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When Ellwen comes out into the yard, Harold is standing in the pig pen, one hand shading his eyes as he looks out toward the setting sun.
"You'll go blind like that, you will," she admonishes. "Dinner's ready. Come inside."
"There's something on over at Richard's," he says, barely looking her way. "Something odd."
Ellwen snorts, but goes to the gate so she can have a better view. Her eyes, still far better than Harold's ever were, pick out an unusual shape in the sky, and she startles. "Come inside, Harold," she urges. "Come inside right now."
Harold waves her off at first, still squinting into the west, but then his whole body goes rigid, and he turns toward her. "Inside with both of us!" he growls, and hurdles over the pig pen fence like he used to when he was young. Ellwen hurries through the door ahead of Harold; he slams it shut behind him and slaps the latch closed.
"Haven't seen one of those since I were a boy," he rasps, face white.
"It is one, isn't it?" Ellwen demands, though she already knows. "A dragon? A bleeding dragon in Camelot!"
"Saints preserve us," Harold breathes, shaking his head. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then he cocks an ear. "Listen!"
Ellwen holds her breath, and she hears it: the thwump, thwump, thwump of leathery wings beating the air; they pass over the house accompanied by the outraged screeches of a chicken.
Ellwen exhales in a gust, and frowns. "That didn't sound like I remember," she says.
Harold, equally perplexed, puts a hand on the door, as if to open it.
"Don't go out there, you daft bastard!" Ellwen snaps, reaching for him.
"'m no bastard," is the familiar rejoinder. Ignoring her hand on his arm, Harold cracks open the door and looks out. When he's not snatched away, Ellwen feels bold enough to squeeze in next to him. They pinpoint the direction of the screeching, stare at the sky, then at each other.
"Why," Harold whispers, incredulous, "the damn thing's no bigger than a dog!"
In the darkening east, there is a sharp squeak, followed by a mournful moan. The chicken squawks furiously as it flutters to the ground.
Reports have been coming in since shortly after Arthur and Guinevere's wedding, of an odd, white, winged creature roaming the forests and fields of the kingdom. Its size varies depending on the source of the report - traders swear it's as big as a horse, farmers say maybe the length of a pig, and the one patrol that saw it, in flight, all agree that it's no larger than an eagle. The other details are all the same, though: white, winged, scaled, stealing poultry and young livestock, hovering over children as if to pick them off, but never actually daring to.
At first, the locations vary, too - near the forest of Ascetir, on the border with Nemeth, a day's ride from Mercia. No deaths or injuries are reported, and the extra patrols Arthur sends out don't seem to be having any luck in finding the creature. It's a worrying thing, but not alarming.
After about a month, though, the reports start to get more frequent, and each sighting puts the creature closer to the city. Arthur, Leon and Gwaine sit down with a map, trace the creature's progress, and decide it will arrive sooner rather than later - a week, at the outset.
"It does love chicken," Gwaine notes with a grin, rifling through the more recent reports. "A monster after my own heart."
"It doesn't seem very good at killing them, though," Leon replies. "Half these people say they find their hens some distance down the road, still alive. Most of them aren't even injured enough to be butchered."
Arthur snorts. "An incompetent magical monster. Thank goodness for small blessings."
"You don't know for a fact that it's magical," Merlin ventures from where he's sitting some ways down the table, scribbling determinedly. Gwaine's not sure if it's for Gaius or the king. "And maybe it's dropping the chickens because it doesn't like killing things."
"Of course you'd defend it, Merlin," Arthur shoots back, rolling his eyes. "A lost pet of yours? Or perhaps a relative I've yet to meet?"
Merlin smirks at the first comment, but something in his face shifts at the second, and Gwaine leans in. Maybe the Princess has finally gone too far, though from what he's seen, there doesn't really seem to be a 'too far' between Arthur and Merlin. Gwaine would have punched either of them without hesitation if they'd aimed some of their barbs at him instead of each other.
Well, maybe not Merlin. Not in the face, anyway.
Whatever's made Merlin look like that - guilty, indignant and proud all at once - sinks away; when he answers, it's an extremely mild, "When we catch it, we can put it in the kennels with your dogs, where it'll have good company. Gods know they haven't caught anything but fleas all month."
Arthur balls up one of the missives in his hand and lobs it down the table, where it fails to hit Merlin as he ducks neatly. The funny thing is that he's not even looking Arthur's way when he does it.
Arthur scowls, but Gwaine is suitably impressed. Merlin is obviously a man of hidden and well-honed talents.
"Sire," Leon says, taking advantage of the momentary silence, "we should send out a hunting party... perhaps with one or two of the falconers. If the patrol's to be believed, the creature is small enough that your eagle might bring it down."
Arthur's scowl moves from Merlin to Leon. "I don't like the idea of flying that bird against a creature that might retaliate with magic. She's a fierce enough hunter, but..." he trails off. Gwaine figures he's embarrassed at refusing to send his wedding gift from Nemeth out to tangle with anything scarier than a fawn.
Despite his continued disdain for nobles and their petty foibles, Gwaine's inclined to agree. Hatched in some far-off desert scrubland Gwaine's never heard of, carried to Camelot across the water, over the massive mountains and rivers of the southern continent, the massive bird is said to be the only one of its kind in Albion. It would be akin to drawing Damascus steel against men with Norse battle axes: impressive, but questionably effective.
Leon seems to realize the same thing, because he says, "No, you're right, sire. She's far too rare a creature to risk on such an uncertainty. Though," he adds wistfully, "it would be a grand thing to see, a battle like that."
This gets a grin out of Arthur. "Indeed it would. We'll have to go fly her after this beast is caught, Leon. She hasn't been out nearly enough."
"She's been out twice a week since you got her," Merlin protests. "Don't you think she's tired?"
"Merlin," Arthur returns with exaggerated patience, "she is a predator. In the wild, she would hunt daily, and only rest after a large kill. If she's anything, it's bored, not tired."
Merlin hunches a little over his writing and shrugs. "Mathias flies her every day," he points out, "and he says she's been a little sluggish lately."
Arthur sits forward. "What? Why was I not informed?" he demands.
Gwaine's amused to see that Leon looks more worried than Arthur at the news.
"I just talked to him this morning," Merlin says, "and he said he'd give her another day before he mentioned it." He looks up with a sheepish but kindly expression. "We didn't want to worry you."
Arthur stares at Merlin for a moment. "I'll go see him tomorrow, then," he says, much less awkwardly than he would have a year ago. Princess is all grown up, Gwaine thinks. "As for our magical menace, Leon," Arthur continues, "put a party together. Do take one of the falconers; he might have some ideas on where the beast roosts at night. Gwaine, go with them. Since you claim it's a monster after your own heart, maybe you can offer some insight as well." It's a pathetic dig, but Gwaine's been stuck training squires for two weeks and craves a few nights under the stars. He allows that Arthur is being kind here, rather than a ponce, and grins.
"Gladly, sire," he says. "I'll go wheedle some roast chickens from the kitchens. If we can't lure it in, we can at least feed ourselves well."
Leon rolls his eyes at this, even as he laughs, and Arthur does his best to look un-amused, but when Gwaine turns to see Merlin's reaction, the younger man is hunched over his parchment again, mouth tight with poorly-veiled displeasure. The others don't take notice, rolling up the map and stacking the reports into a single pile, so Gwaine doesn't say anything, but he wonders what's eating at Merlin. The lad's been in an odd mood of late, that Gwaine's noticed, but he's not sure if this is more of the same, or something new.
They're gone from Camelot for nearly a week, a respite in which Gwaine would normally have reveled. Unfortunately, it's a soggy, miserable week. The rain starts the second evening, and continues in a non-stop drizzle until well after their horses have trudged back through the city gates, mud coating their legs and matting the hair on their bellies.
Gwaine feels a pang of sympathy for every poor bastard who's going to be grooming these animals and cleaning their tack this evening, and resolves to send his own squire (assigned to him by Arthur under much protest) a pitcher of wine with dinner. Most days, he'd stay and help, but he doesn't think he's got a stitch of dry cloth left on him, the skin of his fingers is pruned, and his chain mail is in desperate need of care. He leaves the horse to Gareth and stalks Leon to the king's chambers, muttering, "Be quick about it, or this mail will rust on us."
Leon waves at him tiredly, but doesn't comment. His nose is bright red against his pale complexion, even under all the grime, and Gwaine guesses that his next stop won't be the armoury, but Gaius's quarters.
The king and queen are dining together, Merlin hovering over Arthur's shoulder with a pitcher and trading amused looks with Gwen, who is very pointedly serving herself. When Merlin sees the state Gwaine and Leon are in, his smile gets inexplicably brighter.
"No luck, then?" he chirps, entirely too cheerful.
"Merlin!" Arthur snaps half-heartedly. He scrutinizes them, and says, "By the expressions on your faces, I'll venture that my manservant, who has all week been treading a line very close to treason, is correct."
"It's not treason to suggest alternative courses of action," Merlin protests for what's probably not the first time.
"In no way does 'Leave it alone' constitute an alternative course of action," Arthur growls. "Now be quiet! What news, Sir Leon? Sir Gwaine?"
"Merlin is correct, sire," Leon says shortly. "We were entirely unsuccessful. There wasn't even a sighting of the beast."
"We almost drowned the falconer, though," Gwaine adds, because he figures the thirty seconds it takes to tell will not make his day that much more miserable. "A mudslide dumped him into the creek below Avondale."
Arthur glares, obviously not seeing the humor in the event. The falconer hadn't been amused, either.
"We thought we had spotted the creature roosting," Leon offers, sounding contrite, "and we unwisely encouraged Mathias to cross a treacherous stretch of ground to investigate. It gave way and sent him tumbling into the water, but the creek is shallow, even when swollen, and he was never in serious danger, despite what Sir Gwaine likes to believe."
"It turned out to be a goose," Gwaine confides, mostly for Merlin's benefit. Merlin looks torn between gleeful satisfaction and worry for Mathias.
"Wonderful," Arthur says in that bratty, sarcastic way of his. "I hope the entire journey wasn't that much of a farce?"
"No, sire," Leon replies, looking and sounding properly chastened. Gwaine's come to realize that Leon is a fantastic actor, above and beyond what most courtly nobles can manage. He supposes that years spent answering directly to Uther would either mould a man into his best form, or break him. "Only wet, and otherwise uneventful."
Arthur sighs. "Very well. There have been no further sightings reported to the city. Perhaps the beast dislikes the rain. We'll try again next week." He waves at the table, which bears platters enough to feed ten, instead of two. "You must be starved. Join us?" He looks a little pleading, as if he needs a buffer between himself and whatever conspiracies his wife and servant are hatching.
"Thank you, sire," Leon says, "but the state we're in, we couldn't possibly impose. Sire, my lady." He bows briefly, snags Gwaine by his cloak, and drags him out the door before anyone can protest.
Gwaine wouldn't have minded sitting down to that spread, but his mail's not shifting quite right anymore, and he's actually grateful to Leon for not letting him get distracted. Not that he's going to say so. "That was positively rude, Leon. For you, anyway."
Leon shrugs, and wipes at his nose. "We both smell worse than our horses, and if I can still tell that with this cold, then it must be a truly horrible level of stench. And you were the one who demanded that I make it quick, so what are you complaining about?" They hit the end of the corridor, and he turns right with a vague wave. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, sniffling as he strides away.
"Bye, then!" Gwaine calls cheerily, and turns left. Clean armour and weapons, a bath (yeah, it really is a bit of a strong stench) and dinner - wine to Gareth and the boys below - and Gwaine knows he'll be more than ready to call it a night.
Time enough tomorrow to corner Merlin about why he's championing this chicken-thieving beastie so hard.
As there's nobody pounding on his door at the crack of dawn, demanding he get up for training or patrol, Gwaine lets himself sleep in. He crawls out of bed around lunchtime, pushing aside the bed curtains, which he'd drawn earlier that morning as new sunlight stabbed through his eyelids. The stone floor is cool against his bare feet, and he vows to buy himself more rugs before autumn sets in properly. There'd been a full, matching set when he was first given this room, but they've fallen victim over the years to spilled wine, fallen food, accidental - and not-so-accidental - fires, and the occasional enemy invasion. The only one left is the hideous, brown monstrosity behind the dressing screen that Gwaine never uses, and he'll suffer cold feet rather than be greeted by the sight of that crime against rug-making every morning.
His windows look out on the training fields, and Gwaine takes a moment to observe the goings-on. The squires he's been training are under Bedivere's tutelage today, sliding around in the mud, whacking at each other with staves, only those of common blood taking the lesson seriously. Pity for the rest. Bedivere is a noble, but from some of the lower stock on the western edge of the kingdom, near the Western Isles. The occasional forays of the Islanders to the mainland are as like to be for an attack as for trading, and the people who live by the sea have learned to be prepared for anything, without looking like they're prepared for anything. Even most of the footmen who come from Bedivere's holdings can lay out an armored knight with a stout piece of wood and some quick maneuvering.
Well, perhaps Gwaine will join Bedivere later, show the snotty whelps what's what. First order of business, though, is food. He throws some water on his face to wake himself up, gets dressed, and heads for the knights' hall, where there's bound to be bread and meat laid out, and berries, too, if Arthur and Gwen's dinner last night is anything to judge by.
The platters on the long table under the windows look liked they've been picked over by crows. For a collection of the supposedly most noble men in the kingdom, Camelot's knights are little better than peasants in their manners, when nobody's watching. Gwaine grabs a clean-looking wooden plate and ambles down the length of the table, collecting the least-mangled leftovers for himself. There's plenty of bread, and enough of the potato stew he's fond of, but the berries are all gone. Gwaine sighs and serves himself a good portion of the greens Gaius insists be offered with every meal - there are always greens left - before sitting down next to the only other occupant of the hall.
Tristan is picking absently at the remains of his food, and looks like he's well into his cups already. It's a sure sign that Leon hasn't been around, as the knight-captain enforces an almost religious ban on strong wine before dinner, especially for the men who need it most. Gwaine's more than a little bitter about that.
"What news?" he asks, pouring the last of a nearby jug into an empty cup. Yes, Leon is definitely ill abed, he muses, watching the dark red slosh satisfactorily.
Tristan shoots him a baleful look. "None worth sharing," he grumbles. "As usual. Did you kill the magic beastie, Sir Gwaine? Skin it and bring its head back for a pike at the city gates?" Tristan is a moody, taciturn bastard - and rightly so, in Gwaine's opinion - but good wine makes him viciously talkative. "Got good and bloody, eh?"
Gwaine's been told that he's sounded little better since Morgana's occupation of the city, with too much wine in him, so he lets Tristan's words roll off his back when he's sober.
When he's drunk, he and Tristan brawl like blood-sworn enemies.
"All any of us managed to catch was a cold," Gwaine says, starting on his stew. "The falconer fell in a stream, and we almost shot a goose. I think we dragged in half the mud in the kingdom, when we came back. My squire probably hates me now."
Tristan grunts. "Should have shot the goose. Good meat."
"Wasn't ours," Gwaine points out. "Some poor bastard would have gone hungry if we had."
"If the taxes weren't so high-" Tristan starts, and Gwaine rolls his eyes. He eats his stew, letting the man ramble about the economic injustices he's witnessed, and only starts paying attention again when he hears Isolde's name.
Gwaine had known Isolde, when they'd both been children. She was a daughter of King Mark of Kernow, come to tour Carleon and catch the eye of a family with sons. Gwaine had bristled at the unfairness of it - that marriages were arranged so early; that such a fun, independent girl should be so tightly bound; that he himself was not of high enough status to warrant her father's approval. They'd snuck away to climb trees and swim in the river, and she'd been the first girl he'd ever kissed. She'd also been the first girl to punch him in the face, from which he'd gleaned that girls did not actually like having that sort of attention forced on them, despite what the men in the taverns said.
Isolde had spent two months in Carleon, and Gwaine had suffered many a tanning from his father and her guards, both, just for the chance to romp with a kindred spirit. She'd returned a few years later, a young lady, whispering of the boys and men she'd met, and of the only one who'd captured her interest - one her father disapproved of absolutely. Gwaine had been jealous, but hopeful that she'd find a way to be with the one she loved. He knew that Isolde was like him, and he knew what he'd do if presented with her dilemma.
Gwaine's gratified to know that she managed to make her way to Tristan, and bitterly heart-broken that she's dead. Only a stroke of ill luck had prevented their reunion.
He hasn't told Tristan any of this, yet. He's not sure if he should.
"- never met such a fierce spirit," Tristan's saying. "She was a force of nature, my Isolde. Always wanted to fight for the weak, even if the whole thing was better left alone. I can't tell you how much trouble we got into, where we could have walked away clean. She made me see things in a different light. Gods-" he sobs suddenly, harshly "-I'd have followed that woman anywhere!" He shoves his goblet away, ignoring the spill of dark wine that stains the table as it overturns, and buries his face in his hands.
Gwaine puts a supportive hand on Tristan's shoulder, and rubs at the sudden stinging of his own eyes.
When he looks up a few minutes later, he sees Merlin standing at the entrance to the hall, with tear tracks on his face.
He looks desolate, and oddly guilty.
Merlin turns and flees before Gwaine can beckon him. He'd been hoping to snag some lunch, as there are often leftovers in the knights' hall, and he can eat his fill under the pretense of cleaning up - there are always greens and bread left, even if the everything else is decimated.
It's not that Arthur and Gaius don't feed him, it's that using magic demands energy. So does keeping it under the tight control that living in Camelot requires. One way or another, Merlin's always hungry.
