Chapter Text
Merlin. The familiar voice echoes through his drowsy mind as the knocking on the door persists. How the racket hasn’t woken Gaius is beyond him. Perhaps growing old comes with the benefit of being able to ignore sleepless fools in the middle of the night.
He scrubs sleep from his eyes as he finally opens the door. “What do you want, Mordred?”
The annoyance in his tone startles the young knight. He hesitates for a moment before asking, “Why do you hate me? What did I do to upset you?”
It takes a moment for Merlin to process the questions. Is this really what he was woken for? Then he takes note of Mordred’s appearance. He looks like he’s been crying. Puffy, red eyes a stark contrast to the dark circles beneath them. Has he been losing sleep over this? As he leads Mordred to sit on the bench, he takes note of how much thinner and paler the boy is than he had been a month ago. Is he eating properly? Has he been training in this state?
“Here,” he says, handing him an apple. “Eat. I’ll be right back.”
He can almost feel Mordred’s confusion as he walks back to his room. He sorts through every memory over the past month for any sign of the Druid’s declining health. Any point where he could’ve stepped in before he got to this state. He waits for Mordred to take a bite of the apple before closing the door just enough to have privacy while he changes but still allowing him to keep an eye on Mordred. At least, he intended to keep an eye on him. Instead, he gets distracted by his own mind. He can’t remember a single time he’s seen Mordred eat a proper meal. Even when all the knights and Arthur are present, he’s only ever taken a bite of anything when someone was watching him. Even then, it always looked forced.
Merlin is mentally kicking himself for not noticing sooner as he goes back out into the main room of the chambers. He’s a physician; he should know better. Mordred has only taken a single bite of the apple. “Eat,” he encourages, the sudden sound of his voice startling the boy. He feels bad for that but doesn’t apologize. Rather he holds his breath as he waits for his patient to take another bite. He watches as Mordred cringes as he chews and winces when he swallows. He tries to hide it, but Merlin still notices. Has he always had trouble eating? Is he in pain, or is there a mental factor at play?
Either way, he's only taken a few more bites by the time Merlin finishes writing two notes. One for Gaius to explain what's actually going on, why they won't be there in the morning, what their alibi is, and a request to deliver the second note to Arthur. The one for Arthur contains the excuse of being sent on an errand by Gaius and that he is taking Mordred with him for protection, citing increasing reports of Saxon and bandit sightings from the nightly patrols. That should buy them at least until the afternoon, and Arthur will be happy to hear of him at least tolerating Mordred's presence. Gaius is still sound asleep as Merlin places the notes on his bedside table.
Finally returning to Mordred, he asks, “Are you feeling any better?” His only response is a silent nod. “Alright. Now, come along. You can finish your apple on the way.”
Where are we going? Merlin had almost forgotten about how Mordred will go completely silent when he doesn’t feel safe, only communicating with other magic users with his mind. The sorcerer feels horrible for being the cause of such distress.
I’m taking you to meet an acquaintance of mine who I should’ve introduced you to the moment you returned to Camelot. He’s part of the reason I’ve treated you so coldly, and I don’t know where to begin to apologize. He was wrong - I was wrong about you.
The link Mordred had opened closes as they reach the first guard. Merlin stops Mordred from rounding the corner and being spotted. He shakes his head as his eyes flash gold. The sound of a vase clattering to the ground down a different hall draws the guard’s attention away and Merlin quickly ushers the Druid past the checkpoint.
After passing five more guards in the same manner, Mordred reopens the link to comment, Does Arthur know how lax the Citadel’s security is?
No. And you’re not going to be the one to tell him. A sense of confusion radiates from Mordred’s end of their connection as they wait for the guard walking the wall to pass. Once they are safely within the forest separated from the Citadel by a small field, he explains, “I need to be able to come and go undetected to keep everyone safe. If Arthur increases patrols, I can’t do that. The last time that happened, a lot of people died. Do you understand?”
Mordred went quiet again. He hadn’t been in Camelot the last time something went so horribly wrong the kingdom needed Emrys to save the day, but he’d heard the stories. Horrific, nightmare inducing stories. So he agrees, “I won’t tell,” and takes another bite of his almost forgotten apple.
