Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Heroes take journeys, confront dragons, and discover the treasure of their true selves.
Carol Lynn Pearson

Merlin has just about let go of some of the breathless tension that he’s been holding since they left Elyan - no, since Elyan sent them on, saved them - and he’s starting to think that this might actually work. True, the spell he used on Arthur is rather stronger than he intended, but even that might not be such a bad thing if it gets him all the way to Ealdor without argument. They’re fleeing for their lives, and he really doesn’t have time to stop and debate the best way of going about it. Of course, as is guaranteed when he starts to think things might actually be going well, that’s when it happens.

The cry is so loud that Merlin stumbles, his hands going to his head automatically as he tries to get his balance back. The next cry is just as piercing, cutting through him like a knife, and he lifts his face to the sky automatically, searching for the source. He can’t see anything, no dark shape against the clouds, which means the cry was probably in his mind, so he comes to a stop, putting out a hand to halt Arthur as well, and closes his eyes, trying to focus.

"Wow, that must be a really big bird."

Merlin opens one eye, squinting at Arthur because if the cry is psychic, there’s no way he should be able to hear them. Then it comes again, sharper and higher this time and definitely echoing inside his head. But even as he closes his eyes, he notices something else. A real cry, ringing in his ears and shattering the quiet of the forest.

"Are you alright?" The voice is awfully close, and when Merlin opens his eyes, Arthur’s face is about half an inch from his own. He jumps back automatically, looking carefully into Arthur’s slightly puzzled expression. There’s no hint of alarm there, nothing to suggest that Arthur is worried by the sound. The blankness is starting to unnerve him, except that Arthur is looking away now, frowning with what seems to be effort of thought as another scream washes over them. It’s enough of a reaction that Merlin lets himself feel a surge of hope, and he grips Arthur’s shoulders urgently.

"Arthur, can you tell which way the sound is coming from? Can you take me to it?" Because, addled or not, Merlin’s willing to bet that Arthur is still the best tracker in the kingdom and those instincts are still lurking under there somewhere. The cry rings out, and Merlin tries to brace against it, holding onto Arthur to stay upright. It’s too much for him, trying to hang on to his own mind against the panic, and he doesn’t have the concentration to try to work out where the sound is coming from. "Please, Arthur?" he grinds out, clenching his teeth against the pain.

Arthur’s frown deepens in what is probably great effort for him right at this moment, then he straightens and turns in a slow circle, making Merlin stumble again as he loses his grip. Before Merlin can say anything, Arthur is striding off into the forest, making as much noise as an army on a forced march and not checking if Merlin is keeping up. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Merlin hurries after him, trying to send out calming thoughts.

"It’s alright," he thinks, broadcasting the words and reassurance as far as he can. "We’re coming."

~

He'd been right about Arthur's instincts, and they're soon hiding behind a screen of trees, watching the scene in the clearing just down the slope below. There's a covered wagon off to one side, and enough people with sharp weapons around that despite the urgency still pulling at his heart, Merlin makes himself stop, wait, think. They're well hidden by the trees here, so despite his harsh breathing and Arthur's current inability to keep his head down, he's not worried about being spotted. He doesn't think anyone will notice them right now, and probably wouldn't even if they were a platoon of knights in full Camelot regalia.

Not when there's a screaming, thrashing white dragon in the centre of the clearing.

He tries to reach out with his mind, to calm Aithusa enough that the screaming will stop, because every cry is cutting through him, making it hard to think of anything but protect, protect, protect. But there's no way Merlin will be heard through the dragon’s panic and he doesn't honestly blame her for that. Trapped under a net, surrounded by people who only seem to be kept at bay by her screaming and thrashing, it would be impossible for any creature to keep its wits.