His appetite's gone after what he's seen, though, what he's heard. Tristan is a broken man, cold and depressed when he's sober, angry and despairing when he's drunk. Isolde was everything to him, and she's gone because Merlin's a coward.
He thinks he might have been able to save her, if he'd been fast enough. The healing spells flow through him readily, now. He's practiced them endlessly, doubly determined to master healing magic after the disaster with Arthur's father. He knows where the balance lies between life and death. He can tell when the cost will be too high to pay.
He'd felt the moment the scales tipped against Isolde. He could have reached her, if he'd acted immediately: if he hadn't let doubt and fear and that nagging little voice - not now, not yet, not ready - freeze him to his spot.
Merlin's confessed this to Gaius, dissected that scene in the throne room more than once, but Gaius has insisted that he can't save everyone, that there's a bigger picture, that he might have been too late anyway, and revealed himself for nothing. Gaius wasn't there, though; he didn't feel Isolde slip suddenly away, her presence passing like a whisper from the room.
Merlin won't ever forgive himself for that day. Whatever was accomplished, however much progress was made toward that distant, shining Albion of prophecy, he knows the world lost something brilliant when Isolde died.
He can understands, too, the crushing grief that Tristan must feel.
Merlin's always loved easily, and against his better judgment. He can't call Will a true lover, for all that they were to each other, for all that they were each other's first, but his heart still aches for his dearest, lost friend. Freya was the first time he'd understood what the poets meant by 'love.' He'd never felt so light and hopeful before, like anything was possible if they could just get past their troubles, get out of Camelot, go somewhere safe. Merlin had never considered leaving Arthur before, or since, but Freya had made him willing to cast off the yoke he'd let magic settle on his shoulders, to escape this grinding life for something that was his alone.
Freya's lost to him now, even though he can see her if he wants to, on the shores of Avalon. They cannot be what they wished, and even were a path open to them now, Merlin knows neither of them would take it. They each have their separate purpose, and she, at least, has found peace in hers.
Merlin has accepted his, but he struggles daily with the cost, and remembers every time, through every action or inaction, when he's only made things worse.
How much poorer is the world for Lancelot's loss, after all? If Merlin had been faster, less arrogant... If he'd been paying attention, like a real lover should.
But they hadn't been real lovers, had they? Merlin had never told Lancelot what he'd felt, what grew from the warmth of friendship to the heat of a bright, helpless yearning. If Lancelot had felt anything in return, he'd never let on. As far as Merlin knows, his heart had only ever sought happiness with, and for, Guinevere.
But Lancelot is gone, his name and reputation destroyed by Morgana's bitterness, and Gwen is wed to Arthur.
Arthur: Merlin's longest, truest love. What he feels for Arthur now has been a long time coming, and is tarnished by his lies, his selfishness, and Arthur's fear of magic. For years Merlin has loved his prince, his king, as a friend, as a brother, as the half that's given his life meaning. Even before Lancelot's death, though, he'd begun to understand that his love is all-encompassing. If he could kneel before Arthur with his soul bared, touch Arthur's face, run his hands over that beloved body as more than a servant, then, Merlin thinks, his life would be complete.
It cannot be, of course. Even if Merlin could stoop so low as to rip a loved one from Gwen, who has lost so much already, Arthur will never see him that way.
He'll be lucky if this madness ends with Arthur calling him 'friend.'
Though his heart remembers every loss, dwells and mourns and doesn't let go, it is a greedy thing, too. A glutton for love and punishment, both.
Merlin's heart sees Gwaine leading squires on the practice field, ghosting sleepless through the halls, comforting others when he himself still hurts, and it wants.
Oh, it wants.
Tristan shrugs Gwaine off, eventually, and staggers away to... well, somewhere. Gwaine's pretty sure he's too lethargic today to hurt himself deliberately, and they're on the ground floor, so he probably won't fall down any stairs. Gwaine listens for a while after Tristan has gone, but doesn't hear anything alarming, so he forces down the rest of his lunch, and debates on what to do.
He'd meant to talk to Merlin, ask the lad what's been eating him lately, but between his own renewed grief and the odd expression he'd seen on Merlin's face, Gwaine is reluctant to broach the subject. He's not sure he can handle whatever Merlin needs to get off his chest right now.
He wanders for a bit, a goblet of lunch wine still in hand, and ends up on the training grounds. He had meant to show those noble little upstarts a thing or two, so he tosses back the rest of the wine and joins Bedivere at the edge of the field.
"Sir Gwaine," Bedivere greets politely. "How was the hunt?"
"Pointless waste of time," Gwaine declares, and muses briefly that he might not be entirely sober. He's learned to keep his opinions to himself in front of the squires, at least. Well, four goblets of the hard stuff will knock even him off kilter.
Bedivere just nods stoically, and says, "A few of these lads are having trouble with their staff work. Might you be so kind as to help them through it?" The deliberately casual tone of Bedivere's voice, coupled with the too-innocent look on his face, tell Gwaine that Bedivere, a) knows he's not sober and b) is perfectly willing to use it to advantage.
"Sir Bedivere," Gwaine says magnanimously, "I would be most honored."
Gareth and a couple of the sharper squires are looking worried, and just for that degree of awareness, Gwaine's willing to cut them slack. They're most of them working in earnest, anyway. No, the lad at the end, there is his target - the scowling one who's built like an ogre, has a surprisingly quick mind, and an absolute belief in his own superiority.
Gwaine points, and Bedivere calls out, "Hold! Sparring circle, lads. Hector to the middle."
Hector rolls his eyes as he steps forward. Gwaine chooses a staff from the four that are left on the sideline. Three feel solid and well-carved, if a little crooked, but the fourth doesn't balance quite right, and sounds off when Gwaine knocks it against one of the others. He contemplates it for a moment, then grins.
Bedivere eyes him warily, and whispers, "That one, are you sure?" before Gwaine strides onto the field.
Gwaine just nods, and winks.
Any normal man, having spent the daylight hours of a whole week fighting for his life, given no food and little water to speak of, would have paled and fled at the prospect of another brawl. Gwaine has never considered himself a normal man, and when he allows himself to think about that week, it is never fear that rises, but rage: rage at the men he'd been forced to kill, at the bloody witch and her mocking laughter, at Arthur for running, at Elyan for making jokes at Gwaine's expense, at Percival for barely throwing him a grin in greeting when he'd come to free them - at Isolde for throwing her fucking life away before Gwaine had even known she was there.
Merlin's the only one who's offered a shoulder to cry on, but Gwaine doesn't want to drown him with this. He can't - won't - cry so he ignores it until the urge gets too strong, and then he fights. He drinks and he fights, and he wonders how drunk he has to get before he finally won't be quick enough, strong enough, to win.
He waits for that.
He wonders, and he waits, because most of the time, Gwaine's okay, but when he's not, he's really just done with this bullshit.
He knows today won't be the day. His tongue is loose and his rage is rising to the surface, but he can already see the first three moves that Hector will make, and guess the rest. His vision is clear and his balance perfect. Gwaine won't be losing this fight. He won't even get winded.
They salute with their staves, and Hector lunges forward. Gwaine steps aside for the first blow, parries the second, spins off the third, and raps the boy on the arse. Three moves, just like he'd predicted. They're the only three the boy's confident of.
Hector strikes again, more conservative this time, barely telegraphing the move. Still, 'barely' is enough; Gwaine ducks and jabs him in the knee, then comes up inside his guard, one-two-three, cheek-foot-chin, and retreats. He could have injured the boy right there, but he's been warned repeatedly not to do permanent damage to the squires. Hector staggers, Gwaine bounces on his toes, and the common-born squires try in vain to stifle their snickers.
"Focus, Hector!" Bedivere calls.
Gwaine offers the lad the next move, and it's predictable, too: when all else fails, apply brute force.
Hector seems to have forgotten who he's dealing with.
Gwaine braces himself, takes the hit and rolls, taking the squire down with him. He slips free of an attempted grapple, pops up, and twirls the staff over his head, bringing it down with a resounding CRACK! across Hector's shoulders while the boy is struggling to stand. The weak end splinters off exactly as expected, spinning into the onlookers. Hector goes to his knees from the blow, and Gwaine follows, digging a knee into the boy's back and wedging the broken staff across his throat. Hector arches backward with a gurgle of pain, and it's only Bedivere's sudden shout of "HOLD!" that keeps Gwaine from chocking him unconscious.
He lets Hector go and rises, examining the broken staff. Huh. Woodworm. Maybe Merlin's not so crazy after all.
"Thank you, Sir Gwaine," Bedivere says, motioning two of the squires to help their comrade off the field. "Would anyone else like to have a go?"
There is an unsubtle widening of the circle as the boys take a collective step backwards, and Gwaine wants to spit in contempt. Instead, he glances at Bedivere, and when the other man nods, he shouts, "I don't give a damn if you're next in line for the throne - you WILL learn to defend yourself with every weapon you're given! The enemy won't ask about your fucking nobility! If you cannot fight, you will die! It is that simple! Are we clear, ladies!?"
"Yes, sir!" the squires chant, but Gwaine wonders how many of them really understand. To many of them, he's just a common bar brawler, and Bedivere is little better.
The buzz from the lunch wine is gone, and suddenly Gwaine wants nothing more than to go back to bed. If he can avoid Tristan for the rest of the day, tomorrow will probably look a lot better.
"If you don't mind, Sir Bedivere," he says, "I have another engagement."
"Not at all," Bedivere says, tipping his head. "I thank you for your time, Sir Gwaine."
Gwaine really likes Bedivere. If all the nobility were like him, it wouldn't be such a bad thing.
Merlin sees Gwaine coming off the training ground, mud up to his knees, and slips down a side corridor before the knight notices him. He's not ready to face Gwaine - to face anyone - and Gwaine's clearly in a foul mood, himself. Merlin creeps along, checking around corners and dodging every familiar voice, until he finds himself near the main courtyard, where a bedraggled young woman in overlarge trousers and a damp cloak asks him for directions.
"I bring news of a magical creature," she says earnestly, and Merlin feels his heart sink. So much for the hope that Aithusa has found somewhere else to romp. He wonders, even as he leads the woman to where Arthur and Gwen are holding council, where Kilgharrah's gotten off to. Merlin hasn't had a chance to sneak out of the castle and call him in well over a week. The last time he'd called for a dragon, he hadn't specified a name, and only young Aithusa had answered. Clearly, Merlin's admonitions to the little one had amounted to nothing.
He's worried that something has happened to Kilgharrah, but he's sure he'd know if the Great Dragon were dead. He can feel both dragons in the back of his mind, like the warmth of two fires, one small and crackling, the other huge but slow-burning. He draws on that heat, sometimes, to ease away headaches and knots of tension at his temple.
Kilgharrah's fire burns steady and undisturbed, so Merlin focuses on the task at hand. There is nothing he can do about the missing dragon until this evening, at the earliest.
Arthur frowns when he sees Merlin and the village woman. He holds a hand up to stop Lord Amigan, who, as ever, is complaining about the dam the neighboring lord - always conveniently absent to tend his lands - has built on the stream that traverses both their holdings. "What is it, Merlin?" the king asks. "Can it wait until the general audience?"
It had used to be called the common audience, until Gwen had put her foot down. The town and village folk don't seem to care, either way, as long as their grievances are heard.
"I'm afraid not, sire," Merlin says, though he dearly wishes he could bundle the woman out the door this instant. "There has been another sighting of the magical creature that Sir Leon's party was in search of."
"Perfect," Arthur sighs. "Step forward, then. What is your name?"
The woman startles like a deer at being addressed directly by the king, whom she doubtless hadn't expected to see at all. "My-my name is Aeoweth, sire," she forces out through suddenly-chattering teeth, after an awkward curtsey. "We been h-hearing the s-s-stories of the m-monster for w-weeks, and n-now our f-f-fears be c-c-come true." She takes a steadying breath, and goes on more calmly. "We seen it sleepin' in the-the village barn t'other night. We been sharin' a barn since the last raiders come through and b-burn down most o' the rest. Keep the chickens in, and the pigs. It were sleepin' in the hayloft, an' stole a chicken afore it flew away, come the morn. We knew it were m-m-magic, m'lord, on account of it blew fire on the hen after it killed it, to cook it-like. They told me run straight here and let the castle know."
"Where is your village, Aeoweth?" Arthur asks. "When did you see the creature?"
"We're the Western Crossroads, sire," Aeoweth says, and Merlin stifles a groan. "It been... three nights ago that it showed up. I left soon after the creature did, and been on the road two nights. Just walked through the city gates a-lunchtime, sire."
The Western Crossroads is the closest sighting by far, and Merlin resolves to get to Aithusa tonight even if he has to wait up until moonset to get outside the walls - if the little dragon doesn't get killed between now and then, that is.
Arthur looks appropriately concerned by the news. "Did Sir Leon not lead a search party through your village?" he asks.
"Yes, m'lord," the woman says, "but two days before we seen the beastie. The knights be findin' nothin' that day."
"Very well. Thank you for your diligence in reporting the matter," Arthur intones. "Rest assured that it will be dealt with promptly. My manservant will find you a place to stay for the night, and ensure that you are fed. Please give him any other information you remember about the creature. Any detail might be important. Merlin, find Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival and bring them back here immediately after you see Aeoweth settled."
"Of course, sire." Merlin bows, waits for Aeoweth to curtsey and stammer her thanks, and leads the way out the door.
So much for avoiding everyone, he muses, resigned.
Merlin stands in the clearing and calls, and calls again. He waits all night, but there is only Aithusa, scampering at his feet, willing to agree, with her limited words, that she will stay away from Humans. Kilgharrah's fire burns as bright as ever, but nothing Merlin tries - pleas, warnings, mindspeak, even, at last, Command - brings the Great Dragon to the clearing. It is as if he cannot hear the Call.
Merlin feeds Aithusa the last of the chicken he'd stolen from the kitchens, and does not head back to the castle until the pink wash of dawn brightens the sky.
They ride out early the morning after the Crossroads report, though no further word of the creature has come in. Gwaine is happy to get out of the castle again. Ever since his morning with Tristan, he's felt as if the walls are closing in on him.
Merlin looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept all night. His feet are dragging, he fumbles more than usual tacking up the horses, and nothing Arthur says, nothing he throws, can get a rise out of the lad. Arthur finally gives up, a petulant and worried frown on his face; Merlin doesn't really really seem to notice.
Gwaine had thought to ride for the Western Crossroads and backtrack from there, but Arthur, having plotted out the path of the creature on his various maps, and guided by a hunter's instinct, decides to sweep the main tracks between the villages instead, and aim for the Crossroads as the final goal. Another party, with Elyan and Bedivere at the head, has ridden out to search the northern routes between Camelot and the Crossroads. Arthur's party is the king himself, Merlin, Gwaine, Percival and Tristan - who looks little better than Merlin, slouched and listless on his horse, heedless of the bedraggled picture he makes. Leon has been left in command at the citadel; being the only one of Uther's men whom Arthur holds in close confidence, Leon serves as a bridge between the new reign and the old, a pointed affirmation of Guinevere's authority in Arthur's absence. Guinevere's role as queen still sits poorly with many members of the court.
The rain is done with, finally, but they ride through the aftermath: rutted paths, mud pits, sudden sprouts of verdant growth that catches at their cloaks, and insects. An endless, pitiless barrage of insects. Gwaine is glad he'd foreseen this, and brought along his oily mixture of... something... that seems to repel all but the most persistent little blighters. It had been a gift from an old woman he'd defended against a band of marauders, somewhere past the Ridge of Ascetir, several years ago - and if the Stuff always smells fresh, and his fingers never seem the reach the bottom of the little pot it lives in... Well, nobody ever asks, and Gwaine's not going to mention it.
The others swat ineffectually at their tiny tormentors, slap their faces, scratch their necks and curse like sailors on their first night ashore; even Tristan has been roused from his stupor by the incessant attack. Merlin is the only one who doesn't appear affected, and at first Gwaine thinks that he's rubbed an ointment of Gaius' on himself, or put sprigs of some pungent plant down his collar, but when he looks closely, he sees that it isn't the case. Merlin's skin is clean and dry - and why Gwaine's paying that much attention to Merlin's skin is not something he has the will to deal with at the moment - and there's no telltale of green sticking out of his shirt. The insect just... don't seem to bother him. They alight on him, but he doesn't swat them, and they leave no mark or swelling when they go. While Arthur and the others end the morning looking like they've caught the pox, Merlin is none the worse for wear.
The others all seem too intent on their own agony to notice that the king's manservant has some kind of secret pact with the bloodsucking creatures of the forest. When they dismount for lunch, all Arthur snaps is, "Light a fire, Merlin. The smokier the better," and goes to plunge his face next to his horse's in the stream.
The odd command shakes Merlin from his daze; nobody ever wants a smoky fire, especially on a hunt. He glances around, blinking in confusion, and Gwaine can see the moment he registers the problem. "Oh! Right. Of course, sire," he blurts out, but Arthur's not listening.
Gwaine takes care of his own horse, reapplies his oily Stuff, and goes to rummage through Merlin's heavy pack for lunch.
"Oi, leave off that!" Merlin protests, feeding green twigs into his fledgeling fire. "I'll start cooking in a minute."
"Isn't there bread, or something?" Gwaine begs. "I'm starving."
"Don't bother cooking, Merlin," Arthur says as he comes over from the tie-line, trying and failing not to scratch at his bites. "Bread and cheese will suffice. Go and find us some of whatever you're using to repel these be-damned bugs."
