arthur?” he said, his voice smaller than Arthur's had been. “Arthur, are you mad at me? Please... tell me you're not mad.”

Arthur frowned, his brow frowning with him in confusion. “What? No, Merlin, of course I'm not mad. Why would I be mad?”

Merlin nodded. It was enough. It had to be, he was so tired. He let himself melt, first his legs, then body, then mind, knowing Arthur would catch him. And he did.

TBC...

Chapter Text

He was flying, cutting through the clouds with his mane of spines, the wind scraping his scales and filling his lungs. Then he saw them, those feeble ants scuttling about, breaking like frightened rabbits from their camp into the woods. But he wouldn't let them. Oh no. They did not deserve their freedom. So he tucked his wings and dropped, straight and true as an arrow. His flames were like a spear piercing the dark. The trees caught fire and the air writhed with hellish flames. He saw, as he pulled up, the golden head of the king with his golden crown. He stood there, staring at him in horror.

Merlin woke in a frenzy of flailing limbs and his body flying upward as he searched for something to grab and pull himself up so he could run. The result was a painful tumble to a hard floor, but he ignored it knowing only the need to get away – even if he didn't know what, exactly, he was getting away from – and he scrabbled back until his spine hit stone and he huddled there, panting, shivering and dizzy from his eyes rolling in his sockets, absorbing every iota of his surroundings like dry soil soaking in water.

That there were no trees, earth and sky registered first, but it was a moment before he recognized every shape and shadow – stone walls, the lumpy rectangle of a cupboard, the dark line of a bed, and the bits and bobs commonly associated with a bedroom.

His bedroom, because only his bedroom would have bundles of plants drying on the same line as his washed trousers.

His bedroom, in Gaius' tower.

He was home.

The realization so overwhelmed Merlin that the back of his eyes burned with moisture. He was home, safe, just as Kilgarrah had promised, and something inside him that had been writhing and coiling in agitation settled, calming but not resting. Merlin could still feel it like a weight behind his breastbone, and it was an unconscious action that had him bringing his hand to his chest. But rather than skin he felt cloth. Looking down at the open neck of his shirt he saw bandages, and now knowing they were there he could feel them wrapped comfortably around his upper body. His wrists were also wrapped from the web between thumb and finger and nearly to his elbow.

Merlin was ripped from these bewildering observations by the door swinging inward and a thick body huffing and puffing like a bull into the chamber. Merlin jolted hard, slamming his back into the wall. But the burning pain rippling through him wasn't enough to stop him from curling into a quivering, panting ball.

“Merlin!” said the invader, both shocked and appalled. “Merlin, what happened?”

A small crumb of logic whispered to Merlin that he knew that voice just as he knew the body rushing toward him. But fear was louder, and when an old, weathered hand reached for him he scuttled sideways until his side hit the small table against the wall.

The hand retracted as though burned.

“Oh my poor boy,” said the man that Merlin knew. He did not approach Merlin, but went to the square of cloth over the window and parted it, letting the light flood the chamber. Merlin winced at the sharp pain it caused his head, but it was a fleeting pain even if his eyes did continue to squint against it. It was a moment before his eyes adjusted, and when they did, a face finally joined the body.

It was Gaius, just Gaius. Nothing bad, nothing harmful, no one who was going to hurt him, and the shifting weight in Merlin's chest settled once again.

Gaius shuffled to the door and eased it closed, but not before Merlin saw what was waiting on the other side. More faces he knew, men dressed in armor, a woman in a purple gown, and the golden-haired king but without his crown. They were staring toward the door with a silent, expectant look, but the expectancy faded to disappointment as the door eased shut. With the barrier now between Merlin and those waiting outside, Gaius shuffled to the bed and eased his old body onto the edge with a grunt.

He observed Merlin the way he often would when assessing a patient's physical condition at a glance. It was accompanied by a veneer of sympathy, even a bit of sadness, because Gaius already knew Merlin's physical condition and no doubt had some idea as to his emotional condition as well.

“Merlin?” he said kindly as one would to a frightened child.

“I'm all right,” Merlin said, uncurling with aching slowness from his huddle. “S-sorry. I had a bad dream and you startled me a bit.”

Gaius chuffed. “A bit seems to be a bit of an understatement. It must have been quite the nightmare.”

“I don't really remember it,” Merlin said. It was true, he remembered flying, and possibly seeing Arthur, but that was it.

“Well, you survived it, and I dare say your bed will be far more comfortable than that floor.” Gaius eased himself back to his feet in order to aid Merlin back onto his. It was like the blind leading the blind – the elderly helping the infirmed, with much groaning and wincing and Merlin nearly toppling over. But he was up, and like Gaius, shuffled along to the warmth and familiarity of his bed.

Gaius had him sit rather than lie down. To check his injuries, he said, and thankfully did most of the work in removing Merlin's shirt and the bandages. Merlin could barely lift his arms without suffering aches, he didn't want to experience what raising his arms above his head would do. He never hurt so much in his life, and that included attacks by beasts and sparring with Arthur when in a foul mood.

Then the bandages fell away, and all trivial thoughts became lost to the single vision of his chest.

The mark was still there, puckered like a burn and the scabs hellish red. His trembling fingers wandered up to it, and when they touched it, the wound stung.

Merlin's terrified gaze met Gaius. “Did Arthur see...?”

Gaius nodded somberly. “You were without a shirt. But not to worry,” he said quickly when Merlin began to hyperventilate. “I told him it was an enchantment meant to keep you subdued and that it has worn off.”

“Did he believe you?” Merlin asked anxiously. “I know he trusts you and all but you know how Uther was when it came to enchantments and magical symbols and even Arthur knows magical symbols always vanish when they're finished--”

Gaius patted the air as if it could detour the flow of Merlin's panic. “Merlin, it is all right. I will admit that he is wary but more for your sake and not the magic's. And... I simply added that your mark was merely overkill, nothing more. Besides, it does not matter. Arthur is worried about you, not some spent enchantment.”

With the bandages now off, Gaius bustled about gathering bottles and cloths scattered throughout the room, undoubtedly left from the first time Gaius had treated him. No sense in having to go back and forth for them when they would only be needed again and again.

“You know what it's for, then,” Merlin stated.

Gaius dipped a cloth into a bowl of fragrant water. “I do.” He paused, head canted but eyes not quite on Merlin. “Did it happen? Was there change?”

Merlin thought back to flying, diving, raining fire and destruction on his tormentors, not caring who they were, only wanting it to end in a way where he would never have to worry about it happening again. The weight within his chest stirred. Merlin pressed his palm against it. The wound didn't sting this time, but the disfigured skin was hot and disturbing.

“It's still there,” Merlin said.

“Unfortunately it will be for a time,” Gaius said. “Most magical injuries heal with few to no scars – your injury from Nimueh, for example – but it will be a long while before this one heals.”

“Not the mark,” Merlin said.

Gaius looked at him sharply. “It's still awake? Your dragon?”

Merlin nodded with a tight swallow. “But Kilgarrah promised it would sleep when I started to feel safe.”

Gaius, however, remained troubled. “I certainly hope so. I know only stories of dragonlords who became dragons. That some became so enamored with the form they never changed back, forgetting who and what they were.”

Merlin sighed, rubbing the aching space between his eyes. “Yes, I know that already. It's what might happen if I change into that form again. Gaius, I was so confused... I went after the ones who took me and didn't care who they were. I nearly attacked Kilgarrah. Those people wanted me to think Camelot was my enemy. Gaius, if I panic and change while in Camelot...”

Terror made Merlin start to rise with the need to move and pace off his growing agitation. Then Gaius was there, easing him back down with a firm hand on his shoulder, the bowl and cloth occupying his other hand.

“Calm yourself, Merlin. You said so yourself that the dragon will eventually sleep once you feel you are safe, and you are safe. It takes far more than a few anxieties to cause change.” Gaius eyed Merlin's body up and down with a frown. “A lot more,” he said darkly.

Merlin shifted, feeling those injuries Gaius was studying with a physician's eye but a parent's heart. Merlin looked down at himself – lords he'd gotten thin, his skin having shrunk into the nooks and crannies of his bones. He looked at the bruises and cuts, darkest on the right side of his painfully visible ribs. He turned his head as much as he could for a look at his back. All he could manage was his shoulder, but the numerous red welts told him everything he needed to know.

“It's not bad,” Gaius said, cloth slopping in the bowl. “Your back, I mean. The strikes were meant for pain, not for damage. Few of them opened.”

“Doesn't feel not bad,” Merlin griped.

Gaius smiled, and with a gentle hand dabbed at the mark with the cloth. “You forget my definition of not bad, Merlin. It will be many leagues from pleasant but be glad that there will be no lasting damage. Lashes have been known to cripple a man. As for the rest of you, be aware that you have four broken ribs and enough bruises to make you feel as though you've taken an aging spell.”

“More like been trampled by horses,” Merlin said, wincing when the mark stung.

“You're also very weak. You may not feel it now what with your scare but you will be soon. Merlin, did they not feed you at all?”

“I can't remember,” Merlin said, still studying himself.

“How can you not remember? I would think that what you went through would be hard to forget, and I checked you for head wounds, all of them minor.”

Merlin glared. “Because they kept me on a diet of water and potent herbs, that's why. All I do remember is reality getting dashed to pieces and me being kicked, punched and insulted while it happened. I didn't know where I was or who was attacking me, Gaius. They kept me drugged for so long I forgot where I was, and if they'd pointed me at Camelot when the change happened...” he trailed off. He couldn't bring himself to admit it out loud.

If they'd pointed him at Camelot, he might have attacked it, just like he had attacked the Druid camp.

A calloused hand rested against the back of his head, the thumb caressing the side of his skull.

“Oh, Merlin,” Gaius sighed, heavy and sad. “I'm so sorry--”

“Don't,” Merlin said, hotter than he'd meant to. He said, more softly. “Don't, please. No more apologies. I've had too many as it is. They don't mean anything anymore.”

Gaius nodded and went back to cleaning Merlin's wounds. “It was Druids, you say?”

“A renegade camp, I think. I remember someone mentioning something about the other druids not being happy about what they planned to do. I – I think I may have destroyed them, scattered them at least, I'm not sure. I just remember attacking them then flying off.”

Merlin looked at Gaius nervously. “How – how long did they have me?”

Gaius winced. “Three weeks, nearly four.”

Merlin's heart thudded painfully, but he forced himself to nod. “Sometimes it felt like a day but... but sometimes it felt like a century.” His fingers began to hurt, and he realized he was wringing his hands red. He pulled them apart and busied them by gripping the edge of the bed. It didn't stop the tremors going up his arms, nor the rapid pulse of his heart.

“Arthur and the knights did look for you,” Gaius said like a promise.

Merlin nodded. “I know. I remember someone saying something about that, too – about making sure they looked in the wrong direction.”

Gaius used another cloth to smear a healing balm over the cuts. It smelled of flowers and spices, and it made Merlin laugh.

“They caught me because I was picking plants,” he said. He expected Gaius to laugh with him at the absurdity of it – kidnapped while picking bloody daisies, or poppies to be more exact.

Gaius, instead, stopped and stared at nothing. The laughter caught in Merlin's throat.

“No, Gaius, don't,” he said. “It's not your fault. If it didn't happen while I was picking herbs then... maybe it would've happened while I was out hunting with Arthur or helping Gwaine woo some new love interest with a picnic and me pretending to be his manservant. And you know me, I'm forever finding reasons to go visit the lake. Those Druids said they'd been preparing for me so they'd had to be watching me for some time...” Merlin shuddered at the thought. Him, not a king or a knight but a blasted manservant and he was the one getting stalked. “They could have grabbed me at any time, they just... happened to when I was picking plants.” His hands went back to fiddling with each other. “Just seemed a ridiculous thing to get captured doing, that's all. And it's not like me getting kidnapped is a regularly occurring event, at least not when I'm with Arthur.”

Merlin's words coaxed a small smile from Gaius. But a smile did not mean Gaius would stop wallowing in unnecessary guilt, though Merlin really wish he would stop. It wasn't just Merlin getting kidnapped – by himself, without Arthur there to spur every bandit and bruiser within a mild-wide radius into a kidnapping and ransoming frenzy – there was also the twisted little matter of the kidnappers being Druids. Druids, of all people! Who, when not in a destiny-forcing state of mind or on a solitary mission of revenge, were as harmless as spring lambs.

It seemed so viciously wrong that the one sect of old religion that had always tried to be nothing but supportive had harbored their fair share of disgruntled and revenge-seeking. Maybe, had this been in the days of Uther, Merlin might have felt a semblance of pity for them. But this wasn't the days of Uther, and the things they had done to Merlin...

It was wrong, so very wrong, how vivid the memories were of what had amounted to a waking nightmare. He remembered it feeling like eternity, and yet looking back it felt like it had only been a day. But one day or a thousand years, it was still there, fresh and splintered and mocking, still wanting him to doubt even with nothing left to doubt. Traitors and liars were not healed by physicians, they were tossed into dungeons and beaten and kicked. But the memories whispered otherwise, as though they refused to be defeated.

If they couldn't have him hating Camelot, then they would make him hate his dreams.

Sometime while Merlin was wallowing in unhappy thoughts, Gaius had wrapped his chest and replaced his night shirt. Merlin wanted to praise Gaius on his improved bandaging time, but the heavy lethargy sinking into his bones told him a different story. Gaius helped ease him onto his non-damaged side, which Merlin knew he would be spending a lot of time on. Broken ribs were fickle injuries, and if they didn't like a position they let you know it with a vengeance.

“Rest,” said Gaius, cleaning up. “I'll be back later with some soup.”

Gaius bustled out the door. Merlin saw in that short-lived moment as the door opened and closed the exact same scene from when Gaius had first stepped in – Arthur, the knights, Gwen, still waiting, still hopeful, then once again disappointed when the door shut.

A traitor and a liar did not have friends who waited for him outside of doors. The splintered memories whispered on undeterred.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin was not, and had never been, a man who let past ordeals dictate his actions and attitudes. Put more simply, he tried not to let the bad things that happened in life change him. They might leave him with nightmares, moments of guilt (crippling at times) that plagued him with what-could-have-beens, make him occasionally impatient if he felt Arthur was being twice as prattish and ignoring his council - again, especially when having asked for said council in the first place – but nothing had ever altered all that was fundamentally Merlin about him. Merlin was a man who liked to move forward from his experiences, although Gaius would probably beg to differ and call it stubborness.

Merlin's latest ordeal shouldn't have been any different. He had survived. He was free. He was home. He knew what was real and what wasn't, because no amount of chemical concoction could refute the physical evidence that his secret was still safe and that no one hated him or wanted to torture him.

But there was a lingering... something that worried at Merlin's already frayed nerves and kept the dragon within him a constant presence behind his breastbone. A dread, perhaps, or a remnant uncertainty that would make him tense at distant noises and jump at nearer ones. A worry of things that might be, might come, might slip in like a thief and spirit him away to endure the torment all over again.

Because nothing ever really ended, did it? If it wasn't renegade Druids today, it was Morgana the next day (should she still be alive, and Merlin often worried she was), or some enchanted beast the next, or someone with a dead son or daughter and a grudge the next. There was always something, and next time that something might be ten times as worse as what Merlin had just survived.

Lords, could anything be worse than that?

A stupid question. Of course it could be worse, because next time, his tormentors might succeed.

And if that wasn't enough, as though he didn't have plenty to occupy his mind and rob him of sleep, Merlin would often find himself wondering what would happen if Arthur and the others did find out about his magic. Arthur wouldn't have him tortured, Merlin was certain. He wasn't that kind of man. But he was a man who preferred putting down a potential threat as soon as possible. He was also a man who adhered to his father's laws, and the laws stating that all sorcerers were to be put to death immediately was still firmly in place.

But Arthur wasn't Uther. He upheld the laws but didn't spend all his waking hours searching for sorcerers around every corner. Maybe Arthur would just banish him. That wouldn't be so bad, except for the part where it put him in a position to be taken by the renegade Druids again...

So maybe Arthur would lock him up, keep him like his father had kept Kilgarrah, a prize placed where it could do no harm, a reminder to all what happened if you dared to use magic in Camelot.

Merlin's torment hadn't ended after all. His thoughts refused to leave him be, let him rest, and instead left him restless and edgy in a way that was difficult to hide, especially when he was pulled from those same thoughts rather roughly by the most innocuous of noises. In this case, Gaius banging the wooden cooking spoon against the pot to clear it of most of the porridge. At the first bang of wood against metal, Merlin snapped from his own mind and flinched so hard his chair scooted back an inch.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Gaius said with the utmost sincerity. Three days of bed rest had provided Merlin with enough energy to make it down the stairs with aid, and Gaius had been anxious for him to start building up his strength and prevent muscle atrophy. But it, too, was another type of torture, leaving him breathless, shaky and longing for his bed. Even sitting he could feel the weakness in his body like layers of armor trying to pull him to the ground.

Gaius spooned the porridge into two bowls, adding generous amounts of honey and a splash of fresh milk courtesy of the kitchens. They had been eating well since Merlin's return (well, Gaius had, Merlin's appetite had barely worked its way up to thicker porridges and soups). Not that they had been wanting before then, but the porridges and soups had been wonderfully creamy rather than thin and lumpy, and there had been flavor, the kind you only got from those foods prepared in the palace kitchens. Merlin had also caught a glimpse of their small larder, near-packed with breads, cheeses and salted pork.

Gaius may still have been doing the cooking but Merlin knew a dietary intervention when he saw one. He wondered if the kitchen staff or Arthur were to thank. Most likely Arthur. Mary the cook was still a little sore after Merlin had said she'd smelled as bad as her food, never mind that he'd been possessed by a demonic multi-headed snake at the time (and not that she'd believed him when he told her).