He used to like apples, any kind of fruit really. But now just the thought of food in general turns his stomach. He doesn’t know what changed, or when this change occurred. All he knows is that eating has become a battle of will against himself. Sometimes he wins. His record these days is half a plate. Soup is easier to force himself to choke down, but it’s still fifty-fifty on whether or not it will stay down. Bread and some cheeses are a little more difficult, but doable. Anything with a crunch, like the apple in his hand, usually comes back up within the hour if he can force himself to swallow it at all. He hasn’t been able to stand the texture of meat in years. He doesn’t even remember why.
When he can’t force himself to take another bite, he tosses the apple into the bushes. “I saw that,” Merlin comments, but doesn’t push any further as they approach a large clearing. He doesn’t recognize it from any of the patrol routes he’s been assigned to. It becomes obvious why when Merlin shouts in a language Mordred doesn’t recognize, radiating a form of magic he’s never felt before.
Then he hears it. The wing beats of a creature far larger than any he’s ever encountered. In minutes, a dragon the size of several modest houses lands before them. “Why must you always call on me in the middle of the night?!” it hisses. “Are you aware that dragons are not nocturnal creatures?”
“Would you rather be seen and fettered like you were when I first met you?” Merlin retorts. When the dragon makes a sound almost like resignation, he answers its initial question. “I called on you regarding Mordred. He needs help and answers.”
The dragon stiffens its posture and rolls its eyes. “He wouldn’t need answers had you heeded my warning in the first place and let him die!” It talks about Mordred as if he weren’t right there, just within the treeline. He wonders if the dragon hasn’t noticed him yet. If, maybe, it won’t notice him if he doesn’t step into the moonlit clearing.
“We’ve been over this, Kilgharrah.” Merlin sounds like he’s both exhausted and infuriated as he rehashes the decade’s old argument. “He was a child. What sort of monster would I have become if I had allowed a ten-year-old boy to be executed? He was innocent. I’m not entirely convinced that innocence has left him.”
“Are you willing to stake Arthur’s life on a sliver of doubt?”
Mordred feels his blood run cold when Merlin doesn’t immediately answer. He wants to argue that he’d never hurt Arthur. That he’s a loyal knight of Camelot. That he’s done nothing but prove his allegiance every chance he’s gotten. But he can barely breathe. He’s certain he’d collapse if he tried to take a step forward. He feels frustrated, terrified tears well up as Merlin turns to look directly at him.
“I’d bet all of Albion,” he finally responds, allowing his eyes to linger a moment longer before turning back to the dragon. “Mordred is a good kid. And he deserves to hear as much of the prophecy as you’ve told me and for any questions he may have to be answered. Questions that I’m not sure I can properly answer, but you can.”
“As can the Druids you so dearly cherish,” Kilgharrah argues, stretching his wings. One flap sends gusts of wind through the trees powerful enough that Mordred feels like he might be blown away if he wasn't weighed down by his chainmail. The second flap has the mighty beast a few feet off the ground. “Ask them!”
Pure power shoots through the clearing, clinging to Merlin's commanding voice. Though he can't understand the words his idol is speaking, Mordred can feel the pulse of magic behind them. It has a wild feel to it. A twinge of something that should never have been touched by mankind. That addictive spark that's drawn Mordred to this man since he was a child. Even such a mighty beast as Kilgharrah can't resist the pull of this magic.
The dragon growls as he bows to Merlin. “That boy was born evil!”
“No, he was not. Nobody is born evil.”
“He is destined to kill Arthur!”
Mordred’s chest feels tight at the declaration. He looks up to Arthur like a father as much as a mentor. The thought of hurting him fuels his nausea. “I-I would ne-ever-” he stammers as he finally steps out into the clearing. The sudden movement makes his vision blur and twist. His knees buckle. Breathing grows more difficult.
All he can feel is Merlin’s magic surrounding him. It’s overwhelming at first, like every nerve has been struck by lightning. He doesn’t feel his knees hit the ground. Doesn’t hear Merlin call his name. Slowly, the oppressive energy radiating from the elder sorcerer lessens to an everpresent buzz across his skin. “Shh. You’re alright,” Merlin assures, his tone much softer than it had been with the dragon. “Are you feeling lightheaded? Dizzy?”
“The boy looks like death,” Kilgharrah muses. “Perhaps fate is on your side after all, Merlin.”
“For once in your insufferable life, will you just be quiet?”
He barely registers the calloused hand on his cheek before the world darkens.