Ah, so the Princess has noticed something off.
Merlin's eyes seem to slip every which way - one could argue he's looking for the plant in question, or just trying to avoid meeting Arthur's gaze. "I don't see any here," he says after a moment. "I just had a bit that Gaius gave me before we left."
"Well, don't just sit there like a lump!" Arthur snaps, dropping to sit downwind of the smoke. "Go and look!"
Merlin winces, feeds one more twig into the fire, and gets to his feet. "It might be a while," he cautions.
Arthur just glares and points away from the campsite. Merlin sighs, and goes.
"And what have you got, Sir Gwaine, that's let you pass unmolested?" Arthur asks, shifting the glare - which loses none of its intensity as he scratches a welt on his cheek - to Gwaine.
"Bit of Stuff," Gwaine says with a shrug. "Not sure what's in it, but I'll share if Merlin comes up empty-handed." He has the sneaking suspicion that Merlin will, in fact, return empty-handed. He turns back to the pack to dig out bread and cheese, brings the lot to the fire, and cuts himself a chunk of each before passing it to Arthur. The king does likewise, scratching at his chin with his knife before handing the food over to Percival.
Merlin is gone the whole time they're eating, and doesn't come back until Arthur shouts for him. As Gwaine expects, he is carrying nothing. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he says, genuinely contrite. "Nothing that grows here is of any help. Half the plants I saw seem to attract insects."
Arthur scowls, disappointed, and turns to Gwaine. "Well, Sir Gwaine, I hope there's enough of your mysterious concoction to go around."
I hope so, too, Gwaine thinks, and goes to get it. We'll see if the magic flees from it at the sight of you.
He unstoppers the little pot and hands it to the king, who winces as he applies it, but soon breathes a sigh of relief. "It eases the itching," he says, surprised.
"That, too," Gwaine agrees. The others apply it with groans of satisfaction; Merlin refuses, saying his own ointment - Gwaine' still sure he doesn't have any - will work all day.
Tristan's the last to oil his face with the Stuff. He raises a knowing brow as he glances at the pot before returning it to Gwaine, but doesn't say anything. When Gwaine looks, he finds that the level of Stuff inside has dropped not at all. He caps it without fuss and stuffs it deep into his saddlebag. When Tristan meets his eye again, mockingly amused, he grins and shrugs.
Merlin heads into the woods thinking to simply strips some leaves off the shrubbery and enchant them to repel insects, but he realizes, as he searches for a suitable plant to use, that it is a bad idea. Every man in the group save Arthur has spent enough time living in the woods to know the difference between a helpful plant and a useless one. If Merlin brings them something they don't recognize, they'll become suspicious. He looks around for anything that actually does work to deter biting pests, but other than the mud along the stream, which he knows Arthur will absolutely refuse to slather himself with, Merlin finds nothing useful.
When he returns with the news of their ill luck, Arthur turns to Gwaine, who has smeared himself with some sort of pungent oily mixture that does a remarkably good job of convincing most things that he's not worth attacking. The pot gets passed around; soon everyone is covered in the stuff, and the bugs ease off.
Why they're not after Merlin, he's not sure, as he's been a perfectly acceptable target in the past. Perhaps it's his magic, riding close below his skin now, tingling, nagging to be let free, to search for Kilgharrah, to protect Aithusa, Arthur, everyone. It's been this way since Morgana's last attempt to take Camelot, and no matter how hard Merlin tries, he just can't seem to reel it in. It isn't out of control, but on edge, eager to act even on the simplest task.
Arthur grumbles about the smell of Gwaine's ointment as they ride out, worried that it will alert their quarry to their presence, but the alternative - riding along with burning smudge sticks - is even less acceptable.
The rest of the day goes by uneventfully. There is no sign of the creature, no hint at all of its passage. Nobody at either of the villages they stop at has seen anything unusual, and there's not so much as a chick out of place.
"To be expected," Arthur declares after they've made camp for the night. "I would have been surprised to find it this close to Camelot so soon."
"I'll be surprised if we find it at all," Tristan replies. "We could ride right by the damned thing and never see it."
"It has a marked interest in humans," Arthur counters, probably asking himself one more time why he'd offered Tristan a knighthood, and why Tristan had accepted. The two of them can barely catch each other's eye without breaking into argument. "It will seek us out, and if not us - it's bound to get hungry again; we'll get a mark on it the next time it steals something. Probably tomorrow."
Gwaine thinks about how often the creature seems to eat, based on reports, and how far it travels in between, and decides that, by all rights, the thing has either overflown them already, or is two days in the opposite direction - out Elyan's way. He means to say as much, but suddenly decides it's pointless. Arthur knows this; he's just arguing because Tristan opened his mouth.
He lets his gaze drift to Merlin, instead, wondering again what's got his friend so off-kilter. Merlin is sitting silent away from the fire, cutting up rootstock for their supper, his expression somewhere between smirking and mulish. It's like he knows something the rest of them don't, and is indignant or bitter at their mistaken assumptions.
As Tristan offers a disdainful rebuttal, and Percy chimes in on Arthur's side, Gwaine gets up, stretches a kink out of his back, and wanders over to Merlin. Merlin looks up at him with an inquiring glance, then rolls his eyes as Gwaine nods at the trio by the fire.
Gwaine chuckles as he settles himself on the ground next to Merlin. "It's good entertainment."
"Good way to use up some energy, too," Merlin says. "By the time he's done with Tristan, he's too tired to bother me." He cuts up the last bit of root, and rummages in his bag for a moment, coming up with a pouch of smoked meat. "Somebody's going to have to hunt for breakfast. This is the last of the beef."
"Still say we should have brought some chickens," Gwaine quips, but Merlin's answer is little more than a quirk of his mouth. He dumps the meat in the pot, picks it up, and rises.
"I'm going to get water," he says. "I'll be right back."
"I'll come with you," Gwaine offers, and jumps up, himself. "Could use to stretch my legs. Still more used to walking than riding, even after all this time."
Merlin gives a little shrug, and heads off into the gloom.
They don't speak again until they reach a slow-moving stream, where Gwaine dunks his head in, trying to wash away the sweat and Stuff. The water is still luke-warm, testament to the heat of the day, and the shallow depth of the little brook. Merlin's a few steps upstream, pot already full, jacket and shirt discarded, scrubbing at his face and arms. In the near-darkness, there's no detail to the pale skin of his torso, and Gwaine realizes that he's never seen Merlin without his shirt on, before. He knows the scars that adorn all his fellow knights - even Tristan's whip-lined back is familiar already - but this lad, his first friend in Camelot, his first friend in years, is unknown to him.
As Gwaine watches, Merlin dips his fingers in the water, flicks little sprays of it aimlessly. Then he scoops up a double handful, leans his head back, and lets it splash down his torso. Gwaine stares helplessly at the curve of Merlin's throat, the rivulets of water that trail down his chest, and catch in the sparse hair of a surprisingly muscled stomach. The whole scene has taken on a fey, ethereal quality: the water seems to sparkle, and Merlin's skin to glow in the moonlight that's just breaking through the trees. Merlin bows his head, his face lost to shadow, but there's no mistaking the contented chuckle that issues forth.
"Sizing up my virtue, Sir Knight?" he asks, startling Gwaine. He looks up, eyebrows rising expectantly as Gwaine continues to stare.
"Er," Gwaine says stupidly.
Merlin smiles - a genuine smile, not the bitter smirk he's been toying with all day - and continues, "Have I actually managed to render Sir Gwaine speechless?"
Gwaine clears his throat. "So it would seem," he says.
Merlin looks down, suddenly bashful. "Are we, um, are we on the same page, here? Are you... are you interested?"
People might think Merlin clumsy, witless and naive, but let nobody ever call him coward, or Gwaine will beat them into the dirt. He clears his throat again, and rasps, "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."
Merlin's smile broadens into a grin, and he laughs, happy, relieved; Gwaine laughs, too, delighted by the sudden wealth of possibilities before him.
That's when reality intrudes, of course. "MERLIN!"
Merlin sags. "Bloody kings," he groans, rolling his eyes, and reaches for his shirt.
"Hey," Gwaine says, rising. "Don't worry. We've got plenty of time." He picks up the stew pot, and hauls Merlin to his feet. Merlin's hand is cool and calloused under his fingers. Gwaine doesn't let go until they reach the edge of the firelight.
Gwaine and Merlin keep looking at each other as camp is struck the next morning, so frequently that Merlin's more scatterbrained than usual, knocking over the water pail, burning their breakfast, and letting one of the horses loose as he's trying to bridle it. Arthur wants to separate them, but it's not like there's the back of a long train of baggage to which he can banish one or the other.
If he didn't know better, he'd say they were flirting.
It's a muggy day, though not as hot as the previous one. Gwaine hands around his pungent insect-repelling ointment, and Arthur wonders how many jars of it he's brought along, because they must have all but used up the last one, and this one is nearly full. Merlin smears a bit on himself, too. Whatever he'd borrowed from Gaius' stores has clearly run out. The stench is awful, but the insect leave them alone, and Arthur hopes the beast they're hunting isn't warned off by the smell. It would be entirely too embarrassing to miss killing the creature because of a few bloodsucking bugs.
The truth is that it would be embarrassing to come back empty-handed no matter the reason. The council does not find Arthur's continuing excursions amusing in the least. To a man, they all feel that the king's place is in his castle, and the hunting of magical beasts is best left to Camelot's knights. Even Gaius, who Arthur has come to expect to side with him on such matters, had taken him aside some weeks ago and said that the council's period of 'indulgence' was over, and it was time for Arthur to stop acting like an upstart prince who could do whatever he pleased. Of course, Gaius had said it much more politely than that, but the upshot had been: delegate.
Arthur's usually very good at delegating. He can direct men in battle, knows who to put in command of which division to form the most effective line of attack or defense. He knows that Leon could have led this search himself with no loss of effectiveness, but given the opportunity, Arthur hadn't been able to resist the idea of a proper hunt: No pack of nobles following along on overexcited mounts, no hounds, no ragtag group of exhausted beaters getting in the way of a clear shot; just Arthur and a few good men, using their wits to track and capture a clever, magical beast.
The lure of a few days without the full weight of his responsibilities had been irresistible.
Of course, the creature seems to spend most of its time in the air, and there's been precious little 'tracking' going on, but Arthur's trying to make the best of it. He's sure they'll find signs of the beast's passing today, and if they've missed it already, it's most likely heading Elyan's way. Somebody's going to bring the thing down before the week is out. He can feel it in his bones.
Gwaine and Merlin are riding together at the back of the group, muttering to one another, occasionally chuckling and shoving each other. Arthur gives them a while, because it's good to hear genuine laughter from both of them again, but finally snaps, "Be quiet, back there! We'll never catch this thing with all your chatter!"
He can practically feel Merlin sink back into a sulk. Gwaine hisses something unkind, and also falls silent - for about half a mile. Then he's back to muttering and poking until Merlin's sniggering into his sleeve. Arthur sighs and lets them be. It looks like the honor of the kill will go to Elyan, on this trip. Well, no shame in that. Elyan is kin now, after all.
That is more of a comfort than it should be, perhaps, but Arthur can't help allowing himself the indulgence of being pleased - grateful - to have a brother-in-law along with a wonderful wife. All his blood has deserted him, through death or lies or betrayal, and the only family he has now is that which he claims for himself. He hopes Elyan doesn't think it forward of him, but it doesn't appear so. The knight seems equally pleased by Arthur's company, and they have fallen into a warm, easy friendship. The others understand, even encourage, the growing bond, and Arthur should be ashamed of his desperate need for companionship, but he can't make himself feel much other than gratitude for their support.
He wonders sometimes, when his father's old councilmen grate on his nerves, if Uther would have been a different man, a different king, with men like these around him. Arthur still holds much of Uther's advice close to his heart, but one thing he's sure his father was wrong about is this: a king cannot have friends. He has found quite the opposite to be true; he would be a man with no kingdom, no home, and no love, if not for his friends.
Merlin's laughter rings through the woods, a sharp, unexpected burst, quickly stifled down to giggles. Arthur huffs another sigh. Yes, it will be Elyan's kill, but just as well. Merlin hates to see anything die, even a dangerous, magical beast, and for all that Merlin's given him, these past months and years, Arthur's willing to let it go.
Never mind that if they should succeed, the whining and disappointed pouting will be insufferable.
Arthur's not sure why Merlin's taken a shine to this creature, which Arthur's fairly certain he's never laid eyes on. The thing's obvious incompetence at hunting has clearly caught his attention, but there seems to be something more. Arthur wonders if Merlin actually does know what it is, and, in the knowing, has decided that the creature is too dear to kill.
He really hopes it's not something like the damned unicorn again.
Gwaine's stomach is rumbling, a sure sign that it must be time to stop for lunch, when Arthur reins in his horse and dismounts, intent on something in the dirt.
Beside Gwaine, Merlin sighs. "He's found tracks."
Gwaine takes a careful look at Merlin, and is perturbed to see that the morning's efforts to cheer him up have been a waste: his shoulders are slumped, his eyes are darting around restlessly, and there is a disappointed, worried frown on his face.
"These are fresh," Arthur says, kneeling down to trace a hand along the ground. Gwaine can't see the tracks from the back of his horse, so he dismounts, too, and comes around to Arthur's side. "And this is definitely no ordinary beast."
The footprints themselves are not large, little more than a woman's handspan, but the toes are long and oddly clawed. The imprint of a long, solid tail makes Gwaine think of a lizard, only much larger. "Like a wyvern," he muses.
"Precisely what I think," Arthur agrees. "A young one, perhaps abandoned. No wonder it's such a terrible hunter." He rises, eyes roving the ground, and points. "There."
At the edge of a drying mud hollow are similar prints, and clear signs that the creature has thrashed around in the puddle. A little further on there's a muddy, flattened patch of greens where the creature had rolled, and a hint of what might be clawed wingtips brushing the ground. "I think it took off," Gwaine says.
Arthur hums in disagreement, but a through search reveals no further tracks, and he finally allows, "It's gone." He stands near where he'd found the first imprints - from the creature's landing, Gwaine thinks - and peers thoughtfully into the trees. "That way," he decides at last, pointing to the left, and remounts.
Gwaine and the others do likewise. Merlin, the last to do so, looks particularly worried.
Gwaine has a sneaking suspicion that they're going to find the creature sooner rather than later.
Merlin can feel Aithusa not far off, gnawing on the remains of an old rabbit she'd managed to catch. She seems eager, ignorant of the mental commands of Hide, Arthur is coming, that he sends out. He tries and tries to get her to fly away, but his Command doesn't seem to work through mindspeech, and there is nothing he can do to make her leave. He should have Commanded her in the first place, instead of trying to be kind, the last time he'd seen her. Now he doesn't know how he's supposed to protect her.
Arthur's instincts are excellent, and he's leading them quite near to the young dragon's perch. They come close enough now that they would see her, if not for the dense thicket she's using as cover, and the king gestures for everyone to dismount. With hand signals and a few murmured words, he spreads out his men and sends them forward. 'Stay here,' he mouths to Merlin, 'and mind the horses.' Then he's off, too, right toward the little dragon.
Aithusa! Merlin snaps, his grip white-knuckled on his horse's reins. The mare draws back, uneasy. Aithusa, MOVE! NOW!
His near-blind panic gets through to her like his pleading and orders hadn't - Aithusa flushes from the canopy, leaving behind her meager meal. There is a shout, and Merlin can hear the knights move hurriedly in her direction. The young dragon wings rapidly into the sky, and, just as Merlin is ready to breathe a sigh of relief, ducks sharply and wheels back in his direction.
No! he cries, keep going! Aithusa, turn around!
She thinks he needs help, though, and she will not be dissuaded, no matter what he says. Merlin doesn't tie up his horse, let alone the others; he just drops the reins and bolts away from the thicket. If he can get far enough from Arthur, he can speak to Aithusa face to face and Command her to leave.
His magic, still riding close to his skin, reaches out to ease his path, and silences his steps. Merlin wills it to hide his tracks, to keep Arthur and the others from following him, but he knows that they'll have glimpsed Aithusa's pearl-white hide through the canopy, and heard the sharp thwap of her wings. They'll have no problem guessing her course. He has precious little time.
Aithusa, come down here, Merlin pleads, and the youngster complies; he can feel her dropping down to the canopy, angling toward him through the foliage. The noise she makes is bound to draw Arthur and the knights, and Merlin reverses course, running toward them and Aithusa now, desperate to reach her first.
When Merlin skids to a stop in the hollow where the little dragon's landed, he sags in relief. He can hear Arthur and the others closing in, but there's time to Command Aithusa to hide. Merlin stalks to the log she's perched atop, but before he can utter a word, she's off again, crying, Arthur! Want to see Arthur!
Aithusa! Merlin hisses, and the Command in the name snaps the dragonet back to earth like a tether jerked taut. Don't speak! You-
But that's all he has time to get out, because Arthur appears suddenly in the clearing, swifter and sooner than Merlin had expected. "Merlin!" he whispers harshly, making a wide, cautious circle toward Aithusa. "Merlin, come away from it."
Merlin shakes his head. No, this is nothappening. Go! he tells Aithusa in his mind, but she's raptly focused on Arthur, and Merlin dare not Command her in front of him. Aithusa, please! He means to kill you!
Aithusa cocks her head, and huffs irritably. Why? she asks, like Merlin is the idiot child in the clearing. Arthur make Albion. Albion need dragons. Let me talk! The knobby spines on her back ripple as she tries to bristle in anger. Merlin would think it adorable, under other circumstances.