The two of them tucked into their porridge, Merlin silent and listless as he forced his heavy arm to feed himself and Gaius attempting to fill the space with idle conversation. There had been little talk the past three days, Merlin mostly sleeping – or trying to sleep – and Gaius discussing only the things he knew would matter to Merlin: that is, the safety of the kingdom and the people within it.

When Merlin finished eating – leaving the bowl empty for once – Gaius paused, studying his ward carefully.

“Arthur sent men to search the area beyond the border where you said you were taken,” he said.

Merlin looked at him sharply. “Did they...?”

Gaius inclined his head. “It was quite easy to find. Most of the grounds had been scorched black.”

Merlin's body went rigid as a stick, his heart thundering in his chest and his stomach clenching.

Seeing Merlin's distress, Gaius held up a hand. “They believe what I told them, that the camp was set alight by an untended fire. I told them that you told me it was how you managed to escape.”

Merlin's body didn't ease from its tension, it shuddered from it, as though not quite willing to give it up so readily but having no choice.

“Wh-what of the chains? Used to hold Kilgarrah?” Merlin said.

Gaius shrugged nonchalant. “Sorcerers have been known to chain beasts they wished to do their bidding. I told Arthur that they must have used it in conjunction with the potent herbs to scare you into giving up information on Camelot.” He clucked his tongue. “But even a novice physician knows that you only worsen matters when driving one to terror with potent herbs. The terror must have been so great you were rendered mute. You don't recall saying anything about Camelot.”

Gaius smiled, well-pleased with his ingenuity, and Merlin smiled tremulously back. But the weight in his chest stirred as if the need to lie by itself was enough to keep the dragon in him at the ready. Lords, putting the damn thing back to sleep was going to take forever.

“The few bodies they did find were burned to bone,” Gaius continued. “It is of no surprise. Dragon fire is fire more powerful than any normal blaze. Most of the bodies would have been reduced to ash in an instant.”

Merlin's stomach clenched a second time. He had done that – burned those bodies to nothing, Death riding him as he massacred to satisfy his rage and need to escape. They had screamed, Merlin remembered that. Screamed and perhaps sobbed, wailing like animals as they died slowly, painfully...

A sudden but light grip on his shoulder made Merlin start and look up at Gaius suddenly next to him and deeply worried. The man was getting stealthy in his old age, Merlin tried to tell himself laughingly.

“You did what you had to,” Gaius said kindly.

“Doesn't mean I have to like it,” Merlin said. He swallowed thickly. “I know... I know they hurt me and Kilgarrah but... Gaius, it was like I had no control. What if it had been the knights, or Arthur, or all of Camelot? What if it happens again?”

Gaius squeezed Merlin's shoulder and it seemed to calm the dragon in his chest.

“Merlin. What happened was not your fault. Please, try to remember that. Do not take the blame for someone else's follies. They got what they intended, and that their plan turned on them was their own doing and inevitable. Such powers are not to be forced.”

“But--” Merlin tried to argue.

Gaius sighed. “I know, my boy. I know. Just... at least... try to be glad it was your tormentors and no one else.”

The older man moved back to his seat, easing his old bones into it. Just as he was about to resume eating, he paused in thoughtful silence, then looked at Merlin.

“I do not think you would have attacked Camelot,” he said.

Merlin rolled his eyes, “Because of my destiny.”

“No, Merlin. Because you love it and the people in it too much. I honestly believe that deep within yourself, you would have remembered that.”

Perhaps Gaius was merely trying to placate Merlin, but the intensity of his gaze would not let Merlin believe otherwise that Gaius didn't mean it. Faith in others could be as potent as any drug. Merlin wished that same potency could strengthen his own faith.

~oOo~

A body could only endure being bedridden for so long, whether lying down, sitting up or sitting on the edge. And a mind could only tolerate the same walls before it started contemplating madness as a means to pass the time. Merlin wasn't keen to go back to his room just yet despite the exhaustion of having come down the short flight of steps, and Gaius agreed that a change of scene – no matter how small – often did both body and mind good.

Luckily, Gaius had an old sitting chair he used to use back before reading at his desk became preferable (his back might disagree on that, he said, but his poor arms had made much louder complaints over having to hold up such heavy tomes for so long). He padded the chair with pillows and blankets, and set it by one of the windows for Merlin to get a little sun and more preferable scenery. There wasn't much to see of the grounds, but there was part of Camelot and beyond, as well as a kestrel currently circling the sky.

Once Merlin was situated with a blanket across his shoulders and tucked around his lap, Gaius gathered his kit and headed out to make his rounds – reluctantly so despite Merlin's protests that he'd be fine. It wasn't as though Merlin planned to go anywhere, or could go anywhere for that matter, and there was a chamber pot nearby for... well, other needs, not that he thought it would be an issue just yet.

Gaius left him with numerous promises of returning shortly. Once out of the room, Merlin turned his attention to the outside and the kestrel still wandering the air.

It made him think of flying, but in a night sky, not blue; a sea of stars against the black, the wind like a wolf's howl, his body like a blade cutting through the air straight for all those little ants who had begged to die...

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut with a gasp, then opened them with a shudder.

Kilgarrah?

I am near, young warlock, Kilgarrah immediately replied, though the voice, even in Merlin's head, sounded faint. Distance did that, Merlin knew, even for voices spoken only in the mind.

It's been three days and it's still awake. Is that normal? I feel safe. Shouldn't it be dormant by now?

Thinking you are safe and truly believing it are two different things, Merlin. The dragon within is not merely a separate entity residing within you. It is you. It is a part of your soul, and so it knows more than the mere surface of your mind. Only when in your heart you are at peace will the whole of you be at peace.

Merlin sagged heavily in the chair. Great. How will I know when that happens?

Kilgarrah chuckled. It is your heart, young warlock. I think you will know.

Merlin glared into the sky. Even after all they had been through and Merlin going ballistic in dragon form, Kilgarrah still favored the enigmatic.

Merlin looked away from the kestrel to the castle towers and the town beyond, trying to think of anything but flying. Then he tried not to think at all when it led to the same thoughts that had been haunting him since his return, memories and what-ifs and things that made the dragon within him stir. He should have asked Gaius for a book, a bit of paper and quill, a bowl of herbs to be crushed – anything to occupy him and take him away from his own mind.

A pounding on the door so hard it rattled the heavy wood made Merlin jump so that he nearly slid from his chair. His wide eyes shot to the door while his body seemed to want to shrink away from it. More heavy knocking, and Merlin jumped again, cringing back.

The door opened neither quick nor slow yet Merlin watched it like it would spew out a dorocha at any moment. Or a Druid hell-bent on finishing what he had started.

Arthur stepped through, coming to a surprised halt like hitting an unseen barrier, and the dread drained from Merlin so quickly it left in it's place embarrassment that he had even felt frightened in the first place. That was the problem with the way he had been feeling since he got back – everything was a danger, even something as normal as a polite knock.

Arthur standing there staring at him like a dead fish wasn't helping, making Merlin wonder if there was in fact some sort of danger present but only Arthur could see it.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, his surprise tainting his voice, as though the sight of Merlin was as rare as sighting a unicorn.

Until Merlin realized this had to be the first time since Merlin came back that Arthur had seen him awake - possibly even had seen him at all. Merlin had heard, more than once through the door of his room, Gaius seemingly forever turning away visitors, telling them sadly that Merlin was still asleep, or had just gone back to sleep. But Gaius could be a hound on a scent when protecting the peace and quiet his patients needed to heal. Knowing the knights, they would have come in boisterous and readying themselves to deliver manly hugs. With Gwen, there would have been tears. With Arthur, either heart-felt relief that made him forget in the moment that Merlin was his obnoxious servant, or awkward inquiries into his well being followed by very focused questions about the people who took him.

This was also the first time - the first official time, with no doors closing between them or exhaustion blotting out consciousness - that Merlin had seen Arthur.

But unlike Arthur, Merlin wasn't exactly hale and healthy to behold. It made him suddenly self-conscious, and that was wrong. He had wanted – hoped – that when he and the others were able to visit with each other it would be full of the relief and joy of overdue homecomings and a final sense of safety that could only come from seeing everyone alive and well. It should have been happy and heartfelt, full of embraces and reassurances, as these types of things had often been in the past, and Merlin had wanted that reunion more than anything.

What he got instead was the sudden desire to crawl under a rock and never come out.

Followed immediately by the dread of wondering if something was wrong. Maybe Arthur knew. Maybe they had found one of the Druids alive and they had told him everything. Maybe--

“Oh, um, is Gaius in?” Arthur said.

Dread made yet another quick retreat, and again embarrassment took its place. And, also again, Merlin wished he could hide under a rock when he realized his hands were trembling.

“Doing his rounds,” Merlin said, his voice so small and timid that never mind the rock, he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. Lords, how pathetic he was being!

Pathetic and useless.

“Oh,” Arthur said, neutral, or trying to be. “It's just that...” he held up his hand, the palm smeared with blood. “Had a bit of an accident. Nothing serious but you know how Gaius can be with these injuries and I thought I might as well have it out with him, but I can come back.”

“I can look at it,” Merlin said, almost out of habit, it seemed, because where the physician wasn't there was Merlin, and because even a little cut could be dangerous. But when he tried to rise, his body reminded him rather viciously that he was still weak, and that catering to anyone's injuries, even Arthur's, was out of the question. Merlin wasn't even an eighth of the way up when he dropped back into the chair, panting.

“No! No, don't worry about it,” Arthur said quickly, then suddenly he was by Merlin's side, good hand outstretched as if to stop Merlin from rising then realizing it was no longer necessary. “It can wait.”

“It would be better if it was treated,” Merlin said, but he knew better than to tempt fate a second time.

“What would I need to do?” Arthur asked.

“Clean it with water, put a bit of honey on it, wrap it tight. That's all, really. I can do it if you bring me what's needed--”

“Nope! I've got it,” Arthur said, a bit too cheerily, Merlin thought. It took Arthur a little rummaging, of uncorking and dis-lidding and making faces of disgust until Merlin finally pointed him to the pot of honey on the work table and a basin stored on a shelf. Yet the novelty that was Arthur – the king – bustling around a physician's chamber trying to treat his own wound and not caving to Merlin's offer to do it for him did nothing to lift Merlin's mood, let alone calm his frazzled nerves. Merlin didn't know why.

No, he did know why, and much of it had to do with the weight in his chest, like something pushing against the bones and trying to get out, even though it was only Arthur in the room, who might like to throw things at Merlin but certainly wouldn't kill him.

Unless he found out about my magic, then maybe... oh, lords, stop it, stop thinking! I'm fine, everything's fine, go back to sleep. Please go back to sleep you bloody lizard!

As Arthur washed the blood from his hands, he asked with that same attempt at nonchalance, “So, Merlin. Feeling better I see.”

Merlin was pulled from his thoughts (thank goodness) and it made him flinch. “Gaius is having me move about, get my strength up,” he said, his body turned as much as it could to watch the proceedings.

Arthur nodded. “Good, good. I suppose he told you that we found the remains the camp.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Then came the messy silence of having used up their words far too soon. Water splashed in the basin as Arthur wrung the cloth. It was silent as it scraped over the wound. Merlin wracked his brain to say something, anything, to drive home the fact that he was indeed on the mend and that it was okay to allow things to start getting back to normal even if normal was still a ways away. But his brain seemed frozen, as though Arthur's arrival had been too soon, giving Merlin no time to prepare for it. As though he was supposed to have had a bloody speech ready for the occasion or something.

It shouldn't be like this. There should be calm and contentment, not this ever present unease.

The dragon shifted inside of Merlin's chest, no longer agitated, but painfully aware and letting Merlin know it.

Merlin closed his eyes and breathed deep. It was okay. He was home, he was safe and, in point of fact, an awkward Arthur about as clueless around an ill Merlin as Merlin was around an Arthur trying not to upset an ill Merlin was normal.

Lords, sometimes Arthur was right about him. Sometimes Merlin could be a little girl about things.

Then Arthur wrapped his hand, the bandages sticking to the honey Arthur had smeared on the cut. Satisfied with his work, he turned to Merlin, bandaged hand held proudly up to show off his efforts, but his bearing that of a man more than ready to leave.

“That wasn't so hard,” Arthur said, somewhat loftily.

Merlin smiled weakly at him. Arthur rocked back on his heels, and after another torturous moment of neither saying anything, he nodded once.

“I suppose I should be going,” Arthur said. “Training to do, certain knights to yell at – Gwaine is insufferable as always. So... I'll come visit you later. Or send Gwaine. The man's been driving Gaius mad trying to see you.” He turned, slowly, almost hesitant, it seemed, as if like Merlin he too wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

“Arthur?” Merlin said suddenly, desperately, suddenly loathe to be left alone. And wasn't that a maddening contradiction from only a moment ago when Arthur's mere presence had agitated Merlin?

Arthur stopped and turned swiftly back around.

“Did you ever write that speech?” It was funny the directions the mind would take.

“Speech?” Arthur said, confused. Then his eyebrows raised. “Oh. Yes, Yes I did. And contrary to various assurances to the contrary, I still feel like it was complete rubbish.”

Hearing this made Merlin's smile feel more genuine. “Wish I'd been there to hear it.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said with a weak chuff. “I wish you had been there, too.”

The silence returned with a vengeance. Arthur turned to go, his strides swift. But he paused at the door and said, his head partly turned. “I'm glad you're back Merlin. And safe. And... if it is at all possible, someone will answer for what was done to you. You have my word.”

Except Merlin didn't want his word. He wanted him to stay and pass the time with pointless conversation until Gaius came back. He wanted Arthur to fill the emptiness of the room and assure Merlin that this sudden fear of being alone was him being silly by calling him a little girl, and force Merlin into a verbal sparring match. He wanted Arthur to stay, to make things normal until the dragon fell asleep, to keep Merlin from thinking.

Then Arthur was gone, the door already closing behind him. The silence pressed on Merlin's ears until he cleared his throat simply to prove that he could still hear. He turned his gaze to the window, and tried very hard not to think by counting the towers.

Chapter Text

Merlin dreamed of cruel laughter and a world reflected in broken glass. He dreamed he was flying, but then he was falling, and when he hit the ground he broke through it and continued to fall into darkness more solid than any moonless night. His only company was the voices hating him, mocking him, condemning him. He was the liar, the traitor, the darkness on which death rides. Wait, they said, just you wait. You will wake, you will turn, and Camelot will burn like we did.

Merlin snapped awake with a gasp, sweat-soaked, shivering and liable to lose what little he had in his stomach at any moment. As was the bane of vivid dreams it took far too much time for Merlin to reorient himself and recognize the dark shapes of his room. But the relief of knowing where he was did nothing to placate the queasiness. Temper it a fraction but not a helpful fraction, and if he wanted to keep what he had in his stomach then Merlin was going to have to endure one of Gaius' vile potions.

He didn't want to. He'd never been a fan of medicine but these days his body seemed intent on making him choke on them, his throat closing off and his stomach spasming every time he drank anything out of a bottle. Gaius had caught on, thank goodness, and laced his food instead. But when nauseas and in need of a remedy now, Merlin knew laced food wasn't going to cut it, and putting it in water diluted the stuff practically useless.

There was nothing for it. Merlin's stomach wanted to rebel and Merlin was desperate to keep it from doing so. He needed to keep what he ate inside him, to grow strong, to get back to work as Arthur's servant and get back to normality.

He needed to beat these blasted nightmares.

Merlin stumbled out of bed and from his room, clinging to the walls as his legs threatened to give out on him at any moment.

“Gaius?” Merlin called, taking the stairs one careful, slow step at a time and practically hugging the wall. He had no idea how he managed to make it to the bottom without collapsing. “Giaus, You need to get the green bottle, I think I'm going to be--” He looked up into the room and blinked. “Gwaine?”

Gwaine smiled so big it seemed to nearly split his face “It's about bloody time you came out of that room. Come here, you!” he said, already advancing and all roads of retreat denied to Merlin.

“Gwaine?” Gaius warned just as the knight opened his arms for an embrace to end all embraces.

“Wait, Gwaine!” Merlin tried, panicked.

But it was with much surprise that Gwaine eased his arms around Merlin, barely touching him while pulling him closer.

Merlin threw up down his back, anyway. A moment of very uncomfortable silence followed.

“S-sorry,” Merlin said weakly.

Gwaine chuckled, squeezing his shoulder. “Merlin, mate, I've had worse done, believe me.” He pulled back, finished with the hug but not yet ready to release Merlin. Instead, with a hand still on his shoulders Gwaine guided Merlin to the chair still by the window.

“In fact, remind me to tell you about the time I ran into a giant toad – five giant toads to be exact,” he said. Only after Merlin was situated did Gwaine remove his soiled jacket. Gaius hurried over and checked Merlin's temperature with a hand to his forehead. Merlin reared his head back.

“No, Gaius, I'm fine. Just...”

“Another bad dream?” Gaius finished.

Merlin nodded sullenly.

Gwaine, standing just behind Gaius, brightened with a conspiratorial grin on his face. “Well, you know what's always aided me in being rid of nightmares.”

“A rowdy night at the tavern may see to it that you sleep well, but in Merlin's condition it would probably kill him,” Gaius said with exasperated patience. He draped the blanket that had been left on the chair the other day around Merlin's shoulders to chase off the post-nausea shakes, then fetched the very bottle Merlin had tried to ask him for.

“A warm mug of mead, then. Knocks me right out,” Gwaine suggested.

The very thought of mead, warm or otherwise, kicked up Merlin's stomach in another fit of rebellion. Gaius was quick to return with the medicine that he had poured into a cup. Merlin, however, still had to squeeze his eyes shut and drink it fast before the flavor had a chance to register and give his throat a chance to close up. It didn't matter the subtle differences between the potions; if it was bitter, if it burned, his body wanted nothing to do with it.