Arthur puts his fingers in his ears as another cry rips through the clearing, and turns to Merlin, waiting. For a moment, Merlin is regretting casting the artless spell, wishes that Arthur would glare at him and tell him what he's supposed to do, how they’re going to solve this. All he gets in return is that blank, expectant look that Arthur has been giving him all day, the one that says he will do whatever Merlin tells him, because Merlin is the one in charge. He’s used to having to make decisions for Arthur to protect him, but those are from the shadows, where no one has to know and he doesn’t have to explain it to anyone but Gaius, who always knows better anyway. Doing it when Arthur is right in front of him is completely different. Between that and the pressure in his mind from Aithusa, Merlin has to swallow back a surge of panic. He's been carrying responsibility for both King and dragon for long enough now that he thought he had them balanced. With them both here, both looking to him for help, he suddenly feels crushed, head going light as Aithusa's cry dies away, trailing into a horrible, helpless whine. He can't let either of them down.

Pushing at Arthur's shoulder, he shoves the other man into the cover of an arching tree root, crouching in front of him.

"Stay here. Stay. Do you understand? Of course you don't. But do it anyway. Don't move until I come back." The shelter isn't much, but it will keep Arthur safe from cursory glances, as well as stopping him from seeing down into the clearing. "Stay," he says once more, looking into Arthur's eyes and pushing back the worry that comes from seeing nothing looking back at him. Not to mention what will happen if Arthur follows him into the fight. He just has to hope he made the instruction strong enough.

Then he gets to his feet, bracing himself against the churning of his stomach, and starts to scramble down the slope. The people in the clearing have got Aithusa surrounded now, swords and spears and arrows all pointed at her. Aithusa is crouched close to the ground, the spines along her back flattened and her ears low against her head. Her tail is still thrashing and her head is moving from side to side as much as she can, trying to track the movements around her. But she's still too small, not strong or coordinated enough to break herself free, save herself. Then again, she shouldn't have to. That's Merlin's job.

"Stop!" he shouts as one of the spear-holders moves closer, making as though to prod Aithusa in the side with the tip. He has their attention now, feeling every eye on him as he slides down the last few feet of the slope and skids to a stop. Holding up his hands, not sure whether he’s trying to stall them or reacting instinctively to having that many weapons pointed in his direction, he lifts his chin a little, forcing back the fear. "Leave her alone."

"Says who?" The speaker is a tall, rangy man with straw-coloured hair and a weathered face. He’s holding his sword with a casualness that Merlin recognises as complete confidence. Merlin keeps his hands raised as the man comes a few paces closer, tilting his head as he looks him up and down. "Do you really want to do this, boy?" he asks, voice lower this time, but no less threatening for it.

Merlin swallows, glancing to Aithusa who has stilled under the net, head turned in his direction. Carefully, Merlin lowers his hands, shifting his shoulders and forcing himself to relax. There’s only about twenty of them. He’ll have to be quick and careful, but it should be manageable.

"Just let her go," he says, letting some of his own confidence bleed into his voice, knowing it will unsettle them. "Just turn around and walk away. While you can."

There’s a moment of silence, then the man gives a harsh bark of laughter, surprised and obviously unbelieving. "Are you threatening me?"

"It's a warning." Merlin looks past him, trying to see how badly Aithusa is hurt, if at all. The dragon looks frightened, her chest heaving on every breath and the end of her tail still twitching, but otherwise unharmed. In which case, this might just work.
When he looks back, the man has come even closer, to within a sword's length of Merlin, which is probably the point. There's a wariness on the edge of his expression that suggests he's not stupid, that he suspects Merlin wouldn't be such an idiot as to walk into the middle of a group of heavily armed bandits without a plan or a way out.

If only.

But he does have a plan now, and he closes his eyes as the man says something else, something about Merlin not being armed, but Merlin has found what he was looking for, that calmness and strength at the heart of his being that lets him reach out for Aithusa and this time, know that he has been heard. He's still sunk deep in that heady strength when he opens his eyes, looking down at the sword pressed into his chest.

"Who are you?" the man says, leaning forwards just a little, so that Merlin feels the point against his breastbone.