Arthur, still closing steadily on Aithusa's perch, whispers again, "Come away, Merlin!"
"You can't kill it, Arthur!" Merlin warns. "It's like the unicorn. Camelot will be cursed if you do."
"It's a bloody wyvern," Arthur hisses. "I know a dangerous beast when I see one."
Part of Merlin is sorely tempted to tell Arthur that he does not, in fact, know his wyvern from his dragon, but he has, over the years, gotten better at keeping his mouth shut. "I'm telling you, sire, you must not kill this creature."
"And I'm telling you, as your king, you bloody idiot, to come here!" Arthur snaps.
Merlin moves toward Arthur, hands raised to urge caution. "It doesn't want to hurt you, Arthur."
"Doesn't it?" Arthur asks archly, and, snagging Merlin's arm, jerks him further from the stump.
Merlin staggers and stumbles, arms pinwheeling as he nearly hits the ground before regaining his balance. When he turns to look at Aithusa again, he concedes that Arthur is entirely justified in an impression of danger. The little dragon has reared up on her hind legs, wings spread wide, and is hissing in warning. He hurts you! she snarls. Why?!
He's just trying to protect me, Merlin soothes, tiptoeing after Arthur, his magic silencing his footsteps once more. He's scared of you.
Why? she asks again, confused now, and settling, low and submissive, on her haunches. Arthur seems to take it as a sign that she's about to spring at him, because he pauses his advance, and moves Excalibur into a more defensive position.
He thinks dragons are dangerous, Merlin says. He thinks magic is evil.
Aithusa trills a wordless, helpless question, and Merlin can't even begin to tell her how sorry he is.
He knows it's his fault Arthur still believes in such lies. He just doesn't know how to change his king's mind. All the times he's tried, it's ended in disaster.
Aithusa's rising again, slowly, as if she's finally aware of the danger she's in. Leave! Merlin snaps, but she refuses.
Want to fix! she protests, and, once again, Let me talk!
Merlin has no time to reply, because Arthur's tensing to strike, settling into that perfect stillness that precedes the moment of attack. He thinks he can feel Excalibur's magic humming, a protest against the coming desecration - a dragon-forged sword tasting dragon blood - and does the only thing he can: He darts forward, throws himself between Arthur and Aithusa.
But the sword is already moving, and the last thing Merlin's really, truly aware of is the sudden change in the magic's pitch as Excalibur shrieks its defiance. The vibration becomes jarring, and Merlin's world implodes in searing, blinding pain.
Arthur's committed to the blow before he sees Merlin's shadow from the corner of his eye, and, horrified, leans back and tries to divert its path. He cannot withdraw the power behind the stroke, though, and the sword bites deep into his servant's shoulder - Merlin crashes to the ground, sliding off a blade suddenly, shockingly slick and red. The thought sparkles like ice crystals in Arthur's mind, I could have cut his head off!, and then he's on his knees, flinging away the sword, pawing at Merlin's clothes to reveal a long, deep gash that wells with blood, pulses and spills in concert with Merlin's stuttering heart.
"To me!" Arthur cries, calling his men, though what they can do for Merlin that he cannot, he doesn't know. "The clearing! To me!" His cry dissolves into a startled shout as a stream of flame shoots over his head. Arthur ducks, covering Merlin's body with his own, but the wyvern - dragon, it's a damned dragon! - opens its mouth again, and he can't quell his body's instinct to shy from the sudden, searing heat. As he rolls away, the dragon dogs him with fire and claw, too agile to grab at, too persistent to let off. Before Arthur knows it, he's on the edge of the clearing, and the blood on his arms is more his than his servant's. The burns on his hands, from when he'd tried to drag Merlin with him, have blistered and cracked the skin of his knuckles; the flesh beneath is weltered and wet.
The dragon retreats to Merlin's side, hissing furiously, and begins to lap at the bloody wound. Arthur bellows in protest and lunges toward it, but it beats him back again with gouts of fire and - gods above! - blasts of magic.
Gwaine comes crashing into the clearing just as Arthur's struggling to his knees, and it's only Arthur's quick grab at his tunic that keeps the knight from tearing right on to the dragon. "Stop!" Arthur gasps, holding tight against Gwaine's pull, the backs of his hands stinging like knife cuts. "It's a dragon!"
As if on cue, the little beast lifts its head from Merlin's wound, and gives a vicious growl punctuated with a puff of coal-black smoke.
"Bloody fuck!" Gwaine spits out, and draws his sword.
"Wait for the others, Gwaine," Arthur warns between ragged breaths, but lets go the man's tunic. "All I have is a dagger to hold it off with." A dagger he hadn't even been able to reach for under the dragon’s relentless assault.
Gwaine looks at Arthur properly for the first time, and curses again. "Gods above, it did that to you?" He kneels at Arthur's side, and unties the water skin Arthur knows he's been smuggling wine in. "Here, have a belt of that." Arthur's tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, so despite Gaius' advice ringing in his head - Alcohol thins the blood! Never drink when you've been wounded! - he cups the skin gingerly, ignores the burn of his wounds, and takes a few mouthfuls.
Gwaine is watching the dragon as Arthur hands the skin back, and Arthur follows his gaze to see the beast baring its teeth toward Merlin's wound. Magic roils over Merlin's form as the dragon breathes out, a swirling, glinting stream that seems to have no end. When at last the beast's mouth closes, Arthur exhales shakily. By god, what did it do to him?
"We have to get to him," Gwaine says, throwing the skin beneath a tree and rising.
Arthur nods. "I'll distract it," he agrees grimly. He'll let the damn thing maul him if it will mean Gwaine can get to Merlin.
"So it can kill you instead of Merlin?" Gwaine asks with a snort, already moving forward. "I'll distract it, you grab Merlin."
As they move to flank the beast, Percival and Tristan ease out of the trees opposite them. "Damn it all," Tristan breathes when his gaze lands on Merlin. Percival pauses, silent and stricken at the sight.
Arthur doesn't let himself acknowledge that what they think - that Merlin's dead - could possibly be true. (Never mind all the blood Merlin's already lost, never mind the dragon's magic, he cannot- That Arthur might have slain Merlin with the sword his servant - his friend - had led him to, the very thing that had restored his faith in himself; the thought is unbearable.) "We need to get it off him," he says softly to his men. "Be careful; it breathes fire, and it has magic."
Percival's head snaps up at that. "It's a dragon?" he asks, incredulous. He eyes the beast again at Arthur's grim nod, and his brow furrows in thought.
Arthur doesn't dwell on the sudden change of attitude. He motions for Tristan to circle 'round the back of the stump, and says, "Percival, make it think it can get by you." He nods Gwaine into position, and follows a few steps behind, ready to dive in and tug Merlin away.
The dragon has been watching the new arrivals with one eye while it worries at Merlin's wound and puffs out bits of magic. Now, as the knights close in, it mantles like a hawk, hunching low over Merlin with outspread wings, and spews a wide arc of fire.
Gwaine and Percival startle backwards, but Tristan's path is clear, and he rushes forward, sword raised. The dragon hears him, and whirls at him with a blast of magic that sends him diving to the ground. Gwaine and Percival are coming forward again, but the beast spins like lightning and flings them back with another blast of power. Arthur's the only one standing for a moment, brandishing his dagger like it will do him any good. He locks eyes with the little monster, and instead of the hot, belligerent gaze of a cornered predator, is shocked to see something like confounded betrayal.
It's a dragon! he tells himself, as the knights regain their feet around him. It doesn't know what betrayal means.
He checks to see if the men are ready to try again, but when he looks to Tristan, the man graces him with a suspicious glare.
"What?" Arthur demands, and is immediately chagrined at his defensive tone. Tristan brings out the absolute worst in him, with that casual, self-assured contempt.
"What the hell happened here?" The knight asks coldly. "That's not a bite, that's a sword wound!"
Gwaine and Percival turn to Arthur together, like a pair of doors closing. "Are you joking?" Gwaine growls.
"I saw it plainly," Tristan says. "The beast's not big enough to have clawed him like that. His ribs and shoulder-blade are broken!"
"He was trying to tame the bloody thing when I found them," Arthur croaks out. "I dragged him away from it, but he threw himself in front of it right as I-" he pauses, guilt and fear for Merlin shackling his voice, and finally rattles out, "I didn't even hear him. He was just there, suddenly. I couldn't pull the blow enough." His hands, blistered and bloody, are starting to shake, and his breath catches in his throat. He doesn't have the will to protest when Gwaine lunges at him with a roar.
"You killed him! You fucking killed him!" he screams, barreling into Arthur and throwing them both to the ground. He grabs at Arthur's collar and rears back for a punch, but Percival grabs his arm and wrenches him away.
"Stop it!" Percival shouts. "Merlin's not dead!" That gives them all a moment's incredulous, hopeful pause. Into the silence, Percival continues in a quiet tone, "Look carefully. He's still breathing. I don't think the dragon's trying to eat him. I think it's trying to heal him."
"Heal him? Gwaine echoes, jerking away from Percival's grip. "Why the hell would it be trying to heal him?" He turns to watch the dragon, and Arthur, with a hammering heart, turns with him.
It takes him too many long moments to see it, but Percival is right. Merlin still breathes, and blood still wells sluggishly from his wound, which, Arthur is surprised to see, looks no bigger than when he'd... certainly not as if the dragon has been at it.
Gwaine's shaking his head. "Doesn't matter if he's breathing," he murmurs. "He's lost too much blood. He won't wake from that." Arthur doesn't want it to be true, but he's seen the same things Gwaine has - men who bled out, but took days to die, and worse, the few who woke after a grievous wound with blank faces and empty eyes, their souls already fled. The thought of Merlin becoming one of those soul-dead wretches makes Arthur's gut churn.
"What do we do, then?" Tristan asks, as they watch the dragon breathe more magic at Merlin. It looks tired, Arthur thinks.
"Let it do what it can for him," Percival says. "It must have understood that he was trying to protect it. All the legends say that dragons are intelligent creatures."
"The one my father captured was a malicious, cold-blooded beast," Arthur counters, as the little monster - it must be a baby, but where the hell had it come from? - eyes them warily, and gapes its mouth in a threatening hiss. "It showed no mercy in attacking us."
"And how long did he keep it chained before it escaped?" Tristan retorts, snide and sure. "Did you expect it to just fly away peacefully?"
"Shut up!" Gwaine snaps, and levers himself off the ground.
"And who are you to order me around, you-" Tristan starts, but Gwaine cuts him off with a sharp gesture.
"I said, shut up!" he repeats. "Listen!"
They all still at his words, and after a moment, Arthur hears what's caught Gwaine's attention. His blood chills in his veins at the familiar sound.
"It's another one," he whispers, struggling to his feet. "An adult!"
"Another dragon?" Tristan demands, finally losing his haughty confidence as the rumble of heavy wings grows thunderous.
"There!" Percival points, and they can see, through the thick canopy, the shadow of a huge beast darkening the sky. "It's going to land."
"Where?" Gwaine exclaims, and they all scramble backwards, shielding their heads as the beast answers his question by tearing right through the trees. Branches and whole trunks splinter and fly in all directions, and the ground shakes as the dragon crashes down like a boulder from a catapult.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, PENDRAGON!?" it roars with a blast of searing heat. "BY THE GODDESS, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?"
Arthur stands frozen as the monster glares at him with hot, flinty eyes, absolute fury contorting its reptilian features. It looms over him - over them all - like vengeance personified, and Arthur knows with sickening certainty that there is absolutely nothing they can do against it.
But instead of roasting them alive, the new dragon turns on Merlin. Its maw gapes wide, and a rush of vividly-colored magic spews forth to envelop his unmoving form. Even standing well on the edge of the clearing, Arthur feels it like a gust of light, spring air, sweet with the scent of nectar. Around Merlin's body, the trampled grass straightens and grows tall; flowers bloom, new sapling push through the sod; everything around them brightens under a suddenly-glorious sun-
yet Merlin lies among it all, pale, blood-soaked and still.
At last the dragon's magic spends itself. The beast sags, its great, panting breaths rolling like growls over Arthur's skin. Its massive head looms close over Merlin, and the look on its face Arthur can only describe as desperate disappointment. "No!" it rumbles. "No, you must live!" It rears back, takes a great gulp of air, and roars its magic at Merlin once more.
Gwaine is torn between terror and hope as the dragon breathes its healing magic again: terror for Merlin's life - less so his own if the beast turns on them - and hope, because after a long moment, he can see Merlin shift, as if he is about to waken.
That hope flees, leaves him numb and shivering, as the dragon's magic falters, and it groans a harsh, ragged, "No..."
His senses desert him as fast as his hope; Gwaine creeps through the newly-tall grass to crouch beneath the dragon's great jaws and put a tentative hand on Merlin's ashen face. He can hear, distantly, the voices of his companions, warning him off, but they are of less consequence than the bees buzzing at the bright, blue flowers growing near Merlin's head.
'We have time,' Gwaine had said last night. Time to explore this thing that's grown between us. To learn each other. Time to be together. Now their time has been stolen from them, and Gwaine doesn't know what to do but sit and let the tears come.
An explosion of hisses and shrieks startles him back into awareness. He looks up to see the baby dragon - which had, he realizes, let him approach Merlin unmolested - tearing furiously after Arthur, who scrambles and stumbles and has to hide behind Percy to keep the little thing from tearing a chunk out of him. Gwaine sees the baby rear back, clearly readying flame or magic to get through Percival's protection, but the dragon still hovering over Merlin says, "Aithusa!" in a tired, mildly reprimanding tone. The little one chirps in protest, and shuffles resignedly back toward Gwaine.
There is silence in the clearing for a moment; even the birds and insects seem subdued, despite the recent explosion of life. Arthur opens his mouth, ready to- well, gods may care about what he means to say, but Gwaine doesn't. The big dragon's rumble rolls right over him with a single word: "Why?"
Arthur's face contorts with guilt and grief, but whatever words he has desert him, and he says nothing.
"How could you?" the dragon continues, accusing and almost bewildered. "What possessed you to damn us all like this?"
Confusion seeps into Arthur's guilty mien, and after a long moment, he stammers, "I- I don't understand. What do you mean?"
Gwaine looks up, up, up to the dragon's great, golden eye - he can only see the one, from where he sits at Merlin's side - and watches it narrow, eye ridge furrowing impatiently. Before the beast can answer, though, an unfamiliar voice startles them all.
"He means, Arthur King," says the man who appears from the trees behind Gwaine like a ghost, "that Emrys is dying, and with him die all the hopes of Albion."
The dragonet, hovering anxiously at Merlin's feet, lets out a wail, as if in protest. Over its cry, Arthur echoes, "Emrys?" and then asks, with none of his usual commanding presence, "Who are you?"
Others are emerging from the trees behind the interloper, a handful of men and women dressed for travel, burdened with full packs; they look fresh and serene, as if they've only just set off on their journey. One, skirting the debris of the big dragon's landing, leads a donkey bearing two wicker panniers.
"What have you seen, Druid?" the dragon demands, impatient, and almost accusatory.
Hope returns to Gwaine, swift as a falcon to the fist. The Druids are excellent healers; he himself has benefited from their skill. But as fast as that bird alights, it is gone again at the man's next words.
"No more or less than you, dragon. The future is uncertain, but it bleeds life and magic as Emrys does." The Druid nods at Merlin's still form, and there is little doubt in Gwaine's mind that 'Emrys' is Merlin, though he's damned if he knows what that means.
"I cannot heal him," the dragon says, mournful. "Though the sword is my creation, I cannot fully counter its magic."
The sword? Gwaine wonders. The sword Arthur pulled from the stone?
Magic? Arthur thinks, feeling like the conversation has run away without him. That sword? Magic? He looks around, and even though Excalibur is not visible in the tall growth, he knows, like a sixth sense, exactly where it lies.
Of course it's magic, a small, familiar voice mocks. How did you think a sword of your ancestors could survive all those centuries without enchantments to keep it from corroding? Never mind how they got it into the stone in the first place, or why no one else had ever seen it before... Arthur glances reflexively at Merlin, but his servant has not moved. It is only his own doubts being reaffirmed, the bits of illogic he's ignored these past few months shouldering their way through his bedroom door without knocking, and who else should they sound like?
Arthur never had gotten around to asking Gaius or Geoffrey about 'the rest of the story' about his supposedly-mythical sword. Now he spares a moment to wonder what they'd have told him if he had.
The most important question at the moment, though, is, "Can you help Merlin?" The Druids are skilled healers. If anyone can save Merlin, it's them.
But the leader eyes him with something like pity. "If the Great Dragon cannot heal Emrys, Arthur King, what makes you think we can?"
The hell? Arthur thinks. "Why do you keep calling Merlin 'Emrys?'"
"Because he is," the Druid says simply, as if that explanation should make perfect sense.
"Who cares?" Gwaine cuts in, still crouched at Merlin's side. He has wiped the tear tracks from his face, but his eyes are red-rimmed, and his voice rough. "Why can't you heal him? You must have enough magic, between you and the dragons."
"Gwaine!" Arthur starts, ashamed that Gwaine would accuse these people of breaking Camelot's laws. There has been no hint of magic at any of the Druid camps that have come and gone since Arthur offered them safe passage through his lands.
"What?" Gwaine snaps back. "He said the future is 'uncertain.' That means there's still something we can do! Sod your stupid laws; if they can use magic to save Merlin, let them!"
"We cannot save him," the Druid reiterates, more kindly this time. "Even our strongest healing spells are not sufficient."