It was better than addiction, Gaius had said the first time Merlin had choked on a bottle of draught meant to ward off nausea, although he'd looked grim while saying it. Yet despite Merlin's body's rejection of potions in bottles it still needed time to rid itself of the chemicals forced on it, to readjust to having no chemicals in it at all, and that meant no sleeping draughts and nothing to help numb the pain of Merlin's injuries. No medicine made sleeping difficult and the dreams vivid, and Merlin knew it was starting to show in the shadows under his eyes and the hallow paleness that made him look sick even though he wasn't. Two more days, Gaius promised, and perhaps they could try a light sleeping draft, but Merlin was seriously starting to wonder if he could wait that long.

He was so tired of dreaming, of waking up in such a state of panic that his first act was to either tumble from the bed or dive for the chamber pot. He was also tired of being tired, of being weak, and not for the first time – despite his assurances to Gaius – wished he hadn't gone to pick stupid herbs.

Wished the stupid rebel Druids had faith enough to wait.

Wished he wasn't their beloved Emrys yet not so beloved they didn't mind hurting him for their own ends.

Wished they had left well enough alone and not woke the monster waiting inside him.

Wished there wasn't a destiny.

Every time he woke, sweat-soaked or vomiting, he felt the dragon shifting and writhing inside him, anxious to get out, to be free, and burn the things that made him afraid. Burn whatever stood in his way, friend or foe, because they were all nothing but ants.

It terrified him more than the dreams.

“--erlin? Merlin?”

It wasn't the sound of his name, it was the hand on his shoulder that broke Merlin from the hold of his thoughts with such a jolt the empty wooden cup was flung from his hands, hitting the floor with a clatter. Gwaine snatched his hand away as though it had the power to burn.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” Gwaine said, a laugh in his voice but concern in his eyes. “You looked like you were off on your own little adventure, there.”

“I wouldn't call it an adventure,” Merlin said, rubbing the space between his eyes hell-bent on forever aching.

“Ah,” Gwaine said. “Say no more.” He pulled up a stool and dropped onto it. “Maybe you should talk about it, rage a little, throw in a few colorful insults and curse the bastards that did this to the lowest reaches of hell?”

Merlin gave Gwaine what he hoped was a look that said if he wasn't having a grand time thinking about it then why would he want to talk about it? He had a feeling what it really said was I could use a very long nap, preferably one that lasted a week.

“I think,” said Gaius, “that perhaps more rest would be better?” It wasn't a suggestion, it was a hope, because Gaius knew better than to make orders disguised as suggestions where sleep was concerned.

And yet Merlin still said far to quickly and a touch desperately. “No! No, I'm fine. Sickness is going away and everything. In fact, I think I might be able to eat something soon,” he added with what he knew was a pallid smile.

Gwaine slapped his knees. “All right, then. How about I tell you about that giant toad or five while I have the chance. You'll love it, believe me.”

And Merlin was tempted to say yes, please, for the love of all that is holy tell me something, anything. Talk until I fall asleep and dream of bloody toads. What came out of his mouth was a quiet, “kay.”

So Gwaine talked, and for the next hour, Merlin thought only of toads vomiting on an annoyed Gwaine, and Merlin managed a small smile that he didn't have to force.

~oOo~

Merlin had at last reached the point in which Gaius felt it safe for him to take a sleeping draft. Were Merlin to be honest, he didn't think the draft was all that Gaius said it would be. Merlin slept, but the dreams were twice as fractured, three times as volatile and seemed to have declared all out war on the natural sleep cycle. Sometimes Merlin was the dragon attacking the camp. Sometimes the dragon was sitting before him, black as ink, sinuous as a snake and sharp as a blade watching as Merlin was strung up by his arms and left to suffocate. Merlin still woke gasping, not flailing yet his body heavy and his mind feeling thick and slimy like it had been dipped in the pig sty.

But the draft must have been doing something right. Each day Merlin was feeling a little stronger, able to take the stairs of his room without needing to cling to the wall, eating more and feeling nauseas less. Four days of taking the draft, and Merlin graduated from porridge to stew full of meats and vegetables.

When Gwaine was sent with Leon to investigate what seemed to be a case of arson in one of the farming villages, it was Percival who kept Merlin's thoughts too occupied to wander. Gwaine must have caught on that there was more to Merlin's need for company than to stave off boredom. Gwaine was always far more perceptive than people gave him credit for. It both warmed Merlin and, again, made him wish the ground would open up and swallow him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the company – far from it – but the thought of Gwaine knowing that Merlin was afraid to be alone, afraid of his own thoughts... it was ridiculous, really, but there had always been a part of Merlin that fretted over the knights seeing him as weak. Not physically weak – no amount of lugging armor about would ever match the intense training the knights went through to strengthen their bodies, and Merlin was okay with that. It was when some malcontent or visiting lord would look at Merlin askance and crack some joke about him being the knights' pet or mascot. Or when Arthur rolled his eyes and told Merlin he could stop hiding behind the tree, now, because the danger had passed. Or when the knights would surreptitiously gather around him forming a protective circle during those battles when the odds seemed stacked against them, dividing their attention between potential danger and ensuring that Merlin was safe, putting themselves at risk.

It was when Merlin did his best to defend himself with a sword and failing because his attacker was twice his size, and it was either risk using magic or risk one of the knights coming to help him. He didn't want to be a hindrance, and most definitely did not want to be seen as some male damsel in distress. It was not unlike what it must feel like to be a younger brother to much bigger, better, older brothers. They wanted to protect him. He wanted to be more to them than the plucky little manservant who tagged along and occasionally made them laugh.

It was stupid, silly, embarrassing, but as was the case with all thoughts and feelings when you were not well, it was persistent and omnipresent. Especially because he needed the distraction, even if Percival's tales were a little more gruesome, or Elyan's tales were a bit dull and involved mostly blacksmithing accidents. Leon tried, at one point, because once one knight set a goal or task for himself and got another involved then they were all involved. It was horribly awkward at first as things often were between reserved Leon – noble and knight – and Merlin the servant. Until Merlin managed to coax from Leon a few stories about young Arthur and his escapades, then it was the most fun he and Leon had ever had up until Leon “remembered his place,” dropped the subject like a hot rock and it was right back to being awkward for them. Merlin felt rather bad for Leon. He did try.

But nearly a week after Merlin began taking the draft, he'd garnered enough strength for short walks about the castle, accompanied by either Gaius or one of the knights if they had time. Three more days and Gaius finally (if reluctantly) gave Merlin his blessing for short (very short) trips outside.

Merlin felt like he was learning – learning how to walk again, learning how to exist again, learning how to be; each step bringing him a little closer to normality. And while he was anxious enough to reach that normality by pushing himself to take one more step no matter how his legs burned and his body ached, when he stepped outside, pushed himself a little further through the hustle and bustle of a busy courtyard seeking a shady place to sit, he would realize with a sinking heart that he still had a long ways to go, because he immediately wanted to turn around and go back inside.

He ignored it, thinking he was being silly again since there was no immediate cause for his unease. He would find his shady place, sit down, rest for a few minutes then go back inside. It was his third attempt at going out and trying, but failing, to stay longer – Percival by his side – when he realized the situation wasn't getting any better.

“Merlin? You okay? You're looking a little pale. Is it the crowds?” Percival asked.

Then Merlin realized what the problem was.

It was the crowds. It was the diverse faces of so many people, people who once upon a time might have been Druids disguised as peasants, wandering the town then the courtyard, pretending to go about their normal routine when all the while they were looking.

Looking for Merlin. Looking and waiting with the patience of a saint for that right moment when they would be able to carry him away without notice. It was the eyes that turned Merlin's way looking disinterested, unless they were only pretending to be disinterested, and suddenly Merlin felt more exposed than he ever had in his life.

Because he had to wonder, because it had to be asked, what if some of the Druids had survived? And what if they wanted to finish what they started, not for the end game they had hoped for, but to kill Merlin as they hadn't been able to in the camp?

Or maybe they felt death too easy, and they would torture him, never allowing him to die until they said he could.

Merlin used to love being outside, once. This new found fear made him feel like he had lost something, that a piece of happiness had been taken away, that he wasn't moving toward normal at all but he was walking a journey taking him further and further away from who he had once been

No. No, no, no, he wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to continue being their victim when he had destroyed them so easily. Merlin dug his fingers into the edge of the step he was sitting on until his knuckles blanched, holding himself in place while his body begged to go back inside. The dragon stirred in his chest like a waking snake. If they came for him, he would destroy them again, easy as that. Fly away and burn them.

Then burn Camelot when reality collided and there was no friend nor enemy, only the insects who deserve only fire.

“Merlin?” Percival said. His larger body settled itself beside Merlin's thinner one, his sword sheath tapping on the stone. “Are you all right?” he asked, then settled a large hand gently on Merlin's back.

Merlin relaxed his grip. After a deep breath, he relaxed his body.

The Druids wouldn't take him. Not here, not now, not when Merlin had his magic and Percival had his sword. But the tension of seconds ago had pulled his muscles fiddle tight, the release of that tension leaving him shaky and cold, and Percival didn't miss it.

“Come on,” he said, taking Merlin's arm in his strong grip and pulling him slowly up. With all the walking down steps, through halls and out doors, it amazed Merlin how far more draining a single moment of near-panic defeated by the subsequent battle for resolve could be. He would not, could not, let the Druids have what they were not here to take.

Merlin let Percival keep a hand on his arm just in case as they made their way back to the tower, the dragon calming down in the presence of that single patch of strength.

TBC...

Chapter Text

There was a problem with doing anything in spite of anything, and that was the focus involved. Merlin was trying so hard to aim for normalcy that he sometimes forgot he wasn't there, yet. Then he would tire himself out walking too far through the castle, deaf to whoever his current escort was at the time. He would move in ways that had once been normal and easy but that would now send either his ribs or back into such a frenzy of bodily screaming that, until the screaming stopped, he was practically paralyzed. And he tried so hard not to think and worry and give a reason for the dragon within him to stir that it would do the opposite, and that would make him think more, and wonder more, and worry. and send him on a brief fit of panic until someone or something came along to distract him.

It was maddening, tiring, and the result was a blinding headache that would come with the prelude of a flashing light in his eye that would grow and momentarily blind him. Gaius said they were called migraines, and that they were monster headaches that thrived on stress. Merlin needed to relax, but like with everything else, the moment he tried the immediate result was the complete opposite of the needed outcome – he would stress out more.

And this time there were fewer knights to help distract him. The arson situation seemed to be getting worse, with whole fields of harvest going up in flames. Grim bets were being taken on whether it was an act of sorcery, the mark of bandits looking for retaliation or some neighboring kingdom looking to take Camelot by starving its residence right out of the territory.

Merlin had managed to distract himself with these theories for an entire two hours. The conclusion he came to was that if it were sorcerers, they wouldn't need to burn the field when cursing the wheat to turn everyone in Camelot into ravenous beasts bent on killing each other would be so much more entertaining. Bandits needed the food as much as the king and knights chasing them away from it. They would rather mass harvest it and run off, not burn it. It was also far too soon to harvest anything, most of the crops only just budding. An invading kingdom was a possibility. Most kingdoms wouldn't dare soil their honor with such an under-handed tactic but a few (that is, specifically a certain king and his magic wielding jester) wouldn't know honor if pummeled them with sacks of gold coins. But Merlin doubted those “kingdoms” had the intelligence enough to pull it off and not get caught the moment the plan went into action. Everyone else was too honor bound, including the most royally pissed-off of them (pun so very much intended, though Merlin was quite sure he'd spooked Gaius with his rather manic laughter).

So that meant something strange was going on; strange, dangerous, probably even a distraction pointing the knights one way while the true danger was pointed the other, and of course that other direction would be Camelot.

But that had led to another headache exploding in Merlin's skull and ripping down his spine, and a sleeping draft joining forces with a headache remedy that knocked Merlin out cold. Gaius was hesitant to give Merlin the heavier stuff unless absolutely necessary – absolutely being the headaches, and possibly the fact that Merlin had been crying, made evident to Merlin when his eyes became itchy and he scrubbed them with his hands – because a body could grow dependent on such concoctions and that was the last thing Merlin's body needed. Which was a pity. It was the best rest Merlin ever had, even if he did wake up groggy, nauseas and with the remnants of the headache tap-dancing on his brain.

One thing the sleep hadn't helped with was his continuing edginess, which he took out on poor Elyan the moment the knight returned and came to keep Merlin company while Gaius made his rounds.

Merlin told Elyan his theories then plagued him with questions about the fields that were burned, if there was a pattern, maybe certain types of fields being targeted, how bad the fires were, if they spread quickly or were easy to put out, and so on.

Elyan, smiling, lifted his hands and patted the air. “Merlin, calm down. So far they've been small fires, easily put out. There was only one large one, the first Arthur had us investigate but our belief is that it spread fast before anyone had a chance to get to it. We think it may be the act of... well... I suppose you could say someone not quite well in the head. Arthur told us something similar happened when he was ten. His father had thought it was sorcerers, of course, but as it turned out it was a man setting fires simply for the sake of fires. It was barns he was lighting up but, still, little else makes sense. Anyone looking to burn the crops would spread the fire as they lit it, not focus it on a central spot. It's also been wet, thank goodness, or central location or not those flames would have gone out of control.”

A deranged individual – now that would be a change of routine. Not exactly a welcome one but a man, even a lunatic with a fetish for burning plants, anyone could deal with as long as he kept his destruction to wet fields.

But Merlin wasn't soothed, because it was still something bad happening and still a potential distraction for anyone with the wits to use it.

“Merlin, it's all right,” Elyan said, still smiling but the rest of his expression pouring with concern. “It's a nuisance but nothing that can't be handled. Everything will be all right.”

And once again there was that warmth and shame that made Merlin both wonder where he stood among these men who went out their way to keep him safe even from himself, and not caring because he needed this, needed the reassurance even while the dread made itself comfortable in the deepest reaches of his gut and the dragon writhed, scales hissing against scales. The hand on the shoulder, no matter whose hand it was, always did the trick in calming the dragon down, reminding Merlin of both where he was, and where he wasn't.

~oOo~

Sleeping drafts were only about as effective as the mind allowed them to be, as it turned out. A tired mind was a mind all too happy to let the draft have its way. A well rested mind... not so much.

Merlin found himself back in the druid camp, in the pit, a chained Kilgarrah squirming like a giant worm in futility. Anela put her hand to Merlin's chest and burned him. He could remember that pain that should have been hot but cut through him like cold steel. Anela pulled her hand back and it was covered in blood. She did not wipe it clean when she left Merlin to his agony. She seemed to cradle that blood instead, like something precious.

Merlin woke, as he shouldn't have when taking the draft, snapping upright and panting. Instead of nausea it was his heart pulsing like a hammer trying to break through his ribs. He had his hand to his chest, clenching it as though he could squeeze his heart until it learned its lesson and settled down. It hurt when his heart beat this fast and this hard with the promise that it would explode if it didn't stop. It made it hard to breathe, which made him panic and his heart beat harder – an endless cycle of terror and pain until both organs, tired from the struggle, finally calmed on their own accord just enough for Merlin to think clearly and calm them the rest of the way down. But it always left him cold and trembling.

He felt the raised skin of his scar through the thin cloth of his night shirt. He absently traced a part of it with his thumb, mapping it through touch, half-healed but still red and angry. Merlin had tried to heal it with magic, just enough so that it wouldn't leave a scar when it did heal. He might have been rubbish at healing spells but preventing an injury from scarring he could manage, or the injury left as a parting gift from Nimueh would have lingered to raise some very uncomfortable questions.

But while the lightning that had struck Merlin had been magic, the injury had been... not natural per se yet neither could it be called magic created. More the side effect of magic, with the attempt to harm by using the body's natural weakness that was flesh, blood and breakable bones.

Merlin's mark was magic-made, with magic intent, not to harm but to recreate, and the vivid blood-red of it was like a laugh in the face of his attempt to turn it into something unremarkable. It would heal, but at the same time it had no intentions of going anywhere.

Gaius theorized that as long as the dragon within Merlin remained awake, then the scar would stay. That was the whole point of the mark after all – like a fire that would remain lit as long as someone was awake to tend it, to keep them warm and keep the light. Only when they rested would the fire die. Magical marks that no longer had a purpose also no longer had an existence.

As long as there was consciousness within Merlin, there would be the mark. As long as there was consciousness, he was still a threat.

Even though it had been over two weeks, and nothing had happened. It seemed rather fitting, really, since that was about how long he'd been gone, give or take. But there were still the headaches, still the dreams, still the bloody thoughts, lingering weakness, aches and pains that would actually take months to heal, and still the inability to go outside without his heart racing like a frightened rabbit as his eyes searched every face for the slightest hint of hostile intent. Two whole weeks, and everything that had been done to him refused to be undone.

But that was why ordeals were ordeals. Happiness and peace you had to fight for but it only took a moment – one bad moment be it a minute or a month – for your world to collapse and what felt like a lifetime to build it back up. Merlin had to remind himself of this every time he found himself weary and winded from pushing for strength that wasn't yet there, or hunched and panting from inciting a pain when he moved wrong, and only after the latest migraine had passed.

Although, really, it was Gaius who did most of the reminding. Merlin did try, but all any of his trying seemed to do was add to his pile of frustration.

Right now, as he breathed slow to steady his still throbbing heart, he didn't want another reminder. He wanted space, and air. Not outside, though. Too early, of course. Too dark to see should anyone be hiding in the shadows, waiting for him. Not that they would – who in their right mind would hunt anyone down in the dead of night? The crazy, desperate and incredibly angry, that's who. Either way, it was better to stay inside. Merlin slipped into his boots, not bothering to buckle them. There was an urgency to his need for air making him impatient and single-minded. He didn't even try to bother hiding his departure with careful footsteps, and in fact he seemed to move more quietly when he was moving swiftly than when he was moving carefully.