Merlin smiles at him, liking how the man's face tightens into something closer to caution, maybe even an edge of fear. "I'm the last dragonlord," he says, as matter-of-fact as he can when his heart is suddenly light and free, borne up by the rush of power. "Now would be a good time to start running."

Before the man can react, Merlin lets his magic come to the surface, flinging out a hand to throw the man backwards as he shouts to Aithusa, trusting that with their proximity and the power flowing through him like this, she’ll obey instinctively. "Αιθουσα! Αναπυρου!"

The clearing fills with flame, driving the bandits back, shielding their faces. The charred remains of the net fall from Aithusa's head, and she shakes herself free, a second jet of fire bursting from her mouth. Merlin takes it, sweeping the flames around the clearing in a wide circle so that they are surrounded, the smell of burning wood and smouldering leaves filling the air. The man he struck with his magic is lying on the ground, a woman leaning over him, her own sword in hand as she looks up at Merlin, fear and anger in her face. The rest of the bandits are cowering around the edge of the clearing, and not only for fear of being burned alive. Aithusa is pulling herself free of the net, claws dragging at the rope and her tail making long sweeps through the leaf litter.
Merlin holds the power and the fire for another long moment, letting them see the gold in his eyes that isn’t just a reflection of the flames. Then he lets it all go, dousing the fire and lowering his hand, taking a carefully deep breath and trying not to choke on the smoke filling the air. Without looking at any of them, he makes his way over to Aithusa, pulling the last of the net away and running his hand down the dragon’s side, checking for damage. He’s pointedly ignoring everyone around him, letting them draw their own conclusions about what might happen if they stick around.

So he’s facing entirely the wrong way when an all too familiar voice says, "Is that a dragon?"

~

Merlin’s aware that his hands are shaking as the energy that drove him forwards bleeds away. He tightens them into fists, not entirely displeased at how at least three people around him raise their swords a little. His power is the only bargaining chip he has right now, and he needs them to remember what he can do. And what Aithusa can do. For once, Kilgharrah might actually approve.

"Again, Merlin."

So far, they'd managed to burn their way through a tree's worth of wood, but the great dragon still didn't seem to be satisfied. Even Aithusa seemed to be glaring at him, for all that she was barely the size of one of Kilgharrah’s claws.

"I think we get the idea, Kilgharrah." Merlin had ash all over him, sticking to the back of his hands and making his nose itch. "She can set fire to things. What more does she need?"

"She needs to learn control, how to summon the fire when she needs it, how to use it to fight."

"Well unless she gets attacked by the forest, I'm not sure there's much else she can learn here."

Kilgharrah tilted his head thoughtfully. "True enough. She is more likely to be attacked by a man than a log."

"I would have thought so." Preoccupied with trying to get some ash out of his ears, it took Merlin a moment to catch up with what the dragon had said. "Wait, what? Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Your shield seemed most effective when you last used it against dragonfire." There was a hint of a challenge in Kilgharrah's voice, but Merlin had learned a lot since then, and he just shook his head. He wasn’t getting drawn into that argument again.

"I am not going to teach her how to set people on fire, Kilgharrah," he said softly, looking up in Kilgharrah’s eyes. There must have been enough sternness in his expression, because the dragon only hesitated for a moment before lowering his head just a little.

"Then we must hope that she never has a need to do so."

Sighing, Merlin reached down and scratched the smooth spot between Aithusa’s ears. However much he hoped otherwise, he knew that someday, she would probably have to defend herself, but there was no way that he was going to teach her to kill humans.

 

He’d expected the attackers to run away, chased off by the fire and the magic, but while they've retreated, they don't seem to want to abandon the wagon or the man he struck who is sitting up now, getting his breath back. The woman is still crouched protectively next to him, looking from him to Merlin and back again, making it clear that the sword in her hand is not just for show. Since he has no intention of doing anything unless they attack first, Merlin pointedly turns his back on them, shifting his attention back to Aithusa. And, of course, Arthur.