"Well, someone can!" Gwaine insists, not leaving Arthur any space to interject or protest. "I know there are sorcerers who claim to hold power over life and death - who can decide which man lives or dies against what's meant to be. Where can we find one of them?"
Arthur flinches at that - at the thought that they should go seek out another sorcerer, despite what had happened to his father, but also because that phrase, 'power over life and death,' recalls too sharply the lies he'd believed about his birth.
"There are only three of such skill at present, Sir Gwaine," the Druid allows, "but none will aid you."
"Why the hell not?" Gwaine demands, jerking to his feet as if yanked up by a hand from above. "How can you know, anyway? Do you speak for them?"
"One is called Taliesin," the Druid says, as if Gwaine is not stalking him, glaring fiercely enough to match the dragon. "He is a spirit only, and bound to the Crystal Cave. His power wanes; his magic is no longer sufficient for this. The second," and here the man pauses to grace them all with further pity, "is Morgana."
Arthur shudders at the thought that his sister has gained such power - and bemoans that fact that despite her recent silence, she is not dead, as they'd all hoped - but the Druid's next word stun him, and his knights, into utter silence.
"The last," the man continues, with a pointed nod at Merlin, "is Emrys, himself."
Gwaine stops, and blinks at the Druid, uncomprehending. He looks between Merlin's prone form, Arthur - face contorting in befuddlement and denial - and the Great Dragon, who stares back, eagle-eyed, its reptilian features cold as stone. Merlin has magic?
"No," Arthur croaks at last. "Merlin's not a sorcerer!"
The Druid says nothing; behind him, his people stand like a Greek chorus waiting for a cue. The donkey is chewing seed heads off the tall, stemmy grass.
"It explains a lot," says Percival in a soft, contemplative tone. "Almost everything I ever wondered about, actually."
Tristan seems to be coming to some sort of realization. "Do you mean to tell me," he draws out, slow and dangerous, "that he could have saved my Isolde?"
"Perhaps," the Druid allows, tilting his head like a shrug. "I was not there, so cannot say. Only those who wield the power can truly understand it, and even they are at the mercy of the balance that magic demands."
Tristan eyes Merlin for a long moment. "Boy and I will be having a talk, if he survives this," he mutters bitterly.
"There is another possibility," the Great Dragon says, sounding thoughtful. Its massive head angles toward the group of Druids. "The Cup of Life. My magic is not well matched to it, but yours..."
The leader stands silently for a moment, then turns to his people, as if to confer with them. At length, though no words are exchanged, both of the women and two of the men nod, and he turns again to the dragon. "It can be done," he declares, "but the water must be taken from the Lake of Avalon." He casts a challenging gaze on Arthur. "And the Cup is in Camelot."
Everyone follows his gaze, and though Gwaine is loathe to give Arthur the slightest bit of credit - this is his fault to begin with - he has to, because for all the emotions warring on his usually-stoic face, all the king says is "It's three days' hard riding to get there and back. Will Merlin survive long enough for us to get it?"
"Doubtful," the Druid replies. "And the lake is half a day's ride south of the citadel. What's more, those without magic rarely find it unaided."
Arthur scowls, clearly frustrated at being teased with a solution, only to have it snatched away.
Gwaine knows how he feels. "Can't someone travel there with magic?" he demands. "Do that whirlwind thing, pop in and grab it, and send yourself over to the lake?"
"None here know spells to travel that distance," the Druid replies. "We do not tamper with such elements."
Gwaine snarls, glancing around, as if the solution will rear its head from the grass. His eyes catch on the Great Dragon's massive claws, and he opens his mouth to voice an idea, but Percival - quiet, clever big bastard that he is - beats him to it.
"Why can't the dragon go get the Cup?"
"Absolutely not!" Arthur snaps. "I will not have that beast terrorizing my people!"
"One of us can go with it!" Gwaine says. "It can drop him near the gates."
"First of all," the beast interjects, its growling voice vibrating Gwaine's very bones, "I am not an 'it!' Second, I am not a beast of burden, and will have my say in who I carry where!"
"Then have a say, already!" Gwaine demands, glaring up into the golden eyes - both of them now, as the dragon has reared up on its haunches in its indignation.
It contemplates him for a moment, and Gwaine hopes it isn't deciding that it will just eat him and save its breath for arguing with Arthur, but finally it says, "I will take you, Sir Gwaine."
"The cup is kept under constant guard, and Leon will not hand it over merely on Gwaine's say-so," Arthur protests, "especially if he arrives on the back of a dragon! I must go."
"YOU?" the dragon retorts with a wash of hot, acrid breath. "I would not trust you to fetch a pile of kindling! For all I know, you will order your men to attack me as soon as you are within the castle walls!"
Arthur bristles, even in the face of the dragon's burning rage. "You have my word-"
"YOU CUT DOWN YOUR BLOOD-BROTHER!!" the dragon roars, such power in its voice that Arthur actually staggers backwards. "YOUR WORD MEANS NOTHING!!"
"I would not see him die!" Arthur protests. "Whatever they accuse him of, I would not see Merlin die!"
"What they accuse him of is true," the dragon snarls. "He is the most powerful warlock who will ever be born in Albion." He pauses, as if to let Arthur absorb that fact, and presses on mockingly. "Would you still see this evil sorcerer live?"
Arthur's shaking his head, silently denying the dragon's word, but he shouts, "Yes! He could be in league with Morgana, and I would see him live!"
That seems to take the dragon aback, and it stares at him, unblinking, for a long moment. "He is Morgana's enemy," it says finally, "even more so than you are. If you would see him live, then why did you strike at him in the first place?"
"The baby," Arthur gestures helplessly. "He was trying to protect it. He dove in front of the sword - it was an accident."
"He must have told you - begged you, as I know him well - to leave her alone," the dragon murmurs. "Why did you not listen to him?"
"How the hell was I supposed to know what would happen?" Arthur demands. "It's not like he told me it was his pet!"
"A dragon is not a pet" the beast snarls, incensed again. "And how can you not trust his word, after all he has done for you?"
Arthur seems to stumble over that thought, and before he can collect himself enough to answer, the Druid leader says, "It is not King Arthur's fault that this has come to pass. Emrys has made a grave error in keeping his magic secret for so long."
"You dare?" the dragon growls, snaking its head down to glare at near eye-level to the Druid. "You dare question the emissary of the Old Ways?"
"He is barely a man," the Druid replies, in the same cool tone that he's used all along - as if there is no furious dragon hovering over him. "And he has made mistakes. Too many. Everything is poised on the brink because of him."
The dragon gives a wordless roar that finally makes the Druid flinch. "He has done better than you ever could," it spits. "You, who cower in the woods and refuse to raise a hand in your own defense. You, who would follow an even younger boy to ruin and damnation. What right have you to question who the magic chose?"
“And you,” the Druid continues, apparently unfazed by the accusations, if not the sheer power of the creature before him, “you let the hatchling run wild. What have you to say for yourself? You wanted her brought forth. She is your responsibility!”
The dragon growls, and opens its mouth to reply, but Gwaine is fed up with the whole pissing contest. "ENOUGH!" he cries, startling everyone. "Merlin's dying! Are we going to get the Cup or not?"
The dragon actually looks abashed for a moment before it turns on Arthur and demands, "How is he to get the Cup if it is guarded?"
Arthur frowns, glancing around futilely until his eyes catch on the donkey - which, Gwaine is distantly surprised to note, looks supremely unconcerned in the face of the dragon's wrath. "Are you carrying parchment?" Arthur asks, nodding at the pack-laden animal. "Anything to write with?"
The woman holding the donkey's lead gives a brief nod, and opens one of the panniers. In the long moments before she produces a tablet of birch bark and a chunk of charcoal, the tension in the group takes on a sense of awkwardness. Gwaine turns to check on Merlin in a bid to avoid it, and finds the baby dragon huddled at his friend's side, puffing magic at the gruesome wound. As he watches, the Great Dragon extends a clawed forearm, and gently nudges the little one away. It squeaks a weak protest, but seems to accept the message; it creeps back to Merlin's side, and doesn't try to use magic on him again.
"Isn't it helping?" Gwaine asks into the stifling silence, barely aware that he's speaking.
"No," the great beast murmurs. "She only weakens herself. I will do my best for him before we leave."
A scratching sound catches his attention, and Gwaine watches Arthur carefully inscribe his message onto the bark. When he hands the charcoal back to the Druid woman, she takes the bark as well, and murmurs briefly over it. Arthur eyes it warily when she holds it out to him, until she says, far too kindly, in Gwaine's opinion, "A spell to keep it from smudging."
Arthur clears his throat, and gingerly takes the fragile piece of wood. "Thank you." He approaches Gwaine, hands him the tablet, and tries to take his signet ring from his finger.
"Don't," Gwaine says, watching his king struggle to work the ring off over raw, blistered skin, jaw clenched against the pain. Despite what he's done, Gwaine doesn't want to see him inflict this on himself. "Arthur, don't-"
"Leon won't accept anything less," Arthur hisses, giving one final, vicious tug that frees the ring, and pulls a muffled whine of pain from his throat. "We agreed, long ago, that a seal would not be enough for any request of this magnitude."
"And if he thinks you were killed to get this off you?" Gwaine demands as the bloodied ring is dropped into his palm.
"There are code words in the message," Arthur replies, "that tell him I acted of my own will."
"He could think you're enchanted," Gwaine points out, needing to be sure the trip won't be for nothing - though he's already planning how to get down to the vaults on his own, if Leon won't grant him what he seeks.
"It's the best I can do!" Arthur snaps, defensive and frustrated. "Now get on the bloody dragon and go."
Gwaine looks up to the dragon, which nods its head and, without comment, breathes one final, powerful blast of healing magic at Merlin. What grass has been trampled by the group's movements through the clearing springs upright, as if it had never been disturbed, but in Merlin's condition there is no change.
"Come, Sir Gwaine," the dragon intones, crouching low to the ground. "Onto my neck, and sit between the spines."
Gwaine tucks the bark beneath his mail shirt, and puts Arthur's signet ring on his own hand. He hoists himself onto the dragon's neck, absently wondering at the metallic feel of the scales beneath his palms, and settles between two of the upper spines. He clings tightly to the one in front of him, trying to work his legs into some secure position - the dragon's neck is far wider than a horse's back.
"Ready?" the dragon asks, and the rumble of its voice travels up Gwaine's spine in a wholly new and more intimidating way. The dragon rises, giving him a worrying taste of how precarious his perch is.
"Wait," Percival calls from below, and snags something from the edge of the clearing. He tosses it up; Gwaine catches the water skin and looks at his fellow knight in puzzlement. "For the water from the lake," Percival explains, and Gwaine gives a grateful nod for his forethought.
He barely has time to tuck the skin under his belt and grab at the spine again before the dragon says, "We will return," and launches into the air. It feels like a horse having a massive bucking fit, and Gwaine gasps as the force of it steals the breath from his lungs. The flapping of wings behind him sounds like a rockfall, even over the noise of the wind rushing by, blowing his hair from his face and bringing tears to his eyes. Gwaine clings to the spine for dear life, and doesn't look away from the dragon's head until their flight levels off, the neck beneath him undulating like low waves on a lake.
The sight before him is magnificent. Above and around him, there is only the empty blue of the untouchable sky, bigger and wider than he had ever imagined it could be. In the distance, the horizon sketches a thin, hazy divide between earth and air. Below him, more emptiness, tangible in a way he's never felt before, and finally, a thousand feet and more away - further than any cliff or tower he's stood on - is the ground: a patchwork of forests and fields, quilted together with straight, brown roads and sinuous rivers that gleam like white gold in the sunlight.
"Well?" asks the dragon after a while, over the rush of air and the beating of its wings, something like a laugh in its voice. "What do you think?"
"It's incredible!" Gwaine shouts, and though the wind seems to steal away his reply, he knows the dragon hears.
"Yes," it rumbles. "Merlin thinks so, too."
And though they remain in the air for an hour, at least, Gwaine's thoughts spend it all back on the ground at Merlin's side.
The world is a fog, gray and endless, broken by flashes of color, or noise, or shocking pain that blacks out everything. Merlin has the sense that he's not dreaming, but he's borne along as if he were, trapped in the motions - or rather, the worrying lack thereof - no matter how hard he wills himself to do something, say something that will bring it all to a gasping end.
He hears voices: Arthur, Gwaine, Kilgharrah, a stranger, but mostly Aithusa. She's the one who sounds closest, and the only one whose words have any real meaning. The rest is just noise in a form he wants to hear.
Once, he almost manages to wake, feels the Great Dragon's healing magic and his friends' panic - tries, tries, tries so hard to break through the fog. He thinks for a moment that he'll succeed, but the pain - how could he have forgotten such pain? - spears through him, all encompassing, tearing him apart...
The next break in the fog is Aithusa's voice again, saying, Gwaine and Kilgharrah go to Camelot. Get Cup of Life.
Gwaine and Kilgharrah? Merlin echoes with a fleeting trace of amusement. Oh, I'd pay to see that.
And all the while, something seeps from him, slow and tortured and vital: it fades into the fog, and he knows he's fading with it.
Arthur watches the sky - the bright, blue chunk of it made visible by the dragon's landing - long after the beast has borne away its passenger. The world is paused, waiting for some acknowledgement, a command to carry on; waiting, already, for the dragon's return. As long as Arthur keep his eyes on the blue, he can hold it in suspense, not see the damage he's done, not ask the questions that must be answered. He can hold time still until he sees a black speck growing larger in the sky, the dragon winging Merlin's salvation back to them.
But he is no sorcerer, and even if he were, he knows the world would overcome him, insistent and implacable - indifferent to him, in the end. So Arthur looks down at last, and eyes the little dragon huddled in the flowers at Merlin's side. It hisses when it meets his gaze, and he turns away from its wounded, warning glare.
"Can he survive until-" he asks the Druid leader, gesturing vaguely at the ruin of wood where the Great Dragon - not dead, as Merlin had claimed - had crouched.
"They will return before dark, if they are not hindered," the man replies. "The Great Dragon's magic, and the earth's, will sustain Emrys until then."
Arthur frowns, his fingers twitching with the sudden urge to grab something, do something other than just stand here. The sharp pain in his hands makes him flinch, too hard to suppress, and he asks, "What does that even mean?"
"We can tend your injuries," the Druid says, avoiding - or ignoring - the question. "And the youngster should be fed." He gestures at Merlin's self-appointed, despondent guardian.
Arthur looks at his burns, and then his two remaining knights, and says, "Our horses will have scattered."
"I will find them," the woman holding the donkey assures, and hands its lead to the man beside her. "They have not gone far."
Just like that, the clearing is alive with movement, the tall grass flattened once more, a fire pit being dug, wood collected - Arthur stands in the middle of it all, Tristan and Percival at his side, and watches uselessly.
"I'll stay with Merlin," Percival says eventually, and, at Arthur's weak nod, leaves them to settle himself on Merlin's left, opposite the fledgling. It watches him cautiously, but allows his presence. Arthur swallows the welt of guilt and jealousy that rises within; he knows he doesn't belong at Merlin's side right now - and shies from the question of whether Merlin belongs at his.
Tristan's hand on his shoulder startles him; when he looks at the older knight, Tristan tilts his head at the newly-lit campfire and says, "Sit down and let them treat your hands."
Arthur looks at the Druids kneeling near the fire, one coaxing it to a hotter, steadier burn, another pulling jars and packets from the panniers that now sit on the ground. The donkey is staked nearby, the youngest of the men rubbing its hide with a rough cloth. It all looks perfectly normal, but the dawning realization that these people have continued using magic - have harbored sorcerers within Camelot, taking advantage of Arthur's attempt to atone for his mistakes - makes him feel like a naive fool. How many people have taken advantage of his guilt and his sense of justice, he wonders, suddenly unwilling to imply that he condones the Druids' betrayal by sharing their fire. Father must be rolling in his grave, Arthur thinks.
He stands there until Tristan mutters, "They don't bite," and gives him an unsubtle shove forward.
Arthur staggers a step, and rounds on the knight. "Remember your place, Sir Tristan!"
"Oh, I do," Tristan drawls bitterly. "Believe me, I do." He shoulders past Arthur and collapses into a cross-legged slouch by the fire. When one of the Druids hands him a water skin, he drinks without hesitation.
Arthur scowls, impotently furious, and stalks to the other side of the clearing. He settles at the base of a stout tree, the tall grass nearly obscuring his view of the others. Percival shoots him a worried look, but stays at Merlin's side. Arthur can't see the dragonet from where he sits, though he knows it's still there, curled into a mournful ball.
The sword lies where he'd flung it, well across the clearing, almost into the trees on the other side of the fire. When Arthur leans his head against the tree trunk and closes his eyes, he can feel it pressing in on his awareness, demanding his attention. It doesn't seem to have an intent, other than to tell him, 'Here I am. Take me up.'
As sick with guilt and betrayal as he is, the pain of his hands takes center stage in Arthur's thoughts. When he'd been desperate to get to Merlin, then arguing with the dragon, fear and need had masked the severity of the wounds. Even when he'd forced his ring off his finger to give Gwaine passage to the vaults, it had been the act itself, not the overall state of his hands, that had wrenched that pitiful whine from his throat.
Now that Arthur finally has a chance to rest, though, the burns make themselves known. Where his skin doesn't feel like it's still on fire, it stings like a hundred pinpricks, and every twitch of his fingers bringing further agony. The cool breeze that wafts in weak fits through the clearing might as well be salt thrown at the weeping, bloody wounds. The flesh of his palms throbs with every beat of his heart, and Arthur can scarcely believe that only minutes ago he was flexing his hands in anxious frustration, barely cognizant of the charred skin cracking across his knuckles. All he can do now is rest his forearms over his knees, let his hands dangle feebly, and breathe through the pain.