It was only when he was in the drafty halls heavy with chilly morning air that he mentally kicked himself for not bringing a jacket. His nightmare-induce perspiration may have dried on his skin but not his shirt, which might as well not be there for all the good it was doing in keeping his body warm.

There was also another problem – more like a gradual realization. Druids were magic, and as such had the magical means to slip into the castle if they wanted, to cast spells so that people looked away while they spirited Merlin's unconscious body back to the woods for retribution. It was such a simple, off-handed thought, one that took Merlin's brain a very long moment to fully understand the implications, and when it did...

It was like being strung up, without a shirt, broken and bruised and hit with a bucket of cold water in the chill of early spring. Merlin cringed, arms hugged against himself in the subconscious, child-like belief that the smaller you could make yourself the less you would be noticed. Feeling suddenly exposed, and so suddenly in danger, Merlin glanced frantically around as he hurried forward, brain too frazzled and nerves too wrung to even consider going back, because they might be waiting there for him...

It was also a subconscious action that Merlin went through the nearest door he could find. It wasn't the nearest, him having passed two already, but it was a door he knew, the one next to the tapestry of the unicorn. It led to a tower used during times of war should Camelot find itself in need of having to shoot the enemy off its own ramparts, and in between that time it was often used for a little storage. It was only when he was huddled, shivering and cold, beneath the open window that he was able to relax under the impression of having not been followed because he would have noticed. Except that druids were magical and use their magic to hide. Except, if there were any druids they would have been up here by now, and if they were so magical then why when they'd taken him the first time didn't they grab him from the castle rather than wait for him to come to the woods?

Logic was quite irritated with Merlin. So irritated that as it went through the list of how unfounded Merlin's fears were, it saved the best for last – the flashing halo of light now vanishing from Merlin's vision, which he had completely ignored in favor of his terror. And thanks to his hurrying, and his fear, he was too exhausted to move and not for lack of trying. The moment Merlin attempted to stand, his legs shook, and out they went like two skinny felled trees. One attempt and he was left panting and sick from that attempt, which brought the migraine rushing in like a broken dam releasing a flood of cracking pain.

Merlin did the only thing he could do. He curled up on the floor, covering his face and head from the coming light of day, and sobbed his way through the headache's rampage.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin was flying again. He really wished he wasn't. Bad things happened when he flew, things he had no control over. The bad things mostly involved him diving down on fleeing people looking small as insects. They were screaming, these people, as he burned them and reveled in their pain and misery because they deserved it. Then he wasn't flying, he was hanging, his arms pulled above him and his ribcage so stretched that they wouldn't expand and he couldn't breath. People hurt him as he hung there, calling him traitor and he supposed he deserved it what with the things he had done.

“Camelot doesn't want you, traitor,” they said. But that was all wrong. It wasn't Camelot he'd attacked. Then Merlin was flying again while below him, Camelot burned.

~oOo~

Merlin's heart was an angry fist when he woke, his breaths too fast and he was crying, or had been crying. He could still feel tears trickling down his face and making his cheeks cold. Scrubbing them irritably, he forced his breathing to slow and in return his heart slowed with it. But the hammer wasn't gone, it had migrated to his skull, wrapped in wool but no less a bastard that took pleasure in pounding on his fragile brain. Merlin pushed himself up, what should have been one smooth motion was instead a jerky, messy progress hindered by shaking arms and a heavy body. But upright and leaning against the wall beneath the window, his battle against bodily complaints switched tactics in the form of a queasy, sloshy stomach.

His body never could simply protest, it had to declare all out war.

During the battle through the aches and sickness, Merlin eventually, gradually, remembered where he was but only after a moment of growing panic, but he couldn't quite remember what had brought him here. Fear of something; of being followed or of intruders, maybe a little of both. It didn't matter. It still came down to him being irrational and acting on that irrationality, and the dragon wasn't just stirring, it was clawing at his sternum like a cat kneading a quilt. It amazed Merlin that it hadn't taken him over completely.

And with that thought, he remembered the dream, leaned to the side, and promptly threw up.

It wasn't until the window was crisp blue rather than the burnished gold of early morning that he staggered down the stairs like a drunk, still wiping away the remnants of his sick onto his nightshirt sleeve and only giving the stink of it more places to occupy. He didn't care. His head was pounding, his gut was churning, and together it was making him feel weak and dizzy.

Then all of it went away from one heartbeat to the next when Merlin found himself being suddenly yelled at. Something about going missing and giving people heart attacks and looking everywhere for him, but it might as well have been a foreign language, the gibberish of the mad spoken by the angry, and nothing Merlin's re-addled brain wanted to deal with when all that mattered was getting the hell away. There may have been a yelp, and a sob, and someone grabbing his arm but releasing it when he screamed. He burst into a drunken run back through the door, up the too many winding stairs and back into the tower, shutting the door and barring it with an old chair literally on its last leg, which he realized too late the moment the door was shoved open and the chair shattered.

Merlin screamed, “Please, don't, Please!” while he backed quickly away, fell, and back-peddled until his spine hit the wall and he shrank against it, curling into a protective ball and hiding his face. “Please, don't do this, please! Please!”

And it worked. It shouldn't have; pleading normally didn't against those seeking to hurt not for the sake of a plan but for the sake of revenge. Yet no one was hurting him, or even touching him. Instead there was whispering, the nervous shuffle of feet and, finally, silence.

It shouldn't have worked, and all Merlin could figure was that it was a trick to lull him into a false sense of security and make the torment that much sweeter. So he kept his face to his chest, his knees pressed up against his scalp and his arms covering the rest of his head while wishing for more arms to protect his exposed back. He waited, tense as a bow string and quivering like a leaf, for the blows that had yet to come.

There was a hand instead, and it touched Merlin's shoulder light as dandelion fluff, and still he flinched.

“Shhhh,” said a voice, a kind voice, but not a female kind voice. This one was male, and familiar, and trapped his mind with its familiarity until half his fear dissipated.

“Shh, Merlin, it's all right.” Then the fear drained from him, because the kind voice was Arthur, and no druid looking for revenge would touch him so lightly or speak to him so softly even in Arthur's voice. Merlin moved his arms and turned his head just enough to see and make sure, and what his ears hadn't been certain of his eyes confirmed.

It was Arthur, and he was worried.

Almost scared, Merlin thought with a hysterical laugh bubbling up into his chest, though he didn't know why. He swallowed it back down though it nearly choked him, and he buried his face in his knees and groaned.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked sounding twice as worried and slightly spooked. Merlin realized why he had wanted to laugh. Arthur wasn't afraid of anything, but he was afraid now, and all because Merlin was being a girl and having a fit. Lords, why couldn't Arthur just call him a girl and drag him downstairs and pretend this wasn't as bad as it was?

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, still with that worry and that fear that shouldn't be there.

Merlin wanted to tell him to go away, to stay, to not hate him because he had magic and had turned into a dragon against his will and dreamed of burning Camelot and please, please don't kill him.

What came out of Merlin's mouth was a very resigned, “Give me a minute.”

“Okay,” Arthur said a little more calmly. “Okay. But are you all right? Are you injured? Sick?”

“I'll be fine. Just... just need a moment,” said Merlin's voice muffled by his knees.

“All right,” Arthur said quietly.

The warmth of the hand vanished from his shoulder, cold taking its place. Merlin's heart rate picked up and he said without thinking, “Arthur?” in a voice child-like in its terror and desperate need not to be alone, as if Merlin didn't have enough for feel mortified about.

“I'm here,” said Arthur.

“'Kay,” Merlin said, still like a child. It said what Merlin couldn't bring himself to say no matter his dread. Please don't leave. It must have, because Merlin could hear shifting and rustling cloth, the kind of noises normally only present when someone was making themselves comfortable on a hard, very uncomfortable floor.

A moment was meant to be, by definition, a short passage of time, many seconds or a few minutes. For Merlin, it had been his polite way of saying leave me the hell alone, please. He had been witnessed in a state of brief insanity, and if a moment took longer than a few minutes then so be it. A moment would be as long as he wanted it to be. As it needed to be. Minutes, hours, an eternity of never moving until time ate him away into blessed nothing.

But Arthur, being Arthur, slightly improved at the whole compassion thing but not quite at the patience thing, took 'a moment' in all it's literal glory and said somewhat lightly, “So, bad dream I take it?” As though this were normal, or he was trying to make it normal.

And Merlin wanted to hug him for making the attempt, completely rubbish as it was.

“Something like that,” Merlin said flatly, because neither did he want to talk about it.

More of Merlin's limitless moment passed, Arthur shifting with the discomfort of not only having to wait but wait for his own manservant who he normally threw things at when he wasn't hurrying along.

“You don't have to be here, you know,” Merlin finally said. He lifted his face from his knees but his gaze he kept turned to the window and that blue, blue sky. “I just need a moment to rest.”

“Well,” Arthur said, shifting, clothes rustling. “If you're implying I have better things to do... I do, actually, have better things to do but I believe Gaius would be less than friendly toward me if I left you here alone.”

“You could always have Gaius come up himself,” Merlin said.

“I could,” Arthur said in a way that promised more words on the way. Merlin waited for those words while the sentence hung there fluttering annoyingly in the verbal wind. Merlin glanced at Arthur, a quick flick of his eyes there and gone. Arthur was dressed for the day, boots, brown breeches and his read shirt open at the collar, which meant the day had just barely begun for him when he'd been called on to chase down wayward and insane man-servants.

“He was quite beside himself with worry,” Arthur finally said.

Merlin cringed. “Sorry. I didn't mean to... I needed some air and... got tired, I guess.”

“You looked like you were ill,” Arthur said, not accusingly, but definitely pointedly.

“Got a headache,” Merlin said.

“Still have it?”

“A little.” Staring out the window into the bright day wasn't helping, making him all squinty and bleary-eyed, but right now it was the only alternative to looking directly at Arthur.

“Should I call Gaius?” Arthur said. “He should be waiting downstairs by now.”

“No, it's fine I just...”

“Need a moment?”

Merlin pressed his lips together and nodded, wincing when the headache told him rudely how it didn't like that.

“Well, whenever you're ready. Take all the time you need. No rush, no rush at all...” Arthur prattled, and Arthur only prattled like that, attitude of complete nonchalance verging on forced haughtiness included, when he was outside of his comfort zone - not just outside but two kingdoms away because he'd been banished from it and was now trying to make the best of a bad situation.

The thought of “banished” made Merlin laugh. It sounded more like he was choking and it may have tempered down into a brief hiccuping sob that he quickly swallowed back for both their sakes. Maybe it was the humiliation, or the discomfort of having the king of Camelot having witnessed that humiliation and was now sitting in the room with him, or the headache, or blinding light of day, or nausea, or lingering traces of nightmare...

Who was he kidding? It was all of the above that he said with an almost-touch of hysteria.

“Arthur, can I ask you something?”

“Uh... yes, of course.”

“Strictly hypothetical, I promise. It's just... okay, what would you do if someone – let's say Gwaine, or Percival, any of the knights, really...” but not Gwen and inadvertently open an unnecessary jar of worms' “had magic and you found out but the thing is they've only ever used their magic for the good of the kingdom and it was basically the whole point of them having magic – to help the kingdom. What would you do to them?”

Arthur snorted, as Merlin knew he would. “Merlin, there's no such thing as benevolent magic--”

“Then pretend there was!” Merlin snapped, the hysteria not so almost anymore. He cleared his throat. “Pretend it was, and their magic was used to protect this kingdom and it's king. What would you do?” And if moisture was welling up in his eyes, it was because the light was too bright and his head hurt, that was all.

“Merlin, what in the world--?”

“Please,” Merlin said, scraping irritably at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Answer the question. It's hypothetical, I told you.”

“Well,” Arthur said carefully. “If it was for the good of the kingdom... but what if they were only pretending it was for our good? What if it's a trick and they're waiting for the right opportunity to strike?”

Merlin chuffed. “They've been here how many years with how many opportunity's to do something?”

“Because they're using a spell to enchant me to take over the kingdom,” Arthur said smugly.

“They could have done that any time you dollop head.”

“Too soon and people would get suspicious.”

“It's not like there's anything the masses could do about it. Arthur, please, answer the question. They're not evil. They only wanted to help. Oh, and they were born with magic, they couldn't help having it.”

Arthur sighed, long and heavy but not impatient, to Merlin's surprise. “Well, then... I don't know. Probably just banish them I suppose.”

“Banish them?” Merlin said dryly.

“Well, I would think it a better alternative than being burned at the stake. At least they would be alive and... doing good in other places with their 'supposedly' good magic.”

Merlin could practically hear the air quotes in that last sentence.

Then Arthur sighed again, this one even heavier. “I don't know. They couldn't really stay, could they, magic being illegal and all. And I would need time to think on the matter I mean... good magic, really? And I would need to do so without wondering if I were being enchanted while thinking about it.” A moment – a real moment – of silence, then. “Merlin... none of the knights have magic, do they?”

Merlin smiled. It was a sad smile, he could tell, but he forced it into what he hoped was just a tired smile and looked at Arthur. “No. Just a hypothetical question.”

But this only doubled Arthur's concerned expression. “And what, exactly, brought it up? Did those druids make you think someone had magic? Did they make you think you had magic?”

Merlin shook his head. “There was... they...” he shivered. “I didn't know what was real.” And there was that damn light again making his eyes water. He wiped the moisture away and laughed softly. “They made me think a lot of things.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “They...” he looked away, because that damn moisture was racing each other down his face, falling from his chin onto his knees.

“Merlin?” Arthur said.

“I didn't know what was real,” Merlin said. Small, lost, like a child again.

Shifting, rustling cloth, footsteps and more shifting and cloth-rustling. A hand on Merlin's shoulder, warming it. A resigned sigh.

“Merlin, turn a bit.” An order.

Merlin did as told. Two strong arms surrounded him and pulled him in, the shock of it leaving Merlin momentarily paralyzed and unable to pull away as his forehead touched against a broad, cloth-covered shoulder.

A hug.

A hug, that at any other time would have shocked Merlin until he thought to use it as an opportunity to finally, finally be the one to call Arthur a girl, and only to kill the awkwardness and smother the surprise of what Merlin had thought Arthur would never do so consciously and voluntary in a million years.

Except Merlin didn't care. He didn't give a damn about pride, about whether or not Arthur would use this against him. He just didn't care. It was safe and warm and he was tired, so damn tired and sick and scared but Arthur would only banish him if he knew – banish him to think and realize and come to understand and that... that was enough. That was okay.

“It's okay, Merlin.”

He was safe.

“You're safe. I'll never let anyone do that to you ever again. I swear.”

Merlin wept, staining the sleeve of Arthur's tunic with his tears, one after another.

There would come a time when they would look back on all that they had done and been through, and some of it they would laugh about. But when they looked back at the time Merlin had hid in the tower and Arthur had held him like a child, there would be no laughter. They would never talk about it, not because they didn't want to, but because they wouldn't need to. Merlin would think back to when a king had held onto him and let him cry, and how it would be okay, because Merlin would have remembered the warm drops of moisture falling on his neck while Arthur cried with him. And that, too, was okay.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Impromptu trips to towers while escaping invisible enemies wasn't quite as draining, it seemed, as weeping like a little boy. It left no room for humiliation of being seen red-eyed and barely upright by worried knights and nervous servants alike, and seemed to speed time along; one moment Merlin was being supported through the halls then the next he was in his bed being tucked in by Gaius.

The best part was when Merlin woke not realizing he'd even fallen asleep, and with no dreams in between to force him violently back into the conscious world.

No, that wasn't entirely true. There'd been dreams pushing and struggling to the forefront of a mind so weary one would think it would have lost easily to the nightmares. Instead, those nightmares became lost in the mire of an unconsciousness not even the dreams could penetrate, and for the first time since coming back, Merlin woke at his own pace – nice, slow, groggy and actually wishing he could stay asleep just a little longer. But with his headache mostly gone and his stomach so empty it seemed to be digesting itself, now was not the time to pass up an opportunity to give his body something else it needed without nausea getting in the way.

Merlin kept his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders as he trudged down the stairs. Gaius had to be a mind reader, that was the only explanation when Merlin saw the small pot full of simmering stew in the hearth and two bowls waiting to be filled.

“Merlin, good, you're awake,” Gaius greeted from his work table. He was twirling a glass vial, the contents swirling in a mini-whirlpool the familiar green of a sickness draft. Waiting on the table close at hand was another vial, the familiar brown color of a headache draft. Gaius looked at Merlin, and it was quite the pointed look. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Merlin answered immediately, and shuffled straight to the table. This earned him an arched eyebrow of surprise.

“Good to hear,” Gaius said. “I was hoping you might be too tired to dream. Arthur nearly had to carry you, you could barely stand.”

Merlin started in surprise. “Arthur supported me?” He didn't remember much about the transition from tower A to tower B. Arthur helping him down the stairs, yes, but then there had been all those people, the knights looking eager to help, Merlin's head throbbing like a drum and somewhere within the time that followed Merlin had decided the best course of action would be to clock out. The last thing anyone had needed was for him to have another panic attack and lock himself back in the tower.

Gaius chuckled. “You truly were exhausted if you don't remember that.” He moved over to the pot, grabbing the bowls along the way. He filled them, brought them back to the table, then moved the cups and water pitcher within reach.