Really, he's not sure he can think of a way in which this could be worse. He's spent the last six months doing everything he could to keep Aithusa away from Camelot, and here he is, introducing her to the King. Maybe he should just chop his own head off now and be done with it. Although to be fair, Arthur doesn't actually seem to need any introductions; he's managing quite well for himself. Arthur is kneeling in front of the little white dragon, one hand carefully stroking down her nose while the other scratches behind her ear, as though she's one of the new foals in his stables. The sight of it, of Arthur so tender and gentle and Aithusa apparently soothed by the attention, makes Merlin's stomach turn over again. If they'd met any other day...

He shakes off the thought. The here and now is quite enough to deal with without imagining what might have been.

"The last dragonlord, eh?"

Merlin turns his head a little at the words, not enough to see the man behind him, but enough to show that he's heard.

"Thought you were a myth. Dragon too." The man coughs a little, then Merlin hears the rustling of leaves and guesses he must be getting to his feet. "You know what it's worth, don't you?"

In front of Merlin, Arthur is still on his knees, crooning a little as Aithusa pushes her head into his hands.

"You think there's enough money in the world?" Merlin says, voice low and as steady as he can make it. Because this can't last, and it's going to break his heart when he has to stop it.

"Maybe not." The voice is closer behind him than expected, and Merlin turns at last, just enough to see the man's face. "But you know we're not the last ones you're going to have to fight off?"

"I know." He raise his voice above a whisper, not with the lump stuck in his throat. Because he would tear down Camelot itself he had to, if it meant saving either one of them and here and now, with the magic humming at the back of his mind and his awareness of Aithusa rippling through him, he's tempted to try it.

He starts as someone lays a hand on his arm, and he jerks back automatically, turning and looking into the woman's huge, calm eyes. She lifts her hands quickly, placatingly.

"It's alright," she says, not unkindly, although her expression is still wary. "Where are you from?"

He doesn’t have to lie about that, at least. "Ealdor," he says. "Just over the northern border. I'm trying to get us back there."

"With no horses? No supplies?" The man sounds sceptical. "Or do you normally get them delivered by dragon?"

Merlin just shrugs, because Arthur's identity is the only secret he has left, and he will not give up that one lightly. Looking across the clearing, at the covered wagon, the barrels and sacks, an idea stirs at the back of his mind.

"Where are you heading?"

The man gives a huff of laughter. "No way. A sorcerer and a dragon are more trouble than I want to take anywhere with me."

"It’ll just be the two of us, mostly. During the day, at least. She prefers to fly. And we can pay," Merlin adds quickly, putting hand on the purse on his belt.

That gets their attention, darting looks passing between them. The man is obviously the leader, but from the way the silent conversation is progressing, Merlin doubts he'll do anything without the woman's approval.

The man shifts a little, as though not entirely convinced yet. "Just make sure you keep that thing out of sight," he says, waving vaguely at Aithusa, who is now allowing Arthur to gently stroke her nose. "And just food and shelter. If you bring trouble down on us, you’re on your own."

"You know that just travelling with a sorcerer could be thought of as trouble," Merlin says drily. "It is illegal. You could be executed if you’re caught." He’d rather travel in company, with the loose protection that comes with numbers, but not if he’s going to be sold out as soon as they reach the next village.

There’s a wry, twisted smile on the man’s face. "Get caught? Tristan and Isolde? I don’t think so." He holds out his hand as though to shake Merlin's as he adds, "But we’ll take the money upfront."

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see that Arthur has apparently tired of petting Aithusa and has turned to him, face open and trusting, waiting to be told what to do next.

Merlin sighs, and pulls the pouch from his belt before gripping the man’s - Tristan’s - arm in agreement. "Sounds fair," he says and passes over the gold.

~

The group is able to pack up and move with suspicious speed. It’s not so easy for Merlin, trying to make sure Arthur doesn’t wander off, bother anyone or get himself in trouble while Merlin is trying to explain to Aithusa that she needs to go on ahead. It’s not safe for her with them, and Tristan’s right that a dragon is far too conspicuous a thing to be travelling with.