"I will see to your wounds," the Druid leader says, crouched suddenly at Arthur's side. Arthur starts at his voice - he'd had no sense of the man's approach.
"I'll live," he rasps, an instinctive protest against the perception of weakness. Too, as his mind engages again, he remembers that these are magic-wielders, people whom he would have had arrested already, under different circumstances. To take aid from them - further aid, magical aid - would be the capstone on a growing pyramid of hypocrisy.
The Druid seems to understand Arthur's unspoken objection. "I will use no magic, my lord, unless you permit it, but your wounds must be treated before they begin to fester."
"I do not permit it," Arthur declares. "I will have your word that you - and your people - will use no magic until Sir Gwaine returns, and then only to- only to do as you agreed."
The Druid regards him with a discomfiting mixture of pity and paternal disapproval, and asks, "Even if it is necessary to ensure that Emrys survives so long?"
Arthur glares stonily. "You said that he would survive until Gwaine returns!" he accuses.
"I said," the Druid reminds him patiently, "that the present magics will sustain him until dark. If the Great Dragon does not return by then, we will have no choice but to work more magic to keep Emrys in this world."
"His name is Merlin!" Arthur snaps, aggravated at the man's presumption.
The Druid nods agreeably. "As yours is Arthur, and yet we call you 'King.' 'Emrys' is a title, passed down from the gods themselves."
Arthur can't help but snort. "Merlin has a title?" he echoes, and almost, almost turns to rib Merlin for taking on airs.
But Merlin lies bleeding into the dirt, no more visible to Arthur at the moment than the little dragon, and it is impossible to forget whose doing this is. "Why Merlin?"
"That," the Druid says in an irritatingly mysterious tone, "is the wrong question." He rises to his feet with a reserved grace, and continues, "Come, my lord. I will treat your wounds, and tell you of your destiny."
It seems that time has slowed around him, but also that he's slowed - out of synch, unable to reach an anchor or find an endpoint. It's like moving through water, except that he can't actually move, still, in this gray, foggy nothing. Like thinking through water, then, Merlin decides, and seeks, snail-like, some stable thought. His frustration at failing to find one flows through him like thick syrup.
Percival nice, comes to him over some time, or distance - it's getting hard to distinguish the two.
Percival? he repeats eventually, and a while later, a round face with close-cropped hair comes to him.
Sitting here, the voice has long since said. With you. Nice.
Aithusa, Merlin thinks, remembering the little dragon, and the clearing, and - at last - the blinding, crushing pain.
Don't sleep! she's already cried, as agony trips Merlin's world into real time again.Merlin! Strong! Be strong!
Merlin hurtles a disbelieving laugh into the growing darkness, and falls in after it.
"We are nearing the city!" the dragon calls over the howling wind - not just the wind of his flight, anymore, but the cold, violent rush of a storm approaching. Gwaine scans the land below them, and sees the sprawl of the lower town beneath the white citadel. He looks back to the sky, and thanks the gods for small favors: though the storm's winds are buffeting them, the mass of black clouds will pass just east of the city.
"Where will you land?" he shouts back, trying to think of the nearest clearing the dragon can set down in without getting pelted by crossbow bolts.
"On the training ground," the dragon returns, "after I leave you on the bell tower!"
"Are you crazy??" Gwaine demands. Nitwit of a beast! What does it think it means by that? "They'll kill you!"
The dragon laughs, rasping and bitter. The sound vibrates in Gwaine's guts like a rockfall. "There is a reason I survived the Great Purge! Mortal weapons felled many of my kin, but they cannot killme!"
"Why not?" Gwaine has to challenge. It's his skin on the line here, too, and - more importantly - Merlin's.
"I have been the oldest longer than Camelot has existed!" the dragon roars back. "Only a dragonlord has the power to put me down!"
"I thought they were all dead!" Gwaine calls.
"The last one will be, if we don't get to that cup in time!" the dragon declares, and banks hard, aiming for the center of the castle. Gwaine can already hear the warning bell ringing, frantic and ominous. He huddles as tightly as he can to the spine before him, and hopes that some of this mystical Great Dragon invincibility extends to passengers.
Bolts and arrows begin to fly just after the dragon gets into range - a testament to the discipline of Camelot's soldiers. Gwaine can see men arming two ballistas mounted on the battlements, but the dragon comes in high and steep, at an angle the anti-siege machinery cannot hope to match. Arrows clatter off the beast's metallic hide as it descends, almost in free-fall, Gwaine clinging for dear life and praying to the old gods and the new that he won't vomit when the dragon flares out to slow itself.
He doesn't, but it's a near thing. The sensation of having his guts shoved up his throat is an altogether new one. The air explodes from him, stars burst into the sudden blackness of his vision, and it's a long moment before he wrenches open his eyes - he doesn't remember willing them to close. What he sees makes his heart jack-rabbit with both terror and hope: one of the ballistas is being turned toward the bell tower, before which the dragon hovers, flapping thunderously, its neck kinked so that Gwaine's perch is barely moving, though behind him its body bounces awkwardly between its leathery wings.
In the belfry, with crossbow cocked and ready, is Leon.
Gwaine starts to wave like a madman. "Leon! Leon! Don't fire! LEON!"
Under other circumstances, the bewildered expression on Leon's face would be worth a nice, long belly-laugh, but Gwaine's still worried that they'll be shot out of the sky, ancient dragon magic or not. "Talk to me, Leon!"
"Gwaine?" Leon calls at last, crossbow still at his shoulder.
"Aye, mate!" Gwaine acknowledges, waving again. "I have a message from Arthur! Merlin's been hurt!" A new volley of arrows and bolts sails through the air, and only a judicious dodge on the dragon's part keeps Gwaine from getting skewered, though he nearly loses his grip from the sudden motion. "Call them off, Leon!"
"Are you joking?" Leon demands, the bewilderment sloughing off his face, to be replace with icy indifference. "Who are you?"
"It's me, you idiot!" Gwaine roars, frustrated, and - knowing that if he bets wrong, he'll literally be throwing away his one chance to convince Leon - wrenches the signet ring off his finger. "Here!" He throws, aiming for the floor of the belfry.
His aim is true, and Leon half-turns to watch the ring bounce across the floor, where it comes to rest against the solid panel of the inner guardrail.
"It's Arthur's!" Gwaine calls, as Leon alternates a suspicious gaze between the ring and the dragon. "I have a message, too! Leon, please!"
Leon finally kneels to pick up the ring, crossbow still cocked and aimed more or less at Gwaine. He examines the thick circlet of metal, taps it on the stone, and bites it to test the hardness of the metal. Then he looks at Gwaine again, and demands, "How did you get this?"
"By the gods!" the dragon snarls suddenly. "Today, knight! I'm getting tired!"
"That's not helpful!" Gwaine snaps, and watches Leon stumble backwards, apparently unused to the reality of talking dragons. He calls out to the knight-captain again. "Let me get off, here! You can read the message!"
"Absolutely not!" Leon counters, fist clenched white around the signet ring. "What have you done to the king?"
"Nothing!" Gwaine protests, starting to fume at the whole situation - Leon's determined intransigence, Arthur's carelessness, and the dragon's stupid ideas. He would have gotten a lot less argument out of Leon if he'd shown up on foot, like a normal person. "It's Merlin!" he tries again. "He's dying!"
Leon says nothing to this, and Gwaine howls, anger boiling over. "You always treat him like he's beneath you! Of course you don't give a damn!"
That seems to startle the other knight, and he shakes his head vehemently. "I don't-"
"BULLSHIT!" Gwaine shouts. "He's nothing to you!" He yanks the birch bark from his shirt and flings it furiously in Leon's directions. It is broad and light, though, and goes sailing far off its mark, tumbling down the side of the bell tower until a huge reptilian palm arrests is progress.
"YOU IDIOT!" the dragon roars, claws curling around the fragile tablet. It gives one final, powerful thrust of its wings and throws itself at the tower. Gwaine's stomach protests the vicious lurch, and he hears the crumbling of rock as its claws sink into the stone - suddenly the wretched beast is clinging to the side of the tower, Gwaine's perch level with the belfry. "Get off! Go get the cup and meet me on the training grounds! IMMEDIATELY!" It jerks its neck, as if trying to dislodge Gwaine, and he decides 'immediately' that he'd rather tangle with a distrustful Leon that an enraged dragon. He scrambles off, valiantly ignoring the two feet of empty air between its neck and the ledge of the belfry. He can sense the dragon moving before his feet have even hit the floor. The beast brings its clawed palm up, tipping the birch bark into the belfry, and flings itself off the tower with an impatient growl. Gwaine watches as its progress over the citadel is hounded by crossbow bolts, but it seems no more bothered by them than Merlin had been by the bugs yesterday.
"Merlin," he sighs, and stoops to pick up the message.
When he stands, Leon is watching him cautiously. "Gwaine?"
"I swear, Leon," Gwaine pleads, "I swear it's me."
Leon eyes him for another long moment; whatever he sees, it prompts him to hold a hand out for the tablet. Gwaine hands it over, and leans against the wonderfully solid, unmoving wall of the belfry.
Leon looks up from the message. "You swear this is the truth, Gwaine? On your mother's life, you swear?"
"I swear it," Gwaine avows. "If we don't get that cup, Merlin's going to die."
After one last, penetrating look, Leon gives a curt nod and says, "Come one."
They clatter down the belfry stairs, and Leon orders the first guard he sees to spread word of the cease-fire. The man stares between him and Gwaine for a moment, slack incredulity on his face, then bobs a respectful nod and runs off.
"What were you doing up there?" Gwaine asks as they jog down the corridor. "Not the normal place to find the knight-captain during an attack."
Leon gives a rueful shrug. "I was just enjoying the view, actually."
"With a crossbow?" Gwaine huffs, although he's not really surprised.
Leon chuckles, and shakes his head. "It belongs to the day watch. I sent him away."
"Sure, Leon," Gwaine agrees with a smarmy grin. "Sure."
Leon rolls his eyes, but saves his breath for the run to the vaults.
One corridor away from the vault door, someone calls Leon's name. The knight-captain skids to a stop, grabbing at Gwaine's tunic as the man tries to continue on. "My lady! Gaius!"
Gwaine's head snaps around, and he takes a shaky breath. "Crap!"
"Sir Leon, what's going on?" Guinevere asks, rushing up to them, skirts hiked just enough so she won't trip on them. Leon's always appreciated that even before she was a Lady, Guinevere was a lady.
Gaius hurries along after her, starting visibly when he sees Gwaine. "Sir Gwaine? I thought you were on the hunt?"
"I was," Gwaine acknowledges briefly. "Something came up."
"We saw the dragon," Guinevere says, and Leon doesn't miss the way her eyes narrow when Gwaine shuffles guiltily. "Sir Gwaine?"
Gwaine looks like a startled deer for a moment, then shrugs, and Leon knows he's going to say something stupid before his mouth opens. "Sorry about that. Didn't realize the blighter was such a thoughtless arse on top of everything."
Guinevere stares at him like he's lost his mind, but Gaius demands, "What happened?"
Gwaine winces. "Merlin's hurt. Badly. We need the Cup of Life to save him." When the old man pales, the knight steps forward and grasps him by the shoulders. "We'll save him, Gaius, I swear we will. Even if I have to hunt down bloody Morgana to do it, we'll save him." The statement makes little sense to Leon, but something hopeful sparks in Gaius' eye.
"There is a man called Taliesin-" he begins, but Gwaine shakes his head.
"No good. The Druids said he's not powerful enough anymore." Gaius seems to sag, and Gwaine gives him a very gentle shake. "The Cup of Life and the waters of Avalon, Gaius. The Druids said it will work."
Gaius straightens, and gives a brief nod. "They would know. Best hurry, then." He pats one of Gwaine's hands, and concludes, "Merlin's counting on you."
Gwaine lets go of the old man, and says, "And everybody else, apparently."
"Indeed," Gaius agrees, and they share some understanding that goes well over Leon's head.
"Is Arthur also injured?" Guinevere asks. "And have you heard from Elyan?"
"Arthur is fine, my lady," Gwaine replies, surprisingly respectful; there is something in his tone that bothers Leon. "From Elyan we've had no word, but he is well away from our trouble, I can assure you. I'm certain he is well."
The way Gwaine's speech gets more formal as he goes is altogether worrisome, but Guinevere is giving him a buss on the cheek, and Gaius is shooing them onward, so Leon waits until they're moving again - until he's sent the guards further up the corridor, unlocked the vault door and grabbed a torch off the wall - to ask, "What really happened?"
Gwaine throws him a doubtful look, then yelps as Leon crowds him against the wall. "Oi! Lay off!"
"I am about to entrust you with a very dangerous magical object, Sir Gwaine," Leon says, steady and deliberate, "on the basis of your word, a piece of metal, and some charcoal scratches. You will tell me what happened."
Gwaine shakes his head, then sighs, then nods. "Okay, fine. Fine. But let's keep moving."
Leon concedes to that, because he does believe this is Gwaine, and he's speaking the truth; he just wants to hear all of it.
"We found that chicken-thieving beastie," Gwaine says as they hurry down the final set of stairs. "It was a baby dragon."
"What?" Leon gasps. "How?"
"Don't know," Gwaine says, "but the long and short of it is that Merlin tried to save it, Arthur tried to kill it, and-" he swallows, takes a few deep breaths, continues, "Let's just say that Merlin's luck didn't protect him from Arthur's determination."
Leon stops short, straddling two steps, and asks with a hollow laugh, "You expect me to believe that Arthur cut down Merlin?"
"Don't care what you believe, mate," Gwaine says, scowling bitterly and shoving on by. "None of us were there, but Arthur admitted it, and we all saw the wound. Lucky thing the Druids came by," he says, after Leon has caught up with him at the bottom, "or we would have just sat there and watched him bleed to death. Even the stupid dragon didn't know what to do."
Leon remembers the Great Dragon's attack on Camelot; the beast that had dropped out of the sky with Gwaine looks suspiciously familiar. "How did we end up with two dragons?" he asks, nauseated by the sudden, unexpected resurgence of memories, wishing they were above ground so he could plunge the torch in a vat of water and put out the deadly flame.
Gwaine shakes his head. "Mate, I really don't know. All I know is that Merlin's dying, but I can stop it if I get back in time. Where's this cup?"
Leon swallows, then hands him the torch and points onward. "At the end of the corridor. It's in the most secure cell."
The vaults are cold and slightly damp, and the sheer amount of magic trapped in them makes Leon's head spin. Ever since he, himself, had been healed by the Cup of Life, he'd been sensitive to magic. He knows it still resides in Camelot - not just in the vaults, but up above, in the open air - though he cannot ever pinpoint a source for it. Sometimes it feels like it's coming from the king, himself, sometimes from Merlin- and Gaius, and Elyan... Anyone who's ever been touched by magic, Leon can feel it on them. He doesn't know how to interpret it - it's never helped him pick out a sorcerer in a crowd - but he knows that, as the Druids believe, magic really is everywhere.
Sometimes it puts him on edge, but sometimes, looking out over the bustling town and fertile lands of Camelot - like today, before that bloody beast had scared half the city into an early grave - Leon thinks that magic cannot possibly be all bad.
"Here," he says, stopping before the heaviest door. There are three locks, and a heavy bar that Gwaine helps him lift away. When Leon pulls open the door, the sweet, familiar song of the Cup drifts out. He pauses for a moment, struck anew by the peaceful melody of magic that nobody else seems able to hear.
How can this be evil?
"Leon?" Gwaine prompts, impatient and worried; Leon starts, clears his throat, and heads unerringly for the wooden chest in which the Cup resides. He lifts the lid, wanting to see the thing with his own eyes, even though its song is unmistakable.
Gwaine comes up beside him. "Huh," he murmurs. "Doesn't look like much."
"Its look is not what matters," Leon says softly.
Gwaine nods, subdued and mindful, as if the Cup has cast its charm over him as well. "I need to go, Leon."
"Yes, of course," Leon agrees, and closes the lid.
Gwaine clings tightly to the pack with the cup as he runs toward the training grounds. The guards, forewarned, let him pass without challenge, but he can almost feel their whispers on his neck. No doubt a few of them think that Sir Leon and Sir Gwaine have gone mad.
The dragon is waiting, as promised, settled like a crouching cat on the edge of the grounds, looking throughly unimpressed with the armament of longbows, crossbows and ballistas aimed its way.
The footmen stir as Gwaine charges by, sparing not a word for the fellow knight in command - a man who himself has not spared Gwaine a word in two years. Most of the men he fights with have learned to respect the skills of the 'common knights' in lieu of their blood, but there are, as ever, a few hold-outs, and this idiot - whose name Gwaine can't always remember - is one of them.
"About time," the dragon grumbles, rising to its feet, giving the whole company a start. Gwaine hopes like hell that Leon's cease-fire order will hold long enough for them to get in the air, because Sir What's-His-Name and a few of the senior men are starting to look a bit rebellious.
Gwaine scrambles up when the dragon offers its neck, and mutters, "Go, go, go," before he's fully settled. The dragon obliges, and they are winging for the sky before anybody below has time to do anything stupid.
"Now to Avalon," the dragon says, flapping purposefully, not appearing at all hampered by its extended hovering stint. Gwaine wonders if that’s because of the beast's magic, or if it's just much more fit than it wants to let on. Nothing with such an awkward body should be able to fly so easily.