They ate in silence, things that might have been said or perhaps should have been said not being put into words. It was on purpose, Merlin knew. But Gaius had a way of making those big monsters in the room no one would acknowledge seem almost small and transparent, as something that mattered but didn't have to matter right away. This was not an awkward silence between them, it was a reprieve, maybe even a moot point, because Gaius knew good and well what must have happened. As a physician, he would know a bad reaction the result of a bad dream or bad memory even when he didn't see one – the aftermath had said plenty. As Merlin's caretaker, as the surrogate parent who had been with Merlin since his return, who had talked him through a few of his nightmare-induced panic attacks and had plied him with a steady stream of food and drafts, Gaius could easily hazard a guess as to why Merlin had vanished. And he would know, as both physician and surrogate parent, that the time to talk about anything of a nightmare or memory nature was well after Merlin had some food in him.

When they finished, Gaius cleaned up – a job normally left to Merlin – then helped Merlin to the chair by the window to digest and add to his slowly building strength.

Merlin had given Gaius the details of all that had happened to him while in the hands of the druids, as much as he could in fits and starts that sometimes took hours to get out of his mouth and sometimes took more than a day. The memory of his torture was a kaleidoscope of images and feelings, but the gist of them had been as clear as day and fresh as now, phantom pains spiking whenever he recalled the boots slamming into his body and the fists smashing into his face. Gaius had listened to it all with the calm, weathered reserve of the physician he was. But later... later when Merlin had finished regaling Gaius with all that he could and had rested, Gaius had come to him baring a tray of food, and moisture had glittered within the lines of his face.

So there was a good chance that there was nothing to talk about. Not unless Merlin wanted to, and he didn't want to. It seemed redundant to when they both knew what the problem was and both knew the answer to it would be the same as it had been from the start – time. Merlin needed time, time that was crawling at a pace a snail could outrun and that occasionally seemed to be going backward. But Gaius had also said that healing often felt as though it were going nowhere, except it was, but it was difficult to see the forest through the trees when all you knew were the trees... or something like that. What it translated to was that if change was happening, it would be some time before Merlin actually saw that change manifest.

He was getting stronger, and better, but there were still the dreams, the thoughts, the memories and the weight in his chest, and the only thing Merlin cared to see through those trees was a sleeping dragon.

The chamber door opened – Merlin hadn't realized anyone had knocked. Arthur walked in trying to look regal but his wandering gaze making him come off as feeling like an interloper, and new thoughts invaded Merlin's mind. Specifically a very vivid memory of crying into Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur possibly crying in return, both men reduced to something child-like and lost and not giving a damn about the embarrassment of it.

Then Arthur's gaze settled on Merlin and something in Arthur visibly uncoiled, removing the tension that had him ramrod straight. He quickly composed himself back into the king he was.

“Doing better,” he stated.

From the little barrel where they washed their dishes, Merlin could see enough of Gaius' face to spot his small smile.

“You'd seemed ill at the time,” Arthur said. He cleared his throat. “But Gaius did say you were simply tired.”

“I was,” Merlin said. “Just tired, that is.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Now it was Merlin's turn to clear his throat. “And... er... thank you. For helping me back here.”

“Of course,” Arthur said.

It was a sore temptation to bring up what happened, not as a discussion, but to mock, to brush-off and make light because at any other time they would have already done so long before they'd even reached the bottom of the tower steps. It was what they did, after all. How they moved on and broke the barrier that was having seen each other at their most vulnerable.

Merlin said instead, “How are the investigations into the arsons coming along?” Because the very thought of discussing what happened and making it seem less felt more than not right, it felt utterly despicable.

That Arthur jumped onto the change of subject like a starving wolf on a rabbit confirmed this feeling.

“At this point I'm ready to catch whoever is doing this and burn them at the stake rather than toss them in the dungeon,” Arthur said, taking the chair on the other side of the table. “Although he'd probably enjoy it. I'm telling you, Merlin, if this is a mad man we're dealing with then he's mad as a bloody fox. The fires have gotten worse – larger and more difficult to contain. I'm starting to wonder if this is less an act of insanity and more the precursor to something far more sinister. Merlin, are you all right?”

Arthur's change toward concern alerted Merlin to the fact that he had slumped dejectedly into his chair. He quickly straightened, not wanting to give Arthur something else to worry about.

“Yes, fine, sorry. Um... has no one really been able to spot whoever it is in the act?”

“No, and not for wont of trying, believe me. It always occurs at night. The farmers have taken to guarding their own fields and I've sent men to help. Nothing, not so much as a shadow being seen flitting away into the dark.” Arthur sighed. “I'm starting to think magic may be at work. I was honestly hoping there wouldn't be.”

Merlin's stomach tightened uncomfortably, as did his chest. But he said with as much cheery disposition as he could muster and a smile to match, “Or you're not thinking enough like a mad fox with a fire fetish.”

“Id' rather not have to if it's all the same to you,” Arthur said dryly.

“Well, that's too bad, because you're going to have to if you want to catch them. Maybe you could set up a little field for them to burn, have some of the knights dress as farmers and peasants.”

Arthur shook his head. “I'm not sure it would make a difference. The villages have been guarding their fields non-stop and they've neither seen nor heard anything. Yet neither do they have the manpower to guard every single field even with Camelot's aid. The fires also happen to those fields less guarded so that isn't helping. This can't last forever.”

“Exactly,” said Merlin. “It can't last forever. Even were magic involved sorcerers are also capable of mistakes. Something will eventually give.”

Arthur frowned thoughtfully. “True. But when it gives, and what damage will be done up to that point, is what has me worried.”

Merlin managed not to grimace as he thought, me, too.

~oOo~

Had Arthur known about Merlin's magic and that he was a dragonlord, he would no doubt be saying right about now, “What use is having command over a dragon if you're going to fret over every little order as being a possible annoyance that you would rather not bring onto said dragon.” And he would probably be right. Maybe. In a way. Merlin didn't know because he knew what it meant to be a powerful being with more danger in his little finger than the entire knighthood combined and yet resigned to menial labor.

Not that he minded doing menial labor – except where endless polishing, mucking and having things thrown at him while being called a coward were concerned. Sometimes menial labor was relaxing and gave him a sense of satisfaction in a job well done. But Kilgarrah wasn't Merlin, and Kilgarrah got annoyed even when the menial task involved saving Camelot and, therefore, all of Albion. Asking a dragon to hunt down a petty arsonist might be advantageous if Kilgarrah could pull it off without getting caught, but it felt wrong. In part because of the getting caught aspect and in part because Merlin felt like a heel just thinking about it, even when he thought of it as ample enough punishment for Kilgarrah attacking Camelot – Merlin still felt the dragon needed to be punished for that, and what better way than to force him to help the very city he'd tried to destroy with every little problem? And Kilgarrah was quite good at not being seen, big as he was.

But Merlin couldn't do it, not after what they had been through and what Kilgarrah had done for him – not because Merlin had ordered it, but because Kilgarrah had chosen to. Merlin couldn't bring himself to order Kilgarrah about; it felt far too much like an abuse of power.

On the other hand, there was always the tried and true method of asking politely.

You don't have to get close to any villages if you don't want, of course – I have discovered first hand how sharp a dragon's vision could be, Merlin tacked on a nervous little titter, swallowing fast when he felt that same laugh attempt to bubble out of his throat with Gaius close by at his work table. Maybe if you smelled any smoke you could fly in close enough to spot anyone running away or... watch some fields or... something? If that's all right...?

And this is a matter of great importance because...? Kilgarrah asked. Merlin didn't detect any annoyance in his voice. If anything he thought there'd been a trace amusement.

Because crops are being burned! And for all anyone knows it's about more than a love for fire, it's about something darker and sinister and... and there's nothing wrong with playing it safe, that's all.

Merlin must have been making unhappy faces. Gaius kept glancing at him.

Peace, young warlock, said Kilgarrah kindly. Peace. I understand your concerns but there is no need for your request. I have been taking to the skies during the night, searching for any survivors from the druid camp. I have witnessed these fires you speak of but I have yet to see anyone running from the destruction, only towards. However...

Merlin stiffened. However?

It is nothing.

Kilgarrah, don't make me order you to tell me.

There is nothing yet to tell, that is why I say it is nothing. Sometimes within the scent of smoke there is another scent that is both familiar yet a stranger to me. It has made me curious, that is all, and I did not wish to worry you over it.

Merlin let his body sink deeper into the pillow and blankets of the chair. Kilgarrah, at this point, one more concern isn't going to make a difference.

I am sorry I cannot be of more help.

That's all right. Just... let me know if you come to know anything or... anything.

I will, I promise.

Merlin tilted his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, wondering at how paranoid he was getting that he was asking a dragon to look into an arson situation, and the irony of it – like asking a cat to look into the death of a mouse, or Gwaine to look into whose been sending Arthur their tavern bill.

“Bad news, I take it.”

Merlin's head shot up. “What?” He looked to Gaius now looking back at him. “I... what?”

“I know what you were doing, Merlin. Unless you've taken to talking to yourself.”

Merlin balked. “Did I really say all that out loud?”

“Not all of it,” Gaius said with a shrug. “But there may have been a few exclamations somewhat difficult to ignore.”

“Oh. Actually it's no news. Kilgarrah hasn't seen anything, either. Which I'm finding that strange because shouldn't someone have seen something by now?”

“Not necessarily, not if magic's involved.”

Merlin was about to berate himself for not asking Kilgarrah about that but knew that if the dragon had any suspicions he would have said something. He was worried about a smell, for goodness sakes. He probably wouldn't have waited for Merlin to contact him if there was foul magic afoot. If Kilgarrah was hunting for renegade druids who may have survived, then that meant he was just as on edge as Merlin.

And he would be; the Great Dragon practically older than time itself and he now had to live with the humiliation of two captures by humans, one group of whom should have been on their knees bowing to him, not chaining him up.

Maybe “on edge” was the wrong choice of words. It was more logical to say he was probably furious.

“But if magic were involved,” said Gaius, “We'd have more of a problem on our hands than a patch of burned farmland.”

“Distraction,” Merlin reminded him, and being rather snippy about it.

Gaius merely smiled at him indulgently, which Merlin felt to be a little patronizing. “I would think us sufficiently distracted, Merlin. And yet nothing has come of it.” But then the smile faltered, fighting a losing battle to stay in place but the rest of Gaius' expression having already given up the ghost to something more soft and melancholy.

“You don't have to fight every battle that comes Camelot's way, Merlin,” he said, and then the smile failed and was gone. “It's all right to rest and leave the battles to others until you're ready. When you can.”

But as they say, it was easier said than done, because battles didn't rest and people looking to do harm much preferred it when defenses were down.

And that, Merlin would think when he looked back on this very moment with a dry laugh and a bitter shake of his head, really should have been prophetic for all the irony that followed. Merlin tried to absorb Gaius' words, tried to steer his thoughts to other matters, knowing he wouldn't succeed but that had yet to stop him. Maybe a quick doze wouldn't hurt, one he would wake from before he had a chance to dream. He was just squirming to make himself comfortable and find a position that didn't make his ribs ache when the door burst open, Merlin nearly jumping from his skin when it slammed with a bang against the stone walls. The shock of the noise was nothing compared to the shock of seeing Leon – quiet, reserved, polite-to-a-fault Leon flush-faced, wide-eyed, panting and all-over frantic as Merlin had never seen him before.

“Gaius, we need you, now, down in the court. We have wounded.”

Gaius, ever steady and calm in the face of injury, was already up and grabbing his kit when he asked. “How many and the nature of their injuries?”

“We haven't had a chance to count. They're from the village in the south, most of the injuries seem to be burns.”

Leon and Gaius were to the door, almost out when Gaius remembered to glance back and order Merlin to stay put. It was as the door was closing, as Gaius and Leon were nearly gone from sight, that Leon said and Merlin heard...

“They say it was a dragon.”

TBC...

Chapter Text

Gaius was going to kill Merlin, or at least lecture him until his ears fell off. Merlin was more than willing to face the consequence and, in all honesty, didn't think it would be deserved, anyway. Because even Gaius would have to admit that there was no possible way that Merlin, a dragonlord, with his dragon stationed close enough to connect to telepathically, was staying put after hearing Leon's parting words. And he definitely couldn't blame Merlin for seeking out further information when the source of his information, Kilgarrah, wasn't answering his mental summons. Talk about bad timing. Merlin silently prayed it was only bad timing, and that's why he couldn't stay put. He needed to know more and he needed to know, now.

And the best place to gather intel when there was a crisis and facts in need of sorting out was the council room. Arthur preferred it over the throne room, saying it made him seem less imposing and helped to put those seeking help at ease enough to think clearly.

Merlin arrived to see the doors open and the room occupied but not crowded as it usually was when a villager came bearing bad news. And it wouldn't be, not with most of the knights out aiding both the wounded and not-wounded. Merlin hung back just outside the door and out of sight, peering in long enough to see who was there and who wasn't. There was Arthur, of course, standing at the head of the council table as an elderly man along with an elderly woman and younger man quickly told Arthur everything they knew. Gwaine was with him as was Elyan, Leon still with Gaius, and Percival no doubt lending his strength to whoever needed carrying.

“I know it sounds daft, sire,” said the old man nervously, “but we saw it. Ask any from the village and they'll confirm it on their lives.”

“A dragon?” Arthur said. He sounded like he couldn't decide if he wanted to be skeptical or leave the chamber right then and there calling all the knights to arms.

“Indeed, sire, indeed. Large as a barn and pale as milk...”

Merlin's heart lodged in his throat. Aithusa.

No, it couldn't be Aithusa. The old man had said large as a barn and the last Merlin had seen Aithusa she was barely bigger than a cat.

“... near didn't see it, we were so distracted by the fire in the field, but then it came round again. All I can say is that it must have seen us and... I'm not sure, my lord, but it looked as though it were leaving only to come back and attack the village itself. But it was short, the attack, and the beast flew away as though tired.”

“Did you see in which direction it went?” Arthur asked sounding less skeptical and more than ready to pick up his sword.

“West, sire.”

Merlin hurried away from the chamber knowing that Arthur would be striding through the door at any moment, tossing out orders for the knights to arm and the horses to be saddled. Merlin's heart beat fast and frantic in his chest; he could almost hear his dragon's scales hissing against each other. The threat wasn't Kilgarrah and it couldn't be Aithusa, Merlin was happy as a clam about that but...

A dragon.

Another dragon. What was this, the month of dragons? Merlin went back to Gaius' chambers, straight to the window and poked his head out. He could just see the courtyard filled with people, some standing, some on the ground, and some hidden under blankets. Merlin tore his gaze away and aimed it at the sky, calling frantically out with his mind.

I am here, young warlock. Must you shout so? Kilgarrah finally replied.

Where the bloody hell were you!

Out of range, tracking a druid camp but not the ones who took us. What has happened to make you so frightened?

A dragon. Kilgarrah... I think it may have been a dragon that's been starting the fires--

Impossible, Kilgarrah hissed.

I know, I know it is but a village was just attacked by one. A white one – not Aithusa, it was too big, but they all saw it and said it was white and... Merlin's mental voice was small when he said, Kilgarrah? What's happening?

I do not know but you can be certain that I will find out, Kilgarrah said fiercely.

The village elder said it headed West. You need to hurry, Arthur and his men are getting ready to head out as we speak.

I am already on my way. I will speak with you again as soon as I can.

Merlin dropped into his chair at the window and slumped into it, his hand pressed to his mouth. A dragon. Another dragon. Shouldn't he have been able to sense it if another dragon were out there? He could sense Kilgarrah and Aithusa when they were close by. But he was bonded to them and...

Another dragon.

The dragon in Merlin shifted, as if butting into Merlin's breastbone, and a ripple of pain scurried through his chest. He grabbed it, clenching his fingers and ignoring his nails biting through the cloth of his shirt into his mangled skin, pressing with bruising force against bone.

“Quiet,” He snarled. “You settle down, you hear me? I've got enough problems without you adding to it so knock it off!”

“Merlin?”

Once again Merlin's bones nearly found themselves outside of his skin. But it wasn't Leon at the door, it was Gwen, dressed in her lavender satin gown with the dark trim. She was only halfway in, her stance uncertain but her expression pure Gwen favoring worry over whether or not her friend had gone mad.

“Are you all right?” she asked, also pure Gwen, also favoring concern over questions of sanity and proving it by moving the rest of the way into the room toward Merlin.

Merlin forced a smile on his face and shook his head. “Fine, fine. I'm just... tired of aching, that's all,” he said, rubbing his chest.

Gwen released the breath she was holding, relaxing marginally but only for a second before she tensed and bustled around the chamber. “I'm so sorry bursting in like this but Gaius needed some extra supplies and everyone was so busy and not letting me do much with the wounded...” she grimaced. “There are many advantages to being queen, Merlin, but some days I miss my old station in life.”

She was quick and efficient about gathering the needed supplies, and it seemed only a moment – a real moment – that she had what she needed and was gone.

It was only then that Merlin noticed the silence, near painful in its perfection and thick enough to feel, like a heavy blanket on a hot day, stifling and monstrously uncomfortable. It made Merlin want to leave, go outside, lose himself in focusing on the needs of others and doing what he did best – serving. In fact, maybe he should help. Yes, he couldn't exactly bend down or lift anything without causing himself excruciating pain but he could... sooth frazzled children or hold the hand of old ladies or something. It was better than sitting around with only his worries to keep him company, and he was tired of sitting around.

Mind set, Merlin left the chamber.

On stepping outside the castle into the courtyard, unnoticed in the chaos, Merlin was struck by the memories of a time painfully similar to this one, when Kilgarrah had favored revenge over seeing Albion united. The courtyard was a maze of bodies upright, sitting or prone, ever shifting as knights and servants hurried about lugging buckets of water, baskets of food or heaps of blankets. Merlin spotted Percival settling a frail old man on a pallet of blankets, Leon handing crusts of bread to children, and Gwen doing what Merlin had planned on doing - comforting an old woman. And that was only what was taking place outside. The worst of the wounded would be inside being cared for by Gaius. These out here were the exhausted, old and frightened.