"You need to go," he says, trying to keep her attention on him, not on the bustling that’s going on around them. "You can join us when we stop for the night, but not until then. Do you understand?" Her head is towards him, but he knows her eyes are tracking something on the other side of the clearing. It’s like trying to catch the attention of an excitable puppy. Giving in, Merlin glances around to see if anyone is nearby, but most of the group seem to be giving them a wide berth, and Arthur is preoccupied with a pile of fallen leaves. Trying to keep his voice down, he reaches out to her as he did before, using the only voice that she really understands. "Αιθουσα. Ιθι.Δοκαζε ἅμμε. Ὁμηρὲι ὑστερὸχρονοϛ."

She backs away a little, her head dropping instinctively, and he feels the reluctance in her, the slight tremor that passes through her. Even after all their time together, she still doesn’t like this, doesn’t like having to obey him when she doesn’t - can’t - understand what’s going on. He’s tried to teach her human speech, or even the language of his spell books, but either she isn’t interested or is still too young to learn. He’s not even sure she understands the words he says to her in dragon-tongue, only that she understands the power behind the words and has to comply.

"That sounded funny. What did you say?"

When Merlin turns, there’s no hostility on Arthur’s face, only curiosity and a slight distracted air, as though if Merlin doesn’t answer him right away, he’ll spot something else and wander off after it instead. It’s weird, but nice, being able to talk to Arthur like this, knowing that there won’t be any consequences afterwards. It can’t last forever, and there’s a part of Merlin - possibly the sensible part - that is telling him to hold back, that he shouldn’t be enjoying the way Arthur just accepts what he says, uncritically and unscoffingly. The rest of him is too busy enjoying it, and it’s easy to ignore the warning voice and hold out a hand to gesture for Arthur to come closer.

"I told her that she should wait for us ahead," he says. "She’ll join us when we camp for the night. Do you want to say goodbye?" It’s not just for Arthur’s sake. Merlin could feel the way Aithusa had responded to Arthur’s touch, the way she’d trusted him right away, for all that under different circumstances, he would probably have rather had her in the sights of his crossbow.

Merlin knows it was the right decision when Aithusa comes forward a few paces, ducking around him to press her nose into Arthur’s outstretched hand. He steps back a little, letting Arthur fuss and pet her for a while, not sure whether he should be trying to remember this for the future or trying to forget it, so that when it has passed, it won’t hurt so much.

After another moment, Aithusa swings around to look at him, huffing a little in what he thinks is a goodbye before she spreads her wings and leaps into the air, beating them hard a few times to gain height, then soaring away above the treetops. When Merlin can bring himself to look away, he sees Arthur still with his head tipped back, watching the sky as though waiting for her to return.

"Come on," Merlin says, putting a hand on his shoulder and gently starting to steer him towards the wagons. "Time to go."

~

Between a bumpy wagon ride, and Arthur sitting a lot closer to him than normal, Merlin barely manages more than a light doze, despite his body crying out for sleep. He wakes up when Tristan bangs on the side of the wagon, announcing that they’ll make camp here for the night, to find that Arthur is slumped against him, lightly drooling on his shoulder. His face is slack with sleep, and oddly, it’s like this that Merlin can see the Arthur he knows, who’s been hiding all day under a surprisingly gentle nature. He’s used to coming in to wake Arthur in the mornings, and for a moment he closes his eyes again, trying to pretend that the weak light filtering through the tiny slots in the wagon’s sides is the sun coming through the window in Arthur’s chambers in Camelot. It’s hard to do, especially when images from the previous night keep floating into his vision, supplemented by what he imagines might be happening in Camelot now.

Shaking himself hard enough to dislodge Arthur, he slides along the bench a little, getting a better look at Arthur’s face. When he’d cast the spell, he hadn’t really been sure what to expect. The idea had been to dull his intelligence, make him pliable and persuadable, just enough to get them out of the city. He hadn’t expected someone so... nice.