He doesn't reply to the dragon, and it says nothing more. Gwaine watches the light begin to tint yellow, shadows growing longer on the ground, and prays that they'll make it in time.
Arthur sits between the fire and Merlin, angled so he can see everyone congregated around each center of interest. At the fire are most of the Druids, and Tristan, who remains somewhat belligerent - more, Arthur suspects, due to the contents of his companions' water skins than because he's still holding a grudge against Arthur.
Tristan may bluster and threaten, but ultimately he is, like Arthur, a man of action. If he didn't want to serve Camelot, he would not be here.
Why Tristan desires to serve Camelot is something Arthur has never really understood, and Tristan has not been inclined to explain. Arthur accepts what is offered, and knows he won't be surprised if he wakes up one day to find the erstwhile smuggler missing. In truth, most days he's surprised when he wakes up to find the man still wearing the Red.
At Merlin's side is the dragonet - the creature has not budged since Gwaine departed, not even for the temptation of food - Percival, and Talfryn, the leader of the Druid group, an elder of his clan. The dragonet looks on distrustfully as Talfryn examines Merlin. Arthur had, after the rather excruciating process of having his hands cleaned and bandaged, asked the Druid to see if there was anything - anything non-magical - that could be done for Merlin. He has the feeling that Talfryn is humoring him now, based on the man's expression upon hearing the request, but he doesn't care, because sitting here, feeling helpless to do anything for Merlin, is threatening to drive him mad.
Talfryn rises, gives Percival and the baby a nod, then comes to rest in the grass beside Arthur. “Emrys is strong,” he says. “The Great Dragon’s healing has slowed the loss of his own magic, and the magic of the earth continues to support him. If he were not who he is, he would already be dead. As it stands, I believe he will survive until Sir Gwaine returns.”
“There is nothing else you can do for him?” Arthur presses. “Dress his wound, give him water? Nothing?”
Talfryn shakes his head. “It would do no good; he would feel more pain than comfort. Ultimately, the wound is magical in nature, and only magic can heal it.”
“It’s a sword wound,” Arthur draws out, even as Excalibur’s presence continues to impose on his mind, steady and determined. “There’s nothing magical about it.”
“My lord,” Talfryn says with a poorly-suppressed sigh, “the sword has magic. Though its origins are as those of any weapon, it was tempered in the breath of the Great Dragon. It has the power to counter certain enchantments, and to slay those a mortal blade cannot.”
Arthur swallows. “Merlin said…” he starts, and trails off. If Merlin really is this ‘Emrys,’ then Arthur cannot trust anything his servant has told him. “Why would he give me a magical weapon?” Ten different reasons come to mind, all of them sinister, but Arthur can’t credit any of them. Even though everything about Merlin has been cast into doubt, he still finds it impossible to imagine that the man’s intentions are wholly evil. To perpetuate such a ruse for so long… But how long has it been, really? When did Merlin begin to study magic? “When did he become Emrys?”
“Long before he was conceived,” Talfryn replies, “his destiny was already written. As was yours. Neither of you can escape it; you can but shape how it unfolds. Though,” and here the man gives a thoughtful, almost intrigued pause, “there are those who say that if anyone has the power to alter destiny, it is Emrys.”
“So when did he start using magic?” Arthur asks, wondering if he should credit this man’s words.
“He is a warlock, my lord,” Talfryn says, as if explaining a simple puzzle to a child. “He was born with magic.”
Arthur frowns, thinking back to Uther’s teachings. Sometimes, the things his father and Gaius had told him had seemed contradictory: magic was an evil one had to choose, and even children not yet cognizant of right and wrong could be entangled in it. Yet why could those children not be saved? If Gaius had vowed never to use magic again, why could a child, once taught the insidious nature of magic, not also be given the chance to repent? Why had Uther insisted that some sorcerers’ children – like the boy Mordred – had to be executed?
Arthur is not comfortable with the notion that a human being can be born with an inherent evil, despite the teachings of the New Religion. It makes no sense in his heart. “I didn’t think that was possible,” he tells Talfryn.
“It is more common than most believe,” Talfryn says kindly. “Your own sister was born with magic, inherited from her mother, though it took far longer to manifest than is typical.”
“Morgana?” Arthur exclaims, startled. In the corner of his eye, he sees Percival stiffen, and gives him a subtle signal that all is fine. Well, as subtle as he can, with his hands bandaged like a leper’s. “Morgana wasn’t born with magic. She learned it from Morgause.”
“She learned to control it with help from the High Priestess, Morgause,” Talfryn corrects. “It has always been a part of her, as Emrys’ magic has always been a part of him.” Then he gives a rueful smile, and says. “That is not entirely accurate. Morgana has magic. Emrys is magic.”
A chill runs through Arthur’s blood. That sounds… “You make it seem as if he isn’t human!” he accuses.
“The mortal part of him is human,” Talfryn explains, “but his soul is magic. Kill the body, and the magic – Emrys himself – will survive. Kill the magic, and you kill Emrys. The body is but the shell that anchors him to this world.”
“You’re saying he’s immortal?” Arthur asks, voice high with incredulity. “That’s impossible!”
“It is what ‘Emrys’ means, in the old tongue,” Talfryn replies gently. “Why would the gods name him so, if it were not true?”
“Are you sure the gods named him?” Arthur retorts, disparaging. It’s one thing to be told that Merlin has magic, but the idea that he’s immortal – absolutely ridiculous.
“Well, that explains a lot!” offers Tristan from the fireside. “Always wondered how he survived all those adventures Gwaine keeps telling me about, with no armor, and no sword arm to speak of.”
Arthur has to wonder what the hell is wrong with him when the first thing out of his mouth is, “He’s gotten better with the sword!”
Tristan squints at him, half-drunk, and gives a rowdy laugh. “If what I saw is ‘better,’ then ‘immortal’ is the only way I’ll buy anything Gwaine said.” He turns back to the fire and prods at the contents of the cook pot impatiently. “Wish he were awake. Dinner would be done by now.”
Arthur shakes his head disgustedly, but Percival weighs in: “It makes a lot of sense. He’s had more than his share of luck, but that will only carry a man so far. Remember how you found him in the woods after he was injured in the ambush? He was nearly dead when you were separated, but perfectly healthy when he came back to us.”
“He wasn’t hurt as badly as I thought,” Arthur counters, because that’s what he’s been telling himself for months. No other explanation makes sense. Merlin is simply a fainting flower when it comes to injuries.
Percival stares at him pointedly, eyebrows raised in a poor imitation of Gaius. “Arthur, you know wounds.”
Arthur shakes his head again, but yes, yes, he knows wounds, and that had been a wicked one. He’d convinced himself that it was mild, but the splinters of crushed sternum, the blood bubbling at Merlin’s lips – those should have been a death knell. In the back of his mind, when Arthur had combed the woods that week, he knew he hadn’t been looking for his friend; he’d been looking for a body.
“Whatever you believe, my lord,” Talfryn says into the heavy silence, “it does not change what is. Emrys is magic, and the sword was made to kill such as he. If his magic bleeds away, he will be lost to us.”
Arthur looks at Merlin, lying amidst a shock of blue and purple flowers – more, he thinks, than had been there after the dragon last worked its magic – and wonders why a magic user would give the means of his destruction to one who has vowed to eradicate magic from his kingdom.
‘Take me up,’ says the sword. ‘Take me up.’
The flight from Camelot to the lake seems to take no time at all, despite how many worst-case scenarios Gwaine’s mind conjures in the interim. The absolute worst, of course, is that they will be too late – are already too late, though he suspects the dragon would know, as it had known that Merlin was injured in the first place. There are other grim possibilities, though: Merlin will not be the same when he awakes; Arthur will turn him away, or want to take him back to Camelot just to execute him; Arthur’s own return to Camelot will come amidst a rebellion against Leon’s command…
Their descent, positively sedate compared to the previous one, pulls Gwaine from his dark musings. The dragon banks shallowly and spirals down over the water, as if to give the denizens of the lake time to prepare for its approach. When it is low enough, it aims for a narrow strip of sandy shoreline, and alights with surprising grace, one wing tucked quickly in to avoid disturbing the treeline. Gwaine feels like he’s dismounting from the most regal of Camelot’s warhorses when he slips from the beast’s neck, rather than a terrifying magical lizard.
“Empty the water skin,” the dragon says, in a voice that Gwaine’s only heard it use with the fledgeling, “and fill it with lake-water. Quickly, now.”
Gwaine nods, uncorking the skin and dumping its meager contents in the sand. He treads softly as he approaches the water, not for fear of what may lie beneath, but because the place has an air of the sacred about it, and he cannot help but show respect. The pack bearing the Cup of Life thumps gently against his side, and he thinks he hears a strain of music on the breeze.
When he crouches in the shallows, expecting to meet his own reflection, he’s startled to see a young woman’s face in the water, instead. As he watches, immobile in his shock, she rises, hair and silken dress shedding water and drying instantly, until she is eye level to him. He doesn’t understand where she came from, as the water here cannot possible conceal a body – it’s clear as glass, and only just past his ankle.
“Merlin,” the woman says, looking frightened and pale. “He’s hurt, isn’t he?”
Gwaine swallows and nods. “Gravely so, my lady.”
“Give me the skin, Sir Gwaine,” she asks, holding out a slender hand.
He eyes her worriedly, and glances back at the dragon. At its solemn nod, he passes over the skin. The brush of her fingers as she takes it feels like teardrops. As she submerges the skin, she begins a melodious chant, the tone changing, falling into something deep and throaty as air bubbles rush from the waxed leather, then rising like the song of a meadowlark in flight. She lifts the skin from the water, completely full, and offers it back to Gwaine.
“Take it,” she says. “I have blessed it with what magic I could.”
“Thank you,” Gwaine replies, feeling rough and lumbering before her. He makes to stand, but the cool caress of her fingers gives him pause.
“Please,” she asks, “if he survives, tell him Freya begs to see him. And… and if he doesn’t…” she ducks her head, suddenly shy, to murmur, “Will you come tell me what happened?”
Gwaine takes her hand, brings it to his lips for a courtly kiss, and says, “On my honor, my lady, I will.”
She is still above the water when Gwaine clambers back onto the dragon, but when he turns to wave a farewell, there is no trace of her. The water at the shoreline looks as still as ice.
Druid and Arthur, Aithusa murmurs through the fog. Talking. Druid will fix.
Will he? Merlin wonders, but she doesn’t seem to hear him.
Arthur dumb, but Percival smart. Nice and smart. Good.
Yes, he’s a good man, Merlin agrees, but again, Aithusa mumbles on as if he hadn’t spoken.
Tristan smart, too. Smart knights. Good friends. Arthur will learn.
Aithusa?
Arthur will learn, Druid will fix. Kilgharrah will return. Will be fine. All will be fine, Merlin.
Aithusa? Aithusa! Merlin prods once more, but she rambles on, oblivious to him, and he begins to realize that she can’t hear him.
Merlin calls and cries, but no matter how loudly he screams, she doesn’t hear. He tries to wave away the fog, to find her, touch her, but even the sensation that he ever had arms is gone. There is nothing left but a diminishing awareness, and the sound of a baby dragon chanting, “Will be fine. Will be fine.”
“The sword,” Arthur says, as the shadows grow long and deep. “It… it is calling to me.”
Talfryn looks up from the fire. “You are its master,” he says. “It was made for you.”
“I feel like it wants something,” Arthur expands, glaring at the edge of the clearing. Over the course of the afternoon, he’s been shifting further and further from the persistent hum, so that now he sits close enough to touch Merlin. The dragonet has taken little heed of Arthur, dozing fitfully at Merlin’s head, its white, scaly tail draped over his neck. Even when Arthur dares to brush a bandaged hand to Merlin's leg, it does not notice.
"That," the Druid suggests, "is the stress of the situation twisting your perception. The sword may be magic, but it has no awareness. Magic is a force, not a creature. It exists in a neutral state. Our intentions are what turn it to good or ill."
It is not the first time Talfryn has spoken thus of magic. Arthur sets the notion aside, and ponders instead everything else he's been told in the past hours: his supposed destiny as the Once and Future King, Merlin's role in that destiny, the mistakes the Druids feel that Merlin has made over the years. He doesn't dispute that Merlin's deception gnaws at him, and he can't set aside his distrust of magic like an ill-fitting shirt, but Arthur resents the Druids' assertions that Merlin should have known better, done better, in his quest to restore magic to Camelot.
While the strategist in him applauds the warlock's clumsy efforts, the young man, too-suddenly made king, understands what a burden Merlin must feel he carries. Arthur's own failures haunt him continuously; Merlin is far more sensitive, and Arthur has no doubt that he broods doubly hard over his mistakes. If Arthur, raised to rule from the cradle, stills spends sleepless nights wondering if he's done the right thing, then surely Merlin, apparently thrust into his role unaware, must feel at least as uncertain. Wherever this leads them - and Arthur thinks it can lead nowhere for Merlin but banishment - he knows in his heart that his manservant has tried to do the right thing.
Arthur needs only look at Morgana to see the difference. Even if Merlin is trying to manipulate him, Arthur can concede that he does it out of love rather than hatred.
The baby perks up suddenly, whistling into the patch of sky above their heads. The Druids rise, almost as one, and the horses, tied off at the edge of the clearing, start to dance restlessly.
"The Great Dragon returns!" Talfryn declares.
Arthur struggles to his feet, heart racing, and squints upward. Tristan joins him on mostly steady legs, as does Percival, after one anxious glance at Merlin. They startle as one when the Great Dragon's massive bulk sweeps by suddenly, blocking out the fading blue. It vanishes, then reappears higher in the sky and descending rapidly. Between one breath and the next, it is on the ground, this landing little more graceful than the first. Gwaine slides to the ground before the beast has fully lowered its neck, and hefts his prizes - the water skin, full to bursting, and a pack, bulky with the weight of a small chest.
Arthur swears he can hear music.
They land hard, desperation and the narrow hole in the canopy leaving no room for grace. Gwaine almost falls off the dragon's neck in his hurry to get to Merlin. He hefts the water skin and the pack, and calls, "Success! What do we do now?"
"Give them to me," the lead Druid commands, hurrying up with a few of his people. He hands the wineskin to one of the women, and unpacks the cup himself.
"How fares he?" the dragon intones, peering at Merlin - as still and pale as Gwaine had left him, though wreathed in far more flowers, many of which are being crushed by the baby's enthusiastic bouncing.
"Worse," the leader says, pulling the Cup from the chest and making a reverent gesture over it. "But not so badly that he cannot be saved. Be silent, all of you. We must have no interruption."
He beckons his people - all of them now - to surround Merlin, and gently shoos the baby out of the circle. It does not resist, and Gwaine is sure it knows that time is of the essence.
Gwaine goes to stand beside Arthur, but takes the Druid's words to heart and offers only a nod by way of greeting. Arthur and the others acknowledge him likewise, then turn to watch the Druids work.
Time seems to slow as the Druids begin a chant, perhaps asking for a further blessing of the water, or some sort of prayer; Gwaine doesn't know what they're doing, but he wishes they'd do it with a bit more urgency. He resists the need to fidget, standing tense and still, fists clenching until his knuckles crack. He wishes he could ask what's happened while he's been gone, other than Merlin getting unsurprisingly worse. Arthur's hands have been treated, and Tristan has a familiar, bleary look to him. The horses are staked out beyond the fire, remarkably calm in the face of the dragon's presence; Gwaine thinks it must be magic of some sort, because they should have pulled their stakes and bolted at that bone-jarring landing. There are tangible indicators of what the group has been up to, but Gwaine senses that something has shifted, some fundamental, untouchable thing, and he doesn't know what it is.
He traces every face he can see, from the little dragon to the chanting Druids, to Percival and Tristan, but it is Arthur who gives him the only clue. The king's expression, far from fearful and disgusted, as he'd expected, is hopeful, almost achingly so.
Whatever it is that's changed, Gwaine thinks, it can only be to the good.
Awareness returns like a wave of molten gold, hot and brutal, and oh so precious. Merlin gasps as it races through him, fills him up and spills over, burning until he screams for release. He thinks he's drowning in it, this smoldering sea of magic that heaves and swells, tossing him like a bit of driftwood. The pain is all-consuming, and it will only be later that he understands why: there is no gentle way to pour an ocean back into its basin.
He runs out of air, gasps in a breath to scream again, but only sighs, because in the space of heartbeat, the pain has waned to throbbing and soreness. Merlin lies there, contemplating this new state, until a sounds - a surprisingly intelligible voice - breaks into his musings.
"Well? How is he?"
The fog is gone, replaced by darkness, but when Merlin tries to move, there is no sense of dreamscape. He can turn his head and wiggle his fingers, and he begins to wonder if perhaps he's actually awake.
Merlin has a go at opening his eyes, and is pleasantly surprised to encounter another success. The sky above him - what he can see of it - is growing dim. The faces that hover in his vision aren't all familiar, and he's confused to see Kilgharrah's among them. That... doesn't bode well for 'awake.'
"Huh," he mutters, and frowns to see some of the faces shift closer, as if he's one of Gaius' fascinating experiments. "Never had a dream like this before."
He closes his eyes, shifts around a bit, and opens them again. The faces - Gwaine and Arthur's among them - look on expectantly. Merlin blinks several times, then ponders the wisdom of sitting up.
"How do you feel?" one of the strangers asks, and Merlin spares him a glance, but it is the expression on Arthur's face that catches his attention.