All of them had soot smeared on their faces and ash still clinging to their clothes.

As Merlin stood there gaping at it all, he suddenly found himself with an armful of child and the barked and hurried orders of a harried maid telling him to make himself useful. Merlin grunted when broken ribs shrieked at him, and it was either set the boy down or drop him. The boy remained latched onto Merlin's hand, chubby little four year old digits wrapped with all the tenacious strength his little body could muster to two of Merlin's fingers. He looked up at Merlin with the blank-faced regard all children give to total strangers.

The boy said, as if needing to speak the first words to pop into his mind, “Mummy gotsa ouch.” He patted his little arm with his free hand. “Here.”

Merlin crouched in front of him, “Is your mummy inside?”

The boy nodded, looking so solemn and so old for being so small, that Merlin wanted to bundle him into his arms and tell him, “I know. I understand.”

Merlin said instead with a smile, “Then she's in good hands. I know the healer personally and he'll do everything he can to make her feel all better. So let's wait for her here, then, okay?”

The little boy nodded. Merlin rose, wincing, growing tired of his body's constant complaints, and searched for a place to sit well out of the way of all the activity. He did a double-take when he noticed Gwen smiling his way. Blushing, he headed over to her where she was still comforting the old woman.

“Thought I'd, you know,” he gestured at the boy, “Make myself useful.”

“It's fine, Merlin,” Gwen said almost laughingly. “I don't believe watching a single child requires much strenuous activity.”

“Mim,” said the boy to the exhausted old lady slumped and half-buried in shawls and blankets. “Mummy got burned, Mim.”

“Oh, I know pet,” said the old woman wearily – not the fatigue of a body spent of energy, but, it seemed, of one weary of life. “I know. I saw. T'was not bad, she'll be fine.”

Gwen mouthed to Merlin sadly, 'lost her husband and son.'

Merlin settled next to Gwen and the old woman on the stairs in the shade, and the boy in Merlin's lap, his small head bumping his chest. Merlin had to clamp his mouth shut to hold back a yelp, and Gwen's smile turned sympathetic.

“Oh, Merlin, you know you don't need to help. If you need to rest--”

Merlin shook his head. “No, I want to help, believe me. You know I'd be out there carrying those buckets if I could. Well, no, I'd be riding out with Arthur if I could, wouldn't I?”

If Merlin had the dexterity to kick himself, he would have done so when the shadow of worry settled over Gwen's face, eclipsing her smile with a frown. But it wasn't fear taking her over. Gwen knew Arthur far too well to meet his departures with wide-eyed dread. It was resolve, an understanding of the situation without having to like it. Because of course Arthur was riding out, of course he wouldn't sit around waiting for his knights to bring him news of the situation, and of course he would want to ascertain things for himself with his own eyes and ears.

So went the ways of Arthur, king of Camelot and protector of its people. Both queen and manservant knew it and knew it well, accepted it because they must and worried because they could.

In Merlin's case, worried and cursed the damn renegade druids for he didn't know how many times, now. He should be going with Arthur, watching his back, and couldn't because his damn ribs wouldn't take the strain of riding and premature fatigue would make him useless.

Speaking of, there were the horses in the only clear spot of courtyard not occupied by the weary and old. Then there was Arthur and those knights chosen to accompany him, so focused he wouldn't have noticed Merlin if he was right in front of him.

“He should not go, my queen,” the old woman said. “The beast that got us weren't natural, and I don't mean the usual beasts of power. It glowed, your highness. Like a snowy mist, like a spirit. It's fire consumed flesh and bone until there was nothing left. My Ansel and Paul...” She trailed off with a shimmer in her eyes that threatened to unleash a cascade of tears, yet she managed to hold them back as she shook her head. “Tis not natural at all, I tell you.”

Arthur and the knights mounted, turned their steeds and steered them out of the courtyard. Merlin reached back, taking Gwen's hand waiting to receive, and squeezed it as she squeezed back.

~oOo~

Arthur and his knights found nothing but complete destruction; great swathes of earth turned black as coal, entire buildings reduced to piles of ash, and barely a scrap to sift through.

Merlin heard all this as he bathed a man's severely burned flank with a mixture of herbs and honey. The boy's mother had come and fetched her child some time ago, leaving Merlin to wander about in the hopes of being useful and finding more children to watch. It had, as wandering tended to do for him, led to a run-in with Gaius, who'd been incredibly unhappy but too busy to do anything about it except to assign Merlin the least tiring chore he could think of on the spot – applying poultices to injuries.

So Merlin was both present and close enough by to overhear Arthur seeking Gaius' advice on the matter of what could have razed an entire village to the ground. Gaius, of course, had no immediate answer but promised to research what he could.

Being the sneaky, under-handed old man that he was, he had Merlin do it, even though they both knew there was nothing to research. Not in any books, at least (they practically had all the bestiaries memorized).

That left Kilgarrah, and speak of the dragon, there he was, a booming voice in Merlin's skull demanding attention. The sudden intrusion into Merlin's thoughts and the urgency tailing it made Merlin stagger on his way home, thankfully while in a deserted section of hallway.

blast it all, Kilgarrah, not so loud, I'm right here!

It is not a matter of loud, young warlock, as it is a matter of great importance that my voice seems amplified. I have been to the village, long enough to gather all that there is to know.

Merlin came to an abrupt halt, pouring all his focus onto the voice in his mind.

I do not understand it, Kilgarrah continued. Only dragon fire can cause the damage I have seen, and yet the scent it leaves behind, though familiar, is not completely dragon.

A wyvern? No, they don't breathe fire. Unless... some species do?

Oh no. Even the halfbreed wyvern who might summon flame if their parentage favored dragons would leave a scent I would know. This... Merlin, I may try to avoid your kind as much as possible but I know you well enough to know your scents to be complicated, the smells of sweat and dirt among the scent of animals, and sometimes perfumes from the means by which some of you cleanse yourselves.

Merlin's heart-rate tripled.

Merlin, I believe I have smelled the smell of man.

Because it was in a village, Merlin said.

No, young warlock. I captured this scent among the trees, too high for any man to reach even if he were to climb, and some of it lingering in the air. I cannot be sure – too much time has passed – but if what I smell and what I have seen are not deceptions...

Merlin's heart beat impossibly hard until it hurt, and he lost his balance, staggering sideways into the wall.

“Another dragonlord,” he said out loud, shaking his head. “Is it... is it possible?”

I do not know. It is true Uther hunted them to extinction but that is not to say only Balinor managed to escape. But... no, that cannot be it. Aithusa and I are the last and bonded to you. Even if there were another dragonlord, he would not have a dragon to summon his soul-kin.

The old woman said the dragon glowed, Merlin said. Like a ghost.

He was answered with silence that lasted the span of ten heartbeats. It made Merlin aware of the quiet and emptiness of his surroundings, making him feel exposed and lost. He shivered.

Kilgarrah?

Oh, Merlin, the dragon said on a sigh, long and heavy and so full of melancholy it sent the cold finger of fear ripping down Merlin's spine.

Kilgarrah! he demanded, trying so hard to sound like the dragonlord he was and not wavering like a child.

It is possible, Kilgarrah said, resigned and sad. That this was never about waking the dragon within you and unleashing it on Camelot. There are so many magics in this world that should not be trifled with. Spells harmless, even vital, when used for the good of others, but wicked when employed for darker purposes.

What do you mean? Merlin said.

That the druids did not wake the dragon within you to become a weapon. They woke it in order to take the power for themselves. To change, Merlin, as you had changed. To become a dragon.

TBC...

Chapter Text

As much as Merlin loved his ability to use magic, there were times when he still considered it a bloody curse – not his magic alone but magic in general, and he had to remind himself over and over that it wasn't magic itself that was the problem but the people using it.

People who woke up one morning and thought to themselves, you know what we need? A spell that allows one to duplicate a powerful ability for any Tom, Dick and Henry to use whether or not they're complete imbeciles or hell bent on the destruction of an entire nation.

The spell in question, as Kilgarrah had explained it, was in fact once meant to allow one sorcerer to absorb the skills of another. Not take their abilities – which was far too difficult and dangerous – but duplicate a single ability. It was an emergency practice both in the days before the purge and during, when a young sorcerer not yet having mastered a particular spell or unable to could be gifted with that spell by one with the knowledge or talent. The example Kilgarrah gave was the spell of invisibility – a difficult spell few are able to master except in its lesser form known as shrouding, but one highly coveted during the purge. Blood-transfer was the key. When the knowledgeable sorcerer enacted the needed spell, he would cut his palm, then the sorcerer in need of the magic would cut his and they would shake hands while the sorcerer in need said the incantation. Both knowledge and ability would then flow into the sorcerer in need, and he would be temporarily gifted with the new ability.

But like the vast majority of all spells it wore off, the knowledge and skill erased like a dream in the dawn, and in fact it was usually by dawn the next day that the spell would end.

For the Druids to be able to do what they did and take Merlin's ability to change into a dragon, they would have needed more than a cut palm and an incantation, and there was a reason the spell wasn't common practice to impart knowledge to young sorcerers more quickly.

Merlin had bled quite a bit during his captivity, so there was no question as to how they got the blood (or how much of it they might have gathered while Merlin lay on the ground, writhing and begging). But for the spell to last beyond the dawn... to last beyond many dawns... though it was possible, Kilgarrah had said, it would not have been easy. To go beyond the dawn and extend the life cycle of the spell the person chosen would have to keep in contact with the blood from the beginning of one day to the beginning of the next, the incantation repeated over and over again all throughout, possibly beyond a single day and into many, depending on how long they wanted it to last.

Merlin had asked if it was possible to make the ability permanent. Were it an ability anyone could possess then yes, the knowledge eventually burned into the mind if it lasted long enough. But the ability to change into a dragon was more than some mere spell, Kilgarrah had said with disdain. They were not simply borrowing an ability, they were duplicating a piece of Merlin, a piece of his soul, and it was for that reason the dragon would be white and glowing as a specter. It was not a perfect copy.

And that, too, explained all the little field fires and the attack on the village – practice. This druid may have had the knowledge and ability to become a dragon but it was an imperfect knowledge that had not been imparted willingly, and what they didn't know they had to learn for themselves.

The devastating attack on the latest village said this person was ready.

So it made absolutely no bloody sense that two more days saw two more village attacks with each village attacked further from Camelot than the last, as though the dragon were actually avoiding Camelot, preferring to terrorize innocent by-standards rather than attack the enemy itself.

Not that Merlin wanted Camelot to be attacked – of course he didn't. But where there was procrastination and situations that insulted logic, there was a deeper plan that would make logic swoon with envy. The Druid's were up to something – well, obviously they were – but the nature of that something demanded patience and time, and plans that needed time tended to be far more dangerous than plans that demanded immediate results.

In the meantime, people were suffering, the courtyard and beyond near-packed and the injured overflowing into the council room and banquet hall. Since it had become apparent Merlin wasn't going to take sitting around and doing nothing when so much was happening, Gaius had finally assigned him to poultice application along with the soothing of fevered brows. Gwen, of course, was politely jealous about it, but Merlin thought she had the most important job of all - providing comfort to those who thought all comfort lost to them.

Kilgarrah, in the mean time, was attempting to hunt this dragon-druid down, but a dragon that could take human form wasn't going to be an easy find. The druids may have been fools, Kilgarrah said, but they were not stupid. They would know Kilgarrah would still be close by and so would do their best to lay low, and with so many villages to choose from, finding the next point of attack was going to be a matter of hit or miss – like a game of chance with lives tossed into the pot.

Sometimes, even warlocks could get frustrated with magic and its existence. But Merlin was mostly frustrated with himself – him, with all his powers and great destiny and, hell, a bloody dragon restless and waiting in his soul, and there still wasn't a blasted way he could help. He had tried a scrying spell but without a bit of something from the thing he was trying to scry it was useless (not that it would have been useful if he did have a bit of something. He had tried scrying Arthur when he had gone out with his men to scour the second village attacked – using a bit of Arthur's hair from his last haircut – but when one section of forest looked like another, scrying was about as helpful in pinpointing one's location as shouting out “I'm over here” in a cavern).

Merlin had even gone so far as to consider the dragon still awake within him and calling it back out, using the form to help Kilgarrah in the hunt. Then he remembered taking the form, the attack, the mindless rage, and decided not to risk it.

Arthur continued to take it upon himself to lead Camelot's own search for the dragon, going to each destroyed village in the hopes of finding something, anything, that would point them in the right direction. A hopeless endeavor when the quarry was a creature that could fly, but that was Arthur for you – to hell with the odds stacked against him, he would try and keep trying because the enemy would not rest and so neither would he.

While Merlin was forced to stay behind because he had no choice. He was still healing, still ached without the help of medicine, and though his strength had returned considerably, he still tired far too quickly in his opinion. It was ridiculous and frustrating how something as simple as applying poultices could leave him winded, and of course Gaius would notice it. With the worst of the villagers' wounds as cleansed and covered as they were going to get, Gaius called it a day for Merlin and chased him off to rest with a lecture and a stern glare (as well as the threat of calling Percival in to escort him personally as well as physically – as in carry Merlin like a child - if Merlin didn't comply).

But distractions happened, and Merlin felt himself justifiably distracted when on passing the room designated as the temporary council chamber he saw Arthur seated at a table, pouring over maps – a task Merlin was quite sure he'd spotted Arthur doing this very morning, and it was nearing mid-afternoon.

The platter of barely eaten food half-buried under parchments confirmed this. The shadows under Arthur's eyes, visible from where even Merlin stood, tattled that the king hadn't been resting, either.

Injured or not, Merlin was still Arthur's manservant, and old duties died hard and all that. Merlin made an immediate detour into the room.

Arthur was so engrossed in his maps he didn't notice that he was no longer alone until Merlin was right at his back, reading over his shoulder. Arthur glanced back once, did a double take and jumped a clean inch off his seat.

“Merlin!”

“Sorry. Just wondering what you were reading that was so fascinating. Do you honestly find maps that engaging?”

Old habits died hard as well. Sometimes Merlin really couldn't help himself, mostly because Arthur was asking for it.

Arthur scowled. “Of course not. I find them about as entertaining as your wit.” He went back to his close study.

The banter over and done with, Merlin asked kindly, “Anything I can help with?” He nearly added 'since the ones behind all this kidnapped me and all so I might know something' but caught himself in time. Merlin wasn't going to give himself yet another reason to have to lie. It would also serve little purpose. If Kilgarrah couldn't find the dragon in the air and Arthur neither dragon nor druid on the ground, then knowing who the real enemy was wasn't going to make any difference in the hunt, except to maybe give him a reason to harass those druids who hadn't been involved.

“Not unless you can tell me how a creature thought to be extinct can return from the grave,” Arthur said, tossing one map away in favor of another.

Merlin could, however, offer plenty of conjectures.

“Well... maybe it's not a real dragon. Maybe, I don't know, it's something some sorcerer created or... or maybe hid away to unleash on Camelot later on. Maybe it's possible to turn into a dragon, I don't know.”

Arthur snorted, derisive but not skeptical. “Wonderful. Another shapeshifter.”

Merlin swallowed at the sudden and painful onslaught of memories about Freya.

“As if dealing with a bloody dragon isn't bad enough,” Arthur went on. “Noooo, it had to be a dragon with a plan to destroy Camelot. Not that I'm agreeing with you, Merlin, but neither would I be surprised. Problem is, why attack all these villages? Why not come straight to Camelot? The thing is it seems like there's a pattern to it's attacks. Look here...”

Arthur pulled several maps, each of a different section of Camelot, within better view and pointed each village out. “Look at the locations – each village attacked is further away from Camelot than the last. I know, it probably doesn't mean much but I've been thinking--”

“Did it hurt?”

“Merlin.”

“Right. Focus. Sorry. A bit tired.”

“Sit down, then. I won't have you swooning on me like a maid seeing a mouse.”

“The maids don't swoon, they scream and throw things. It's quite scary,” Merlin countered, but did as told, more than happy to get off his wobbling legs. “Anyway, you've been thinking?”

“What if the smaller fires – the arsons – are related to this dragon? Yes, I know it makes little sense but bear with me on this. If they are related then there is definitely a pattern and it is most definitely moving away from us.”

Merlin studied the maps and raised both eyebrows. Arthur was right, the path was moving away from Camelot, not toward, as though the dragon were already in retreat but still hell-bent on causing what damage it could as it fled.

Dread pooled in Merlin's gut like a ball of ice.

“In which case,” Arthur said, “if the pattern continues that means the next attack should be somewhere in this area, here,” he pointed to a south-west section of map.

Merlin stared at it, like he could see beyond the ink and the parchment to the place itself, quiet and unassuming as death raced toward it on white wings.

Or maybe it was already waiting, hidden in human form, harmless and small until the time came when it would grow, and the knights beneath it would be nothing more than ants to burn to dust.

“You're going to track it there,” Merlin said.

Arthur sat back with a heavy sigh. “Not there,” he said, then tapped another section of map further south-west. “There. I've already dispatched men to evacuate the villages in the area – thankfully not many. The attacks don't occur until days after so we should be able to head it off.”

Merlin's heart kicked hard in his chest. He knew what this was. Good lords he knew what the druids' plans were.

“Arthur,” he said, small, frightened, his voice breaking. “Arthur, you can't. It's a trap. Don't you see? It's drawing you out.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Merlin, it's had plenty of opportunities to attack. With any luck it won't even know we're coming. We'll have the element of surprise--”

“It's drawing you from Camelot, Arthur!” Merlin cut in harshly. “Look at the region. Look at it! You said it yourself, the villages are few. That far out, with everyone evacuated, you'll be on your own, too far away to send for help if things go wrong. And if this is sorcery - and you know it has to be so don't try to deny it – then you'll be facing more than just a dragon, you'll be facing magic.”