Turning, Merlin looks out at the camp being set up around them. Tristan and Isolde are talking quietly, heads close together, while people swarm around them, laying out bedrolls and gathering firewood. It has the air of a practiced routine, everyone knowing what they are supposed to be doing, where they are going. He looks back at Arthur, who is now watching him patiently, obviously waiting to be told what to do next, and Merlin has to clench his jaw against the wave of frustration. What he needs is for Arthur to come back to himself, to take charge again, tell him what they are supposed to do next. He wants his king back.

He stamps hard on the feeling, forcing himself to get up and trying not to wince as the bones of his back crack horribly. There is no point worrying about it at this point. He has a plan, he has Arthur, and in a few minutes, Aithusa will be here as well. He has too much to do to let it get on top of him now.

Trusting that Arthur will follow in his own time, and knowing there are plenty of people around to make sure he doesn’t get in too much trouble, Merlin heads directly over to Tristan, who gives him a slight nod of greeting.

"We’ll camp here overnight," he says, gesturing to the clearing. "There’s a river over that way, and someone will cook something at some point." He stops, giving Merlin a thoughtful look. "Anything you can do to help with that?"

"I know how to gather firewood," Merlin says evenly, knowing exactly what Tristan means. "And last time I cooked dinner, nobody died."

To Merlin’s surprise, Tristan actually laughs at that. "Not quite what I had in mind, although both of those would be useful. But it’s been raining here, all the firewood will be soaked through." This time, there is real challenge in his voice, and Merlin looks around automatically for Arthur, wondering if he’ll overhear. He’s a little way away, lingering at the back of the wagon, and playing with some the ropes, plaiting and undoing them and generally getting in everyone’s way. When Merlin looks back, Tristan is giving both of them speculative looks. "Where did you find him?" he asks. "If he’s as much of a menace to us as he is to himself, you’d better make sure he stays out of our way. Can’t be easy, travelling with someone like him." Tristan clicks his fingers, getting the attention of one of his men, who puts a hand on Arthur’s elbow and guides him away from the boxes and chests at the back of the wagon.

"He can’t help it." Merlin puts enough defensiveness into his voice to be convincing, he hopes. "I look after him. He wouldn’t last a day without me."

"No doubt." Pulling his attention back, Tristan raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Right. Firewood. For answer, Merlin bends and lifts one of the sticks at his feet. Tristan’s right; it must have been raining here for days, and the bark is so wet that it squelches under Merlin’s thumb. Still.

"Forbærne." He can’t do anything about the smokiness, nor about the slightly odd smell coming from the wood, but the end is aflame now, and he lifts it a little higher, letting himself enjoy the surprised smile on Tristan’s face. "I think I can help, yes," he says, killing the fire again and dropping the stick to the ground.

Tristan’s actually grinning now, and he claps Merlin on the shoulder. "I’m going to take your word that nobody died and show you where we keep the cooking pots."

~

Getting a fire going on a wet night and ensuring everyone gets a hot meal earns Merlin the privilege of not having to collect the wood for the fire, helping himself to some extra blankets and being able to choose a campsite for himself and Arthur that will give them at least a measure of privacy.

The place he chooses is some way out from the main camp, with a good spot for laying a fire of their own, and near to the stream. The water is cold but fast flowing and clean, and he scrubs at his face and neck, trying to wash the road and some of the memories away. Beside him, Arthur tries to copy him, and mostly succeeds in half-drowning himself before Merlin yanks him out by his collar, both of them sprawling on the riverbank as Merlin tries not to laugh.

"I know you need help dressing, but even you can normally figure out how water works," he says, then notices that Arthur isn’t paying him any attention. His eyes are on the sky, and he points at something far above them.

"Ooh. A bird."

Merlin looks up and lets himself smile widen. "Close, but not quite."