Arthur stared at Merlin with a cool gaze and a clenched jaw. “What would you have me do, then? Let this thing move on? You're right, Merlin, I do think magic is involved, which means this thing isn't going to leave. It's going to circle back and continue attacking villages until we face it or it comes to Camelot itself, and I will not let this city suffer the same fate as when the Great Dragon escaped.”

Merlins' heart gave another hard kick. Arthur was right. Damn him, of course he was right but it didn't change the fact that he was essentially planning to ride to his doom.

“When do you plan to leave?” Merlin asked through a tight jaw.

There had to be another way.

“Tomorrow I and the knights depart. This beast isn't in any hurry,” Arthur said.

“Of course not. Because it's waiting to kill you.” Merlin shook his head and muttered without meaning to out loud, “I should come with you.”

Arthur barked a laugh. “Oh, yes, that'll turn the tide – a phalanx of knights plus our secret weapon, a manservant. They definitely won't stand a chance.”

“Gwaine thinks I'm lucky to have around,” Merlin countered easily even as his mind spun fast, sifting through plan after plan and the magical knowledge at his disposal.

“Yes, well, be that as it may you're in no condition to go anywhere. You look half dead even as we speak and all you're doing is sitting there. Ride out and you'll be dead for sure, most likely before we even arrive.”

Merlin glared at him. “There has to be a better way.”

Arthur, already looking tired, seemed to melt with utter exhaustion. “Believe me, Merlin, I've been scouring my own brain for an alternative, and I'm still scouring. I meant it – if you know a better way, please tell me. If not, then all we can do is do what we can and hope for the best.”

~oOo~

Merlin shouldn't have run back to Gaius' chambers. He was nowhere near ready for such exertions but hadn't cared, and now he was out of breath and barely keeping himself upright. But he clung to the edge of the window with shaking arms and stared long and hard at the horizon, as though he could see beyond it to where ever Kilgarrah was searching, and where ever it was of course it had to be beyond the range of their mental connection. Of all the blasted times to be out of range...

Merlin took a deep, steadying breath, calming himself. He could be angry with irony's cruel sense of humor later. He focused, calling out with his mind, fighting the ever pressing urge to use his voice and bring the dragon right to him. Kilgarrah wouldn't come near the city per Merlin's orders, Merlin knew this, but for all he knew Kilgarrah had the white dragon in his sights, and like hell Merlin was going to be the one to interrupt the confrontation. So he stared, and called, stared and called...

Yes, young warlock, I am here. And still shouting, I see.

Merlin nearly collapsed in his relief. He did collapse but had sense enough to make sure it was in his chair and not in a heap on the floor.

Kilgarrah, Arthur knows where the white dragon is going to attack. He's planning on ambushing him but it's a trap, Kilgarrah, it has to be. The dragon is moving away from Camelot, not towards it and Arthur figured it out and he thinks he can head it off but it'll be waiting for him and the druids with it I know it--

Merlin. Merlin! Slow down. Tell me the location of this region. If it is indeed a trap then I will be there to prevent it long before Arthur arrives. They may have tricked me before, but I will be ready this time.

Merlin's relief was so draining it left him shaking even when he wasn't even upright. South west, right on the border. Villages are in the process of being evacuated so be careful.

I will, young warlock. I will call for Aithusa and position her where she will be able to make contact with us both while I am out of range of you.

Merlin bent forward, burying his face in his hands as he rode out the shakes.

Everything would be all right. Kilgarrah would lay in wait, the dragon would come, Kilgarrah would destroy it and scatter the druids and Arthur would ride out then ride back unscathed and hear no more of white dragons glowing like ghosts. And everyone would be safe.

In only a matter of a day, maybe even hours, this could all be over. Merlin sat back in his chair, head tilted against the back rest, and kept his eyes closed. There was good reason for Gaius always prattling on about the fragility of the human body, why a quick sprint across a castle could leave a man feeling as though he had run a mile, and why relief was so much more draining than deceptively short sprints. Merlin didn't realize it when he fell asleep, or what occurred while he was asleep, because when he woke he was no longer in the chair, he was in his bed, the sudden change of location leaving him both disoriented and a little panicked until the familiarity finally set in.

Merlin stumbled groggily down the stairs to an empty chamber but not one that had been empty for long. There was a fire in the hearth, a little low but still burning, and a few candles flickering calmly. All together they told the story of Gaius' brief return, or perhaps not so brief if he'd taken the time to warm the room and – Merlin just now noticing the pot bubbling with something savory smelling – put something together to ensure Merlin had something to eat, as well as someone both the right age and with the right amount of upper-body strength to carry Merlin to his bed.

It made Merlin smile with fondness. He had told Balinor that he didn't know what it was to have a father. It wasn't true. He did know, he merely hadn't realized it until now, and it warmed him like a heavy blanket on a cold night. Speaking of night, the sun had vanished and blue twilight had crept over the world, leaving Merlin wondering just how long he had been asleep. He went to the window and called Aithusa with his mind but the dragon had nothing to report.

No news is good news as the saying went, Merlin supposed. He dished up dinner and ate. He cleaned out his bowl when done then organized those bottles of potions he knew Gaius would probably need within easy reach. He went back to bed, still tired and not in the mood to hear one of Gaius' lectures on the need to rest as much as possible.

He dreamed of a white dragon glowing like the moon. It circled a clearing much like the one where Merlin had let Arthur believe he had slain a dragon. But there was no Merlin this time, there was only Arthur and the knights scurrying around on horseback like little red ants with obnoxious little stings, so easy to burn to bone and ash.

Merlin woke flailing, incoherent warnings getting caught in his throat. Still in the throes of dream-induced terror, Merlin launched himself from his bed and took the stairs with twice the stumbling as the other day, demanding to whoever was in the room, “Has Arthur gone?”

Gaius, startled, looked up from packing his kit and stared at Merlin in alarm. “Yes. Before sunrise. Merlin, are you all right? Did you have another dream? You're as pale as the dead.”

Merlin wasn't listening. He forced his uncooperative body to the window and mentally called to Aithusa, but the young dragon still had nothing to report. Merlin frowned at that. The location of the dragon's next attack was two day's ride from Camelot. But two days or three days or more, with the white dragon obviously ready and the path set, the Druids should have gathered themselves within range of the next location, not close enough to be spotted by mortal man – they weren't stupid, Merlin had to give them that – but close enough for a dragon scouring the area to have scented them at least. But Aithusa had said Kilgarrah had searched, even going far beyond the border and back, and had yet to find anything.

Merlin wracked his brain. Though his captors had been foolish in their endeavors, again, though Merlin was loathe to admit it, they weren't stupid. There would have been spies, of course, watching in the shadows a safe distance away as Arthur and his knights surveyed the destruction. They would have been there every step of the way, at least one druid if not more. But that was only if they had managed to regroup, if the white dragon wasn't working alone.

No. No, the dragon would need the druids. A dragon's wrath was devastating but this wasn't a true dragon, it was a copy, and who knew how true to the form something was when it was only a copy. It could fly, smell, enabling it to gather its druid brethren faster and more efficiently. Maybe the dragon could take Arthur and his knights on its own but why would it when having an army of druids, even a small squadron, would end the conflict more quickly and open the way to Camelot itself?

And how unnerving was it that Merlin was able to think like his enemies?

No, this is you thinking like Arthur. This is you thinking like a strategist, and a good strategist takes everything they can into account.

The Druids weren't stupid.

They'd had a back-up plan, using Merlin's blood when they couldn't use Merlin himself.

They were patient, taking the time to train their new weapon as well as lay a trail for Arthur to follow.

They wouldn't want to take any chances, not when their first plan had failed. The white dragon couldn't be working alone, not when having magic at its back would ensure a swift and sure victory.

They, too, would take everything they could into account, such as an escaped warlock – too injured to be useful – but also an enraged dragon hunting those who had captured it using by its own dragonlord against it, repeating a history it thought itself free of and humiliating it. And the only way to elude an angry dragon was to keep moving, keep going...

Or lead it to the same place they were leading Arthur.

Because that wasn't the location of the trap, that was to make sure the dragon stayed out of the way.

The trap was somewhere else, somewhere on the very path Arthur and his knights were now traveling.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin's heart shot into his throat as he stared into a sky heading toward noon, hours from when Arthur and his men had departed, riding to their doom.

“Oh, no,” Merlin breathed. He pushed himself from the window into a run back to his room. There, he yanked on his boots and threw on his jacket, not bothering to change from his night shirt, and all the while calling to Aithusa in his head.

Aithusa, warn Kilgarrah. The druids knew Kilgarrah was looking for them. His location isn't the sight of the trap, it's going to be elsewhere but I don't know where. I'm going after Arthur.

Merlin ran from the chamber, ignoring Gaius' frantic call, the strange looks pulled his way as he dashed past servants, guards, injured villagers and shell-shocked ones. He ignored the stable boy mucking out the stalls until Merlin attempted to saddle his horse with broken ribs and a weak body. The boy took over for Merlin with a, “Here, let me help. Are you sure you should be riding, Merlin, you look terrible?” But that last bit Merlin most definitely ignored.

Then Merlin was riding, hard and fast, and the pain of it he could only try to ignore. His body screamed at him but the need to get to Arthur and the others screamed louder. Merlin cried out when the horse leaped over a fallen pile of sacks, and one arm moved automatically to his chest to brace his ribs.

Merlin had no idea what the hell he was doing or what he was going to do when he found Arthur. Distract the sorcerers, go after the dragon... he wondered if he could control the white dragon, use his dragonlord abilities the same way he could with Wyverns – not control it for long, but at least get it to back off, maybe distract it as well.

Another hard jolt ripped through Merlin's body. He cried out even louder, hunching low over the horse's neck and it was out of pure reaction that he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a gallop – which did absolutely nothing to put so much as a dent in the pain shooting through his body. He pulled the horse to a stop all together in order to lean to the side and vomit what little he had in his stomach.

Then he was riding again, pushing through the hell with an arm around his ribs and his teeth so clenched it felt like he was driving them into his jawbone. But it was too damn much, this relentless agony like hot pokers in his bones and sharp pikes stirring the dragon in his chest into a frenzy. He pulled the horse back, let it walk, let his body remember how to exist through the pain. But the moment the pain was a tolerable throb he was riding hard again, driving it back up until black motes danced in his vision, and the horse would slow.

Run and walk, run and walk, and the images of ash and bone and red cloth taunted him, laughing. They could be battling the dragon right now.

They could be dead.

Merlin kicked the horse into a run, tears racing each other down his face. He whimpered, he screamed, he slowed the horse and sobbed through the agony and images and the certainty that he was too late. He felt like he was being tortured all over again; the fists and feet slamming into him, the voices whispering how he was useless, not wanted, a traitor.

A failure.

Merlin wept, hugging his chest tighter with one arm as the dragon in him thrashed. Darkness flashed in his eyes like sparks, growing in number and size, eating his vision until they would leave him alone in the dark, forever in pain, forever useless.

The horse had slowed, Merlin could feel it. Then he felt himself falling.

Only to stop abruptly, caught in an iron grip cinched tight around his shoulder and arm. They had him. Lords, the druids had found him first and they had him and were going to torture him again and turn him against Camelot...

“Stop. Stop! For the love of all that is holy, Merlin would you stop struggling!”

Merlin did, not out of any instinct to obey, but because he knew the voice making the demands; would know it anywhere even half-conscious and frantic with the need to get to Arthur and warn him, now.

“Gwaine,” Merlin said, blinking through the black motes still swamping his vision. And while he'd stopped struggling, his body was shaking, his breaths fast and shallow as his lungs pumped without mercy for enough air to keep up with his racing heart. And still he hurt, like fire and ice in his bones, like heated blades in his chest, his muscles tied in stiff, tight knots.

But where there was Gwaine, and the knights surrounding him staring at him in awe and horror, there was Arthur. Merlin struggled to sit up even though his body wouldn't let him.

“Gwaine... Arthur. I need to speak with Arthur, please.”

Gwaine, bless his ever observant hide and gift for never wasting a second when it really mattered, looked upon Merlin with concern and alarm and nodded, then looked back and called for the king.

It was then that Merlin realized he was on the ground, his upper half cradled gently in Gwaine's arms. Knights towered over him in a wall of red capes and glittering chain mail, and in the brief moments between Gwaine's call and Arthur's arrival, Merlin felt calm.

Then Arthur arrived pushing through the wall, and panic punched a vicious hole through the warm blanket of safety. Merlin once again struggled to get up, and once again his body with the help of Gwaine wouldn't let him.

“Arthur--!”

“Merlin!” Arthur cut it, shocked, appalled and, Arthur being Arthur, a little on the right side of annoyed.

“Arthur, listen to me,” Merlin gasped quickly. “It's not what we thought. The trap... it's not going to happen at the location. It's going to happen sooner. At any time, any moment, anywhere. Arthur, they're waiting for you. Please, you have to turn back.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “How do you know this?”

Merlin's head flopped against Gwaine's shoulder and not out of choice. The hard riding, the pain, the exhaustion of a body spent beyond sanity buried the urgency and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. He said, in all seriousness, “Strategy. You're starting to rub off on me.”

Arthur snorted. “Damn it all, Merlin,” he said, not angry, not skeptical, but with that underlying fondness that always managed to worm its way through all other emotions – thicker, this time, as though melancholy had joined it.

“If he's right then we know and they won't have the element of surprise,” Leon said from next to Arthur.

“Except we don't know where they plan to attack,” Arthur said, grimly. “Damn it, Merlin, you've nearly killed yourself for this information and it's still little use to us.”

“They still want you far from Camelot,” Merlin panted.

“Right,” Arthur said with a curt nod. “Enough of these games. We need to bring the fight to us. I need volunteers to form a phalanx large enough to draw their attention and lead them back to us--”

“Won't be enough,” Merlin said. He had meant because no matter where the fight took place, the druids had magic and a dragon, and no amount of surprise was going to change that.

Not because it was too late.

“He is right, young king.”

Every knight stiffened and as one turned to the new voice, the voice that didn't belong, a voice that Merlin also knew and that made him shake from more than pain and fatigue. He lifted his head, looking where the knights looked as they spread out, swords hissing free of their sheaths. Merlin saw between the red cloaks and mail the face he had prayed he would never see again.

“Anela,” Merlin whimpered, shrinking back against Gwaine.

Anela smiled sweetly at him, her hands clasped in front of her. “Hello, Merlin.”

And joining her, stepping from the woods in a ripple of magic that shed him of the illusion that had made him one with his surroundings, a broadly grinning Kaudiss.

“Bet you thought you were rid of us, eh?”

“You're the bastards who took him?” Arthur snarled, stepping forward.

“We are,” said Anela. “And you were wrong, dear Merlin. We were never waiting. We were always here, following. And since it is clear this is as far as you will go, then the time to act is now. Your plans, dear king, have indeed not been enough.”

Kaudiss stepped back well away from Anela. White light like moonlight through mist surrounded her, growing brighter and thicker until she vanished within it and still it swelled until it towered above the trees. It faded, and where the druid woman had once stood, there was the dragon white as pearls and haloed in its ghostly glow. It bristled its spines, fanned it great wings and roared with a voice like thunder that rattled the bones.

“To arms and scatter!” Arthur bellowed. “Gwaine, get Merlin out of here!”

Gwaine scooped Merlin up as though he weighed nothing and beat a mad retreat toward the woods. Merlin found strength in sudden fear, lifting his head to see the knights spreading out as the Dragon took flight, beating at them with the wind from its wings. It chased after them, scattering the horses and reducing those not quick enough to cinders when it unleashed it's fire.

“No!” Merlin screamed. He threw out his arm over Gwaine's shoulder, redirecting a column of fire making straight for a squadron of knights trying to run while arming their crossbows. Then he was in the trees and the battle obscured.

“Gwaine, put me down, I need to help!”

“Merlin, lad, as much as I admire your resolve you're in no fit state to do much of anything right now!” Gwaine shouted above the roaring and the yells of the knights.

“Please, Gwaine...!”

“Merlin!” Gwaine snarled in an uncharacteristic show of frustration. Then he stumbled to a halt. “Oh, as if the dragon wasn't enough to deal with...”

Merlin turned his head and rounded his eyes at the shimmering air before them. When the shimmer faded, the druids appeared, looking more than happy to begin spilling Camelot blood.

The druid directly in front of Merlin and Gwaine stretched out his hand and he barked a spell. Merlin, tired and slow and shaking, couldn't lift his own hand in time to stop it. The spell hit them like a giant fist and sent them flying. They landed hard, Gwaine on one side and Merlin on the other on his back, the wind shoved from him and refusing to return. He gasped, his hand clawing at his chest as though it were possible to rip it open and let the air flow in by means other than down his throat.

“Merlin,” Gwaine croaked. Merlin saw him crawling toward him.

Only for a boot to the head to knock him out cold. The owner of the boot then turned to Merlin, his smile wicked and full of teeth.

“This is payback you little bastard, for what you did,” he sneered, and stretched out his hand.

Merlin gripped the earth with his one out-flung arm and shouted a spell. The ground beneath the druid's feet exploded in a spray of dirt and debris. The druid flew up as if tossed straight into the air and landed hard on his back, knocking him out cold.

Merlin lay there, fighting for air. He saw not far from him a druid send a knight flying, then cast another spell, breaking the knights body.

“No.”

Merlin struggled and fought for control of his own limbs until he was able to roll onto his stomach. He saw through the trees a flash of white hide and the hellish fire raining down on the dry forest, lighting it up and poisoning the air with smoke.

“No, no, no...”

Merlin crawled to an unconscious Gwaine bleeding from his temple. Where was Arthur? The other knights? Fighting the dragon? Fighting the druids? A man in a cloak staggered through the woods burning and screaming. Merlin raised a shaking hand and forced the needed words from his aching throat. The fire died, but not before the man collapsed and didn't move.

Men screamed, the dragon roared, the druids laughed as they cast their spells and brought the knights down. Somewhere in this hell of noise and pain and death was Arthur, his friends, dying or dead because Merlin had failed them.

“No, no, no...”

Because he was useless.

“Please, no, please...”

A knight fell, burning, Merlin too slow and too weak to help him.

“No!”

The dragon in him stirred.

“Please!”

It writhed and thrashed.

“Please, make it stop!”

Then woke.

~oOo~

He burst through the trees like they were paper, the fire insect bites that meant nothing to his iron hide. He was midnight black and sword-sharp and nothing could touch him, not the puny little spell-casters and not that paltry impostor that dared claim ownership of what it could not begin to understand. He saw that false beast, that abomination, that thing circling over head as it dared to use the power and grace that had never been its to own. He saw it dive at a man, so small in stature yet great in bearing, flashing red and gold and determined even unto death in his glittering armor, standing tall and resolute as the king he was – the dragon of red.

His brother.

The black dragon dove like the bird that was his namesake, and like an arrow drove himself into the flank of the white dragon just as it released its pillar of flames. They grappled with fang and claw and fire but the impostor was untried and clumsy as a hatchling. He raked its back, its belly, its neck until the white wedged a foot between itself and the black and pushed away.

The chase was on. The white dragon flew fast and far from the sight of the battle and the black followed, cutting through the wind and currents a stranger to the impostor but a familiar friend that had always been waiting for him. Merlin caught up with the white dragon, and caught it.

But while the white was untried, Merlin was weak, his body damaged even in this form, and the mad flight having sapped him of strength. They tumbled through the sky, wings cracking the air and jaws snapping, and the white threw him off. Seeing its chance, it dove at him, its mouth open and its teeth aimed for his throat.

Until the dragon of gold fell on it from above. His claws ripped through the thin membrane of its wings and his teeth clamped onto its throat until dark blood spurted from the white scales. With one twist of his head, the throat was opened and the white dragon choked on its own blood.

“I warned you,” Kilgarrah roared. “I warned you of this folly! Now you will die knowing only failure, never to see the world your kind has hoped for. You deserve nothing less.”

He let the body fall. As it plummeted to the earth, it shrank until its glow faded and its scales diminished until there was only the mortal woman, dead before she hit the ground.

“Go, young warlock,” Kilgarrah said. “There is still much yet to do. Go!”

Merlin whirled around with a roar and flew back the way he had come, pushing his body against its weariness and growing pain. The euphoria of the change and the freedom of flight had freed him of his injuries temporarily but this was still the same body even if in a different skin, still the same muscle and bone, still the same frame he'd nearly killed riding to the aid of his king. But he didn't need the entirety of his health, he only needed a little more time.

The battle at the road was still fierce and violent but the tables had turned now that the knights were no longer distracted by the white impostor. Merlin didn't dare use his fire in such a mess of bodies, he did use his claws, diving fast and plucking up druids like they were flowers that he quickly tossed away.

Then he saw the king, his king, his red brother, one arm hanging useless at his side as he staggered away from the man with the disgustingly familiar leer, the little ant with his fists and feet that broke bones and his voice that lied. Merlin hissed, he roared, and just as the filthy ant with his cruel intentions dared to lift his hand at the king, Merlin dropped as Kilgarrah had dropped, landing between the king and the ant.

The man paled. “No. No!”

Merlin slammed his clawed hand on the man like the insect that he was, not crushing him but pinning him. He then turned his head to Arthur.

Arthur was gaping at him but like the warrior he was had his sword at the ready, still so easily prepared to face death and go down fighting while doing so.

So very bloody Arthur. Merlin couldn't help smile a little. He bowed his head to his king.

Arthur blinked at him rather dumbly, Merlin thought, and he felt rather proud he was able to leave even the great king Arthur speechless.

Merlin returned his attention to the man beneath his claws, this ant, this tormentor and traitor to the world that was meant to be.

The man returned Merlin's stare with defiance and the silent promise that it didn't matter what Merlin was capable of, nor that he was Emrys, because this man would not stop until Albion was united in the manner of his choosing, and the manner of his choosing was for Camelot to fall.

When Merlin crushed him, he felt no remorse. Neither did he feel pleasure. He did what he had to do, for Camelot, for his king, for himself – for peace. There was no shame in it, and there was no joy.

Merlin looked up through the trees to see the druids running and those not fast enough struck down by the knights. He looked up at the burning canopy and with only a thought the fires died, leaving both man and woodland safe. Then with one last brief glance at Arthur, he flew away.

Merlin did not go far, landing only a little ways from where he and Gwaine had fallen, the area occupied only by the unconscious and the dead, and there Merlin felt himself shrink, his pain and exhaustion increasing until he collapsed in a heap to the ground, gasping for breath.

He decided now as good a time as any to get that rest Gaius kept nagging him about. Merlin more than happily passed out.

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin woke up in his bed – a little disorienting but not for the usual reasons. He remembered what happened, where he had ended up at the end of it all, and had expected to wake up at least a few times on horse back. And maybe he did, since his dreams consisted mostly and suspiciously of him wrapped in a cloak while riding what looked to be Gwaine's horse rather than his own, with a strong arm gently holding him in place and soothing words spoken in his ear when he began to panic a little.

But since waking up on a horse would have been decidedly uncomfortable, Merlin basked in being able to wake up in his own bed.

Alive and safe.

But he couldn't be sure if he could say the same for the others. Gwaine, yes, if the dreams were anything to go by. Arthur, yes... maybe. He'd stopped Kaudiss from attacking him but Merlin was sure there'd been an injury. The rest of the knights... no, he couldn't say, and that gave him the energy needed to pull his aching body out of bed.

Merlin felt like he'd been injured all over again. He looked down at himself. Apparently he had been - bandages were peeking through the collar of his night shirt, the slightly gray one he didn't wear often because of the hole in the back over his shoulder blade. It was also a bit of a struggle getting down the stairs, his legs shaky and very unhappy at being used. It was with a sigh of relief that he managed to make it to the bottom. Then he looked up and winced.

Gaius was in, studiously stirring a pot of porridge and casting his ward the briefest of cursory glances.

“I assume by your complete lack of rushing about that you plan to stay for breakfast?” Gaius said.

Merlin cringed even while offering up his most apologetic of smiles. “Um... yes. And sorry. About running off like that, that is.”

Gaius shook his head. “You are at once the most foolish boy that lived and the most fortunate. I don't know why I bother to say this but you could have died, and I don't mean from the battle.”

“I know,” Merlin said contritely.

“Not only did you ride yourself to utter exhaustion, you had no food in you, and if what I'm hearing of has any merit, exhausted yourself further by turning into a dragon!”

“I'm sorry, Gaius, I am. I didn't really mean to, it just... happened, like last time only better, I suppose. I didn't kill any of our people so, yes, definitely better.”

Merlin heaved a heavy sigh, feeling suddenly weary even after having only just gotten up. “But you know I had to.”

Gaius had fixed his gaze on the porridge, but no amount of finding interest in it could stop his features from going soft and sympathetic. Abandoning the pot, he went to his foolish and fortunate ward and helped him to the table.

“I know,” he said kindly. “But you also know it doesn't stop me from worrying. You have no idea how frightened I was when I heard you had ridden off in your condition. Especially since I knew right away what it was you were riding for.”

“I'm sorry,” Merlin said softly, eyes fixated on the table because he couldn't bring himself to meet Gaius' gaze.

A warm, calloused hand settled on the back of his neck with a gentle squeeze.

“A little warning, next time, would be much appreciated,” Gaius said.

Merlin allowed himself a small but sober smile. Gaius understood and would always understand, and Merlin was thankful for that even while hating the anxiety it caused the man who was like a father to him.

Gaius released the back of Merlin's neck, then prepared breakfast – a bowl of hot porridge with honey and milk and another bowl of fresh blackberries.

“Gaius,” Merlin said, looking up when he suddenly remembered what had driven to the confrontation in the first place. “What happened to the others? I – I think Arthur may have been injured...”

Gaius nodded. “A burn to the arm. Nothing too serious though it will be some time before he'll be able to resume any serious training. Gwaine had sustained a nasty knock to the head and Leon a burn to his leg. Elyan and Percival managed through relatively unscathed save for the usual bruises and cuts unavoidable in battle.”

“But there were losses,” Merlin stated.

“Around eighteen, I believe. There is to be a funeral today, if you feel up to going.”

Merlin nodded. “Warning them was pointless. The druids had been following them the entire time. They were using a shrouding spell.” The lesser and easier form of invisibility; more like painting yourself in the colors and shapes of your surroundings so perfectly that the only way you could be spotted is if you moved, and in a shadowy forest, with a spell of silence masking all noise, the druids wouldn't have been seen even if the knights had been looking directly at them. Merlin had used those spells a few times himself, and mentally kicked himself for not considering that the Druids might know the same magic.

“From what Arthur told me,” Gaius said, “if you hadn't warned them, the ambush may have resulted in greater losses. They were more alert, Merlin, and Arthur was able to order his knights away from the dragon. Had the dragon come unawares it could have killed them all in one breath. And, besides, aren't you forgetting the most important part? Because you were there you were able to stop the dragon. You did not fail Arthur, Merlin. You did not fail anyone. They are alive because of you so, please, focus on that.”

Gaius returned his own focus to his breakfast, only to lift his head with the startled look of sudden realization and smiled. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Merlin, I think you should have a look at your chest.”

Merlin tugged down the collar of his shirt, then the bandages with them. Dragon scratches, it seemed, didn't remain their normal size when a large body shifted back to a smaller one. If Merlin didn't know any better he would have assumed he'd been attacked by a deranged dog. But the scrutiny of his injuries was short-lived when he realized something was missing. He reached up and pressed his palm to the smooth skin of his chest, right where the mark should have been, then looked up at Gaius with wide-eyed wonder.

The weight that had been nestled for so long behind his sternum was gone.

Merlin smiled, relieved nearly to the point of tears.

~oOo~

All knights with lands are buried in family tombs, but their memory honored on the steps of Camelot. It was a lovely ceremony as they often were, and though Gaius had begged Merlin to keep his mind on his success he couldn't keep the what-ifs from slipping like thieves into his thoughts. Specifically how many would have survived if he had become the dragon sooner.

After the ceremony, Percival, in a sudden fit of uncharacteristic verbosity, talked non-stop of the battle and the strange black beast. Gwaine looked rather sour about it, having been unconscious the whole time, Elyan amused and Leon trouble. No one knew what to make of the thing, whether to thank it or keep the crossbows ready. But what truly surprised them was that Arthur had yet to order a hunt to track the thing down.

That Merlin wasn't quite sure what to make of, himself. Had it been Uther, the knights would have been patrolling the land until the end of time.

Merlin returned home, tired after doing nothing but standing around and listening to a speech. It was irritating that after all the progress he'd made toward healing, he felt like he was back to square one. A side-affect of turning into a dragon and fighting another dragon, it seemed. Oh, and he'd rebroken two of his healing ribs.

Gaius had separated from Merlin to check on the injured villagers, who were already showing signs of improvement. Merlin was more than happy for the silence perfect for a good nap, and was heading toward his room when the door opened.

“Oh, Merlin, good, there you are,” Arthur said, still dressed in his finery, crown included, arm in a sling and him over all looking completely out of place among the ancient furniture and drying herbs.

Merlin sagged. “You're not here to ask me to clean something, are you? Arthur, I'm still healing...”

Arthur frowned. “What? No! Lords, Merlin, who do you take me for? With your injuries you'd be twice as useless at chores, probably make more of a mess than--” he cut himself off, and he was looking rather uncomfortable.

Merlin knew that look, the one that always preceded a moment of the most extreme discomfort. The one that told Merlin that Arthur was about do to or say something nice.

Arthur cleared his throat, moving deeper into the room. He stood there at the table, staring at Merlin, doing his best to be regal and looking anything but. Minutes past and Merlin's legs began to tremble.

“You don't mind if I sit while you stand there doing a remarkable impression of a statue, do you?” Merlin said, already pulling out the chair and easing into it, because even if Arthur was heartless enough to order him to stand in the presence of the king, it wasn't going to happen. A body's needs would forever trump kingly authority.

“Um... yes, of course,” Arthur said, still uncomfortable and fighting it, which meant the nice thing he had to say was going to be so incredibly nice Merlin might drop dead from the shock of it.

But Merlin waited patiently even as his body begged his brain for more sarcasm to hurry things along. But Arthur was going to be nice, and far be it from Merlin to so much as think about discouraging it.

“I just wanted to... to thank you,” Arthur began, “For what you did. For warning us as you did. It was...” Arthur took a deep breath, composed himself, and let the words come as they were. “It was brave. Foolish, risky, possibly idiotic... and also courageous. Merlin, if it wasn't for your warning, we'd be dead. It's as simple as that.”

Merlin shrugged even as warmth crept up his neck to his cheeks. As much as Arthur being nice and praising was a wonderful novelty, the problem was that it was often equally awkward.

“I did what needed to be done,” Merlin said. “Nothing courageous about that.”

“I beg to differ,” Arthur said, resolute. “And I feel you need to be honored for it.”

Merlin groaned. “Arthur, please, no. No... reward or ceremony or whatever you have in mind.”

“Well, that's too bad, you're getting... something, I haven't decided what, yet – whether you like it or not. Damn it, Merlin, you nearly killed yourself bringing us that warning. And as stupid as pushing yourself like that was you saved our lives and I can't... I can't just say job well done and move on. You deserve more than that – recognition, a reward, I don't know, but something. You deserve...”

Arthur sighed and scraped a hand through his hair, forgetting about the crown and nearly knocking it off, but catching it and holding it in his hand.

“They tortured you to get to Camelot,” he said.

Then he sat down on the other side of the table, as though the gratitude was a weight too heavy for even his armor-conditioned body.

Merlin furrowed his brow. “You're not blaming yourself for that, are you?”

“Of course not,” Arthur snapped. The weak tone behind his annoyance said he was.

“That's good to know, because it isn't your fault,” Merlin said. “And I know you think it is so you might as well not deny it. I know you better than that, Arthur Pendragon. I'm not as stupid as you like to claim, so don't make me think you are.”

Arthur glared at him, which was good, because an annoyed Arthur was easier to deal with than one wallowing in guilt.

Merlin shook his head. “You don't need to give me a reward or recognition. It's not like you get anything for slaying evil sorcerers.” Then he added quickly. “Although I wouldn't say no to a raise.”

Arthur snorted even as he smiled. “I'll consider it.”

“Do, seeing as how you're so determined to honor me and all. A raise I could use. Or a new coat, could use one of those. Oh! A blanket. Mines getting a bit thin.”

Arthur's eyebrow arched. “If they weren't such simple requests I would say you were pushing the matter.”

“You're the one who wants to reward me. Coats and blankets and raises are a good start, I think. Better than some speech and me throwing up on your boots if you attempt to honor me publicly – and, yes, that is both a promise and a threat. I don't really fancy big, scary crowds.”

Arthur chuckled. “A coat and blanket it is. The raise I'm still thinking about.” He then leaned forward and ruffled Merlin's hair, much to Merlin's partial annoyance, an annoyance mostly habit than legitimate.

“Get some rest,” Arthur said. He got up to leave.

Merlin said, as casually as he could. “Oh, yeah, nearly forgot to ask. The knights keep going on and on about some beast popping in to save the day. What's that about?”

Arthur, halfway to the door, paused, his head slightly canted in thought. “I'm not sure,” he said. “But I'm half tempted to thank the blasted thing.” He left, shutting the door behind him.

Merlin smiled. “You're welcome.”

TBC...

Chapter Text

Merlin shielded his face as he always did from the whirlwind of debris stirred up by Kilgarrah's wings. The dragon landed, lightly for his size, in the clearing that was their usual meeting spot.

“You are looking well, young warlock,” Kilgarrah greeted.

“After nearly two weeks of rest I should hope so,” Merlin said. Two weeks wasn't near enough to completely heal a body – that wouldn't happen until months down the road – but it was enough to give Merlin enough strength for a leisurely ride near the clearing and to walk the rest of the way. Horses weren't too fond of being uncomfortably close to where a dragon had landed.

“The Druids?” Merlin asked, too anxious for preliminaries.

“Scattered and alone. Their brethren have rejected them completely. I have spoken with many from the Druid camps, and they continue to refuse refuge to those suspected of having taken part in the plan to use you against Camelot. You have nothing more to fear from these renegades.”

Merlin exhaled in relief, and smiled. “Good to hear.”

“And concerning other matters?” Kilgarrah said, waving a claw at Merlin.

Merlin rubbed his chest. “Asleep,” he said. He squinted up at Kilgarrah. “Will I ever be able to call on it again? It might have been a pain most of the time but it came through in the end.”

“When the need is most dire, and you feel its presence necessary, you will be able to call upon it. It won't be simple, but it will be a far cry from what was done to awaken it.”

Merlin nodded, not that he intended to call on the dragon again, not unless he absolutely, positively had to – that is, because he had no choice. He still dreamed of burning, of people small as insects scurrying to safety and turning to ash. He would stick with his magic, thank you very much. A dragon was too much power, even for Emrys. Especially for Merlin.

“Thank you,” Merlin said, looking back up at the dragon. “Not for the answer, I mean. For everything.”

Kilgarrah bowed his head. “You are my dragonlord, Merlin. I merely did--”

“What you had to,” Merlin said with a grin. “Believe me, I know. Thank you, anyway.”

“You are welcome, my young warlock,” Kilgarrah said. Then, with a mighty flap of his wings, he was back in the air, rising into the sky.

Merlin watched him glide away, thinking of the wind and the air, and in that moment, for the first time, remembering with fondness what it was like to fly.

The End