He has to admit, a little later with a roaring fire in front of him, Aithusa’s warm body behind him, and Arthur’s shoulder bumping against his, he’s spent less pleasant nights in the forest. Tristan let him make a separate pot for him and Arthur, and the soup is herby and hearty, even if the bread is a bit tough. Arthur has never been a fussy eater, but even so, he wolfs the first bowlful down as though he’s never eaten before.

"Easy," Merlin says, gesturing with his spoon. "You’ll give yourself hiccups."

"Oh. Sorry." Arthur puts his bowl down, then twists a little to look at the dragon behind them. "Should I give some to the dragon?"

"She’s fine." There is a deep contentment rolling off Aithusa that tells Merlin she found something to eat during the day, and is happy now just to curl up with them in front of the fire she helped him light.

"What does she eat?"

"Rabbits. Squirrels. She’s a bit small for deer yet, but it won’t be long." When he glances over, Arthur is looking at him in wonder again. "Who do you think taught her to hunt?" Merlin says with a smile, nudging his shoulder a little, but Arthur just frowns.

"Another dragon?"

Merlin sighs, settling back a little. The fire is dying on his side, and he pokes at it a little with a long branch. "That’s not actually a stupid answer. For once. But no, she didn’t learn from another dragon. She learned from me. Mostly." He closes his eyes as the image rises up in his mind, not sure if he’s trying to drive it away or see more clearly. Kilgharrah had laughed - actually laughed - at his surprise.

 

"She is a dragon, Merlin," he said, resettling his wings against his body. "She already understands how to hunt."

"Then what I am supposed to do?" Merlin asked, looking up in annoyance. Aithusa was still small enough to curl around his shoulders, her long tail hanging almost to his waist, and her nose bumping against his ear. Absently, he reached up to scratch underneath her chin.

Kilgharrah tilted his head, then leaned down close enough that Merlin could feel the heat and smell the smoke of his breath when he spoke. "Young warlock, knowing how you feel about these things, I think you are supposed to teach her not to eat humans."

 

When he opens his eyes, Arthur is still watching him expectantly, draining away some of the enjoyment of the memory. Merlin shifts, running his hand down Aithusa’s foreleg apologetically when she grumbles in protest at the movement.

"You must know a lot about dragons," Arthur says eventually. "I didn’t know that."

"There’s a lot you don’t know." It’s hard to keep his voice even when his heart is thumping so hard in his chest. Behind him, Aithusa grumbles again, obviously picking up on his discomfort, but he can’t reach out to soothe her this time. He needs all his concentration for this.

Swallowing hard, he looks at the fire, then back at Arthur. Arthur, whose face is open and interested, and who will just accept whatever Merlin tells him, without question and without fuss. It’s so unreal that Merlin’s head swims for a moment before he gets himself under control.

He takes a deep breath. "I couldn’t tell you before," he says, then has to stop to clear his throat because he seems to have become hoarse between one breath and the next. "Do you remember Balinor? The dragonlord."

"Yes. He died." It’s so strange, having this Arthur who is not Arthur, who remembers things that happened to them but who has none of Arthur’s usual reactions. The sense of dislocation is so strong that it takes all Merlin’s strength to get the next words out.

"He was my father."

"Oh."

The reaction is so much not a reaction that Merlin half-sobs with relief, turning back to the fire and not at all surprised to find that Aithusa has curled her head around, trying to get closer to him somehow to soothe his distress. He reaches out for her blindly, feeling the rough texture of her scales under his hand, and the warm puff of her breath as she shifts closer.

"You must have been very sad."

It’s strange, but it’s the sympathy that breaks the dam, more than mocking or anger could have done. Merlin swipes angrily at his eyes, then turns to Arthur.

"And I couldn’t tell you," he said, knowing that it isn’t Arthur's fault, but needing to drive away some of this grief before it overwhelms him. "I had to pretend that I was only worried about Camelot, and that it was all about the city and the dragon, and that it didn't matter to me that my father was dead." He feels better for letting it to the surface, for all that Arthur is looking at him with something close to real fear now, Aithusa's tail swishing behind him in the dim light from the fire. "And there was no one to ask why the dragon was so angry, no one to question why Uther had killed all the dragonlords. He killed them all, Arthur. I'm the last." He sinks back, the anger draining out of him again as his father's words echo in his head.

He sent knights to kill me. I was forced to come here, to this! So, I understand how Kilgharrah feels. He's lost every one of his kind, every one of his kin. You want to know how that feels?

When he looks up, the fear is gone from Arthur's face, replaced again with that innocent curiosity. Then he frowns, obviously thinking hard, and says, without heat or even any particular interest. "I'm very sorry about your father."

Merlin has the feeling that the words are what Arthur knows he is supposed to say, the way he said please and thank you over dinner, but it doesn't matter. He nods, too choked to speak for a moment.

"Thank you."

This is such a bad idea. If Arthur doesn't remember tonight, the Merlin is going to have to pretend it didn't happen somehow. And if he does remember, that's going to bring a world of trouble all its own.

Merlin rubs at his face, forcing himself to smile, the way he always does. The secret is out now, if Arthur remembers, and if he doesn't, then it will just be one more thing not to let show. He can do that.

He turns to Arthur. "Would you like to see?"

"See what?"

Merlin stretches out a hand towards the fire and whispers drako. It takes a second, because he can't make up his mind what sort of dragon he wants to conjure, but then the sparks form themselves into the outline that he recognises as Kilgharrah, swooping and spiralling above the flickering flames. Beside him, Arthur makes a noise that can only be delight, and leans forward so far that Merlin has to put a hand on his arm to stop him falling into the fire.

"Can I touch it?"

"No, you can't." It's a bit of a struggle for Merlin to keep the laughter out of his voice. "It's made of fire."

Arthur's face falls a little. "Oh. Right." But he leans closer in again and Merlin brings the fire-dragon to the edge of the circle of flames so that its snout is almost at Arthur's nose. Despite the warning, he brings his hand up again, but Merlin makes the dragon whirl away before he can singe his fingers.

By way of consolation, he brings another dragon out of the fire, letting it swirl and dance around the first, fighting a quick mock-battle. Then he lets the spell go, both dragons disappearing in a shower of sparks.

He smiles at Arthur's disappointed expression, though his chest is tight with fear and regret. "Arthur," he says carefully, waiting until Arthur can tear his attention away from the fire and look at him. "Arthur, do you understand what this means?"

"Of course." There's a moment's pause, and Arthur narrows his eyes a little in what might be thought. Then he shakes his head. "No, not really."

It's impossible not to laugh at that, because Arthur never admits that he doesn't know anything. But even to his own ears, Merlin's laugh is too short and choked, and he knows if he lets himself start now, he might not be able to stop.

"Arthur, it means I have magic."

There's a long silence, and Merlin watches Arthur carefully, trying to tell if his words have had any impact at all. Over the crackling of the fire and the gentle rasp of Aithusa's breathing, Merlin can hear the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears. He has to keep telling himself that it won't mean anything, no matter what Arthur says, because this isn't really him, but still, he needs an answer.

Eventually, Arthur looks up, glancing from Merlin to the fire and back again.

"Right," he says. "Does that mean you can make other animals as well?"

It might be relief, this laughter bubbling up inside him, that he has to swallow down or end up breathless. He knows too that there’s an edge of frustration to it as well, and he pushes that away too. It’s not Arthur’s fault that the one thing Merlin has wanted to say all these years has gone straight over his head. Merlin has no one to blame for that but himself, as usual, so he takes another deep breath and settles down next to where Arthur is sprawled on his stomach in front of the fire, chin resting on his folded arms. Maybe it won’t hurt to pretend for just a little while longer that everything is going to be alright.

"What do you want to see?" he asks, and makes the fire into horses and dogs and hawks that dance and turn around each other, chasing around the flames, dying and reforming until Arthur falls asleep.