"You look like hell, Arthur," he whispers. "What did you tangle with?"
"Your pet dragon," Arthur shoots back, frowning.
Merlin chuckles. "He's standing right behind you, you know."
Arthur glances up at Kilgharrah, and says, "It, too, but I mean the little one. It tried to roast me. How do you feel, Merlin?"
Merlin blinks, and the realization dawns: "This isn't a dream, is it?"
Arthur's mouth sets grimly, and he shakes his head. "That I wish it were."
Merlin scrambles upright - or tries to. He manages to sit, barely, but can't get his legs under him. "What happened?" he asks, as Gwaine kneels at his side to steady him.
"You happened, Merlin," Arthur answers, sounding resigned and weary. "You and your dragon and your stupid bloody sword." Merlin frowns, not really clear yet on how all of this came together in an apparent disaster. "But," Arthur continues, with more than a hint of relief on his face, "it's good to see you well."
The memory of Merlin glowing like a lantern and screaming like he's burning is not one that will fade quickly. Gwaine puts a quelling hand on Merlin's newly-healed shoulder as he tries to climb to his feet once more, and says, "Steady now, mate; why don't you take it easy for a bit?"
Merlin looks at him, eyes wide with confusion, skin still a shade too pale in the waning light. "What happened?" he asks again.
Gwaine rubs a thumb across the thin ridge of scarring across Merlin's collarbone. "What do you remember?"
"Um..." Merlin hesitates, scanning the clearing for a hint. The sight of the dragonet, restrained from pouncing on him by the Great Dragon's massive claws, makes him gasp. "Oh!" He reaches for his right shoulder; Gwaine can feel him shuddering.
When Merlin's hand flinches from the scar it finds, Gwaine traps it with his, squeezing gently, and says, "Easy, you're all right, now." His heart constricts at the wounded confusion in Merlin's eyes.
"You have a faithful friend in Sir Gwaine, young warlock," the big dragon rumbles, and Merlin starts so badly that only Gwaine's grip keeps him from falling over.
"Wh-what?" he stammers, instantly terrified, eyes darting back and forth like he's looking for an escape - or an excuse.
"Merlin," Arthur says in a commanding tone before Gwaine can do anything to reassure him. Merlin's eyes meet Arthur's, and what he sees there makes the blood drain from his face.
"Y-you know?" he asks weakly.
Arthur nods curtly. "I know," he confirms. "And you and I are going to have a long talk."
Merlin swallows loudly, and says, "Arthur, I'm so sorry. I've only ever wanted to protect you." Gwaine thinks that this is about to get very personal, and that neither he nor the others - particularly the strange Druids - should be listening to this conversation. He doesn't want to leave Merlin on his own, though, because even if Arthur doesn't look angry now, the lad has a temper on him, and Merlin doesn't deserve that after what he's just survived.
A lightly perplexed, bitter scowl has settled on Arthur's face. "That's not what I've been told," he says, cutting a glance at the Druids.
"Doubtless, it is not," injects the dragon, from above. "The Druids have a narrow view of Merlin's destiny."
"You are not the final arbiter of the prophecies," the Druid leader says, almost like a warning. "You interpret things as you wish, and seek to manipulate that which does not suit your ends. You have lost your way."
The dragon snarls. "Be careful, Druid, or you will learn all about loss!"
"Kilgharrah!" Merlin yelps, sounding almost embarrassed, and tries to rise again. Gwaine helps him stand, and doesn't let go even when Merlin appears steady on his feet. He tries to tug out of Gwaine's grasp, but ends up leaning into the support instead.
The dragon looks not at all abashed. "What have they been telling you, Pendragon?"
"More than Merlin has," Arthur snaps back. "I suppose you have something to add?"
"Plenty," the dragon assures, "but now is not the time. Begone, Druid. You have done your duty."
"Talfryn, stay," Arthur counters. "It's going to be dark soon."
"I hope we'll be moving the camp," Gwaine interjects, before the dragon can say some other unhelpful, smart-arsed thing.
Arthur stares at him like he's an idiot. "What the hell for?"
"You want to sleep in the same place Merlin almost bled to death, Arthur?"
Merlin flinches at that, and so does Arthur. "It's too late to find another site," he argues, though he spares an uneasy look at the flowers at Merlin's feet.
"It's fine, Gwaine," Merlin whispers, still leaning into Gwaine's hands, so close that Gwaine can smell him - a mellow, smoky scent.
Gwaine looks around, and thinks that, all right, perhaps staying here is not as creepy as it sounds. The clearing looks alive and healthy, and there is no trace of blood beneath his boots - or on Merlin's clothes, for that matter. In fact, the whole place seems to have something of a golden hue about it, despite that the sun's already set. "Whatever you want, mate," Gwaine agrees.
Arthur sighs. "Go sit by the fire, Merlin. We'll talk tomorrow. And..." he trails off, then gestures at the dragons. "Do something about them, will you?"
Merlin gapes after Arthur as the king makes his own way to the fire.
"Release Aithusa from your command," the Great Dragon prompts, more softly than Gwaine's ever heard it - but still loudly enough for everyone to hear. Arthur turns to watch Merlin for a moment, as if trying to puzzle out something, then takes the bowl that's offered to him, and deliberately looks away.
Merlin stands there, trying to recall what it is that he'd Commanded Aithusa to do, and it comes to him in after a moment, a memory that seems torn and fragile. Speak as you will, he tells the little dragon.
"Merlin!" she cries, and finally slips through Kilgharrah's claws to scamper up to him. "Merlinmerlinmerlin! Told you all be fine!"
"Yes," Merlin agrees, though that memory is very ragged, little more than insubstantial tatters. "Yes, you did."
Aithusa gives a few powerful flaps, flying up to perch on his uninjured shoulder, wings outstretched for balance. One of them thwaps Gwaine in the face, and he finally lets go of Merlin. "Oi, lad, the company you keep!" he exclaims, gently mocking.
"Sorry," Merlin says, hugging the scaly, little body to his head with one hand. "She's just happy to see me."
"Yeah, I know." Gwaine examines Aithusa, but it's Kilgharrah he gestures at when he continues, "Pretty sure this one's the bigger menace, anyway."
Merlin's jaw drops at the casual disregard. "People aren't usually so cavalier about him."
"People don't usually ride me like a horse," Kilgharrah grumbles disparagingly of his familiar complaint. "Those who do," and he glares pointedly at Merlin, "appear to lose all respect for me."
"Aw, I still respect you, honest!" Gwaine coos, and makes a deliberate effort not to flinch when Kilgharrah's glaring visage looms closer.
"Stop antagonizing the dragon, you idiot!" Tristan calls from the campfire.
"But we're friends now," Gwaine cheeks, although he's shifted to stand behind Merlin, rather than in front of him. "Bosom pals, even."
"Merlin," Kilgharrah demands, eyes rolling with exasperation, "are you sure this is the one you want?"
"The one I want?" Merlin echoes, mostly confused, though part of him cries, 'Yes, of course!' That can't be what Kilgharrah means.
"Percival nice!" Aithusa chirps into his hair. "Percival nice and smart!"
Merlin stands there for a moment, dumbfounded. "What are you...?" He doesn't finish, because he doesn't know how. Things are just- not as they were, and the shock of the transition between nobody knowing and everybody knowing of his magic is overwhelming. "I need to sit down," he says plaintively.
"Catching up with you, is it?" Gwaine asks gently. "Come on." He guides Merlin to the fire, sits him down between Percy and one of the Druids, and presses a bowl of stew into his hands. "Eat."
Merlin takes the spoon that's offered, but his hands are shaking, and he can't hold it steady. Gwaine settles in against his back, unabashedly wrapping an arm around him, and whispers, "Take your time."
Merlin stares into the bowl, feels the cool of the evening breeze against the bare skin of his shoulder, the scratch of Gwaine's tunic at the scar on his back, and tries to settle into this newly upended reality.
The Druids leave them early in the morning, packing up and saddling their donkey as dawn breaks, chill and hazy.
"Do not trust the Great Dragon," Talfryn warns Arthur while the beast in question eyes them stonily from the nest it has dug amongst the timber felled by its landing. "His reasons are his own, and he is obsessed with the anchors of destiny, rather than the endpoints."
"Who do I trust, then?" Arthur asks, suppressing a sigh. Not that it matters, particularly. He has already warned Talfryn and his people to make themselves scarce, for he will not be able to ignore their law-breaking a second time. Bad enough that he's succumbed to the temptation once - or again, if he counts his father, but at least this time it's worked out. He won't let Merlin stay on, either; even if he were ready to forgive the lies and crimes personally, it would only be further hypocrisy.
Of course, Talfryn says, "Emrys, my lord," in that particularly patronizing tone that makes Arthur feel both indignant and not unlike a slow, dense child.
"'Emrys,'" he echoes, "has a lot to answer for."
"That he does, my lord," Talfryn agrees, and gives Arthur a respectful bow.
Arthur ignores a flare of protective indignation to acknowledge the gesture; he watches the Druids melt into the woods as swiftly as they'd appeared yesterday, silent and ephemeral. When he can see no sign of them in the shadows, he turns back to the fire, where Gwaine is plucking a chicken.
"Where the hell did you get that?" Arthur demands, although he thinks he knows the answer.
Gwaine nods at the baby dragon, curled innocently at Merlin's side, snoring as loudly as Merlin, but rather obviously not asleep. "I think she stole it out of someone's chicken coop during the night. She just dumped it in my lap."
"Merlin had better get that thing under control," Arthur grumbles, and sits so he can keep an eye on both dragons. The bigger beast is still watching him, silent and stony, with not a hint of expression on its face. Arthur scowls at the creature, and pointedly looks away. "If we can figure out who it stole that from, I'll send reparations."
"You're taking all of this a bit better than I expected," Gwaine says after a short silence, scraping the last of the down away with his dagger, then sneezing when an updraft from the fire blows it back in his face. "Damn it. Should have soaked the damn thing first."
"Should have done that away from the flames," Tristan adds, as a few larger feathers scorch in the fire and send up a rancid smell.
"Don't see you offering to help," Gwaine snaps, but he takes the chicken away from the fire to gut it. As soon as the foul smell of innards drifts back to them, the baby dragon rousts itself and scurries toward him.
"Liver!" it begs. "Liver good! Percival want liver?"
Arthur turns away as Gwaine digs into the carcass. Percival, setting up a spit on which to roast the chicken, snorts, and says, "No, thanks, little one."
Merlin sleeps through most of the process, waking only when the first drips of juice slide off the meat and sizzle in the fire.
"Damn," Gwaine grouses, and gets up to hunt through the their supplies. "We should toast some bread with that."
Arthur watches Merlin groan and stretch, then roll on his side, so that he's looking toward the fire. "Morning," he rasps, as if everything were normal. "You actually started cooking without me?"
Arthur stares at him, and Merlin stares back, seeming perplexed.
"Merlin!" the dragonet cries, and jumps on his back, knocking his face into the bedroll. "Have chicken!"
Merlin grumbles indistinctly, and hoists himself to his knees. "Right. That." He looks at Arthur again, ducks his head shyly, and says, "Be right back." He takes the baby with him when he goes.
"You didn't answer my question," Gwaine prompts, eyes trained in the direction Merlin's disappeared.
"You didn't ask one," Arthur replies. "But I will. Is there something between you and Merlin?"
Gwaine's gaze snaps back to Arthur. "And if there were?"
Arthur swallows. Then you need to make a choice about your loyalties, he wants to say, but that is a discussion to be had with Merlin, first. Whatever Merlin's done, Arthur did almost kill him; everything he feels is tempered by guilt and residual horror. He knows he wouldn't have been so accepting of yesterday's revelations without that brutal mistake. "Did you know?" he asks instead, and knows by the flash of disappointment that Gwaine speaks the truth when he says, 'no.'
Nobody says anything else, and Merlin returns into their silence, wary, the dragon riding like a cat on his shoulder. He goes through his pack and pulls out five bowls, a few cloves of garlic, and some sprigs of rosemary. Gwaine brightens at that, and helps Merlin gingerly stuff the garlic and herb into the chicken, cursing when he burns himself.
They both sit, and still no one says anything.
"Have you no questions to ask, Pendragon?" the Great Dragon booms finally, making everyone but Merlin jump.
Arthur snorts. "I will take no answers from you," he replies.
"Your disdain wounds me so," the beast mocks.
"Stop it!" Merlin cuts in, throwing a sharp glare at the dragon. "You're not helping."
"He almost killed you, Merlin," the dragon snarls. "He could have destroyed everything!"
"He didn't mean to," Merlin counters. "Look, maybe..." He stands, and switches to a guttural language that Arthur does not recognize. The dragon replies in the same tongue, the sound far more grating than its human speech. Merlin moves away from the fire, standing so he has to crane his neck to look the dragon in the eyes. Nevertheless, Arthur has the impression that they converse as equals.
After long minutes, Merlin sketches a bow; the dragon does likewise, then launches into the air. It is gone in mere heartbeats, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. He hates the beast for what it did to his people. The fact that it isn't dead sparks a bright flash of anger amongst the guilt, and he rounds on Merlin as soon as the man returns to the fire.
"Why is that thing still alive? You said I killed it!"
Merlin flinches sharply, but looks Arthur in the eye when he answers. "He was the last of his kind. I tried to kill him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. He had no right to attack Camelot, but - imagine if you were the last of your people, Arthur. Wouldn't you burn with revenge for their loss?"
"I would never do what that thing did!" Arthur snarls, outraged at the implication, but Merlin puts up a calming hand.
"Of course you wouldn't," he agrees, as heartfelt as Arthur's ever heard him. "You're a good man, and I don't think even madness would drive you to that." He sighs, and, looking rueful, continues, "Kilgharrah's not a good soul, Arthur. Maybe he was, once, but watching his kin burn in the Purge broke him. He is focused on destiny, almost blinded by his need to see it fulfilled. He lives for nothing else."
"Talfryn implied something similar," Arthur allows. He lets his anger cool, gathers his thoughts, and asks, "Is it because you're this 'Emrys' that he respects you?" He ignores the little voice that still thinks a powerful Merlin is a ludicrous contradiction. Even though he's seen his servant do no magic, he finds it easy to believe that Talfryn had been telling the truth. He'd spent half the night examining his memories of Merlin, and so many things make sense in this new light.
He doesn't think the dragons listen to Merlin because he's Emrys, though.
Merlin shakes his head, visibly overcome by a deep sadness, and Arthur knows what he will say: "He heeds me because I'm a dragonlord."
"I thought they were all dead," Percival interjects.
"One escaped the Purge," Merlin says softly. "He went into hiding, lived alone for two decades to keep Uther's attention from falling on those he cared for." He says Uther's name with blank disinterest, as if the man were some distant ruler rather than Arthur's father, the king he must have lived in fear of since his first day in Camelot. "When he died, his power passed..."
"To his son," Arthur finishes, when Merlin can't. Merlin looks at him, red-eyed, but without the uncontrollable grief of the days following Balinor's death. "Were you lying when you said you didn't know your father?"
Merlin shakes his head. "That was the only time I ever met him," he whispers, rubbing at his eyes. "I didn't... I didn't even know who he was until Gaius told me, just before we left."
Arthur thinks back to what he'd said to Merlin, after, and feels ashamed. "I'm sorry, Merlin. If I'd known..."
Merlin snorts. "If you'd know, you would have turned me over to Uther."
Arthur scowls at that. "Would I have? You can't help who you're born to, Merlin."
"You believe that now," Merlin says gently, "but back then? Can you really tell me you would have said nothing?"
Arthur thinks about it, and decides, "I would have told you to leave. I could not have turned you over in good conscience."
"And if I insisted on staying?" Merlin prods. "Could you have gone against your father?"
"Why would you have wanted to stay?" Arthur asks, still confused on that score. "Why the hell are you still with me at all? Sorcerers would worship you as a king."
Merlin laughs at that, short and bitter. "I'm no king, Arthur. My purpose is to protect you."
"Talfryn said that your destiny is to return magic to Camelot," Arthur tells him.
"To Albion," Merlin corrects. "And your destiny is to unite Albion, with Camelot as the seat of your power. But you can't do that if you're dead, can you?" He laughs again. "Do you have any idea how many times I've saved your life? I can't leave your side. I won't."
"You will," Arthur declares, which startles Gwaine enough so he knocks the chicken into the fire. "You will return to Camelot and gather your things, and then you will leave these lands."
"Arthur, no!" Merlin protests. "I will not leave you." He looks frightened at the prospect, and heart-broken. "I have to stay in Camelot."
"You're a magic user, Merlin," Arthur snaps. "For your years of service, I will not have you tried as a criminal, but it would be utter hypocrisy to let you stay. The kingdom's laws apply to all."
"So change the bloody laws," Tristan cuts in with that infuriating, haughty drawl. "You are the king, aren't you?"
"If Merlin goes, I go," Gwaine adds. "And don't think for a minute I'll forget what an ungrateful wretch you are!"
"Gwaine!" Merlin cries, chagrined.
"He lied to me!" Arthur shouts over him, suddenly, finally furious enough to lose control. "He's lied to me since the first day I met him! It took him a year to learn how to change the bedsheets, and I'm supposed to trust him with magic?! The most powerful magic anyone's ever had?" He pins Merlin with a vicious glare. "Why didn't you trust me? After all these years, why didn't you come to me? What game are you playing?"
"There's no game!" Merlin shouts back, growing angry himself. "You think I wanted this?! You think I enjoy being the last line against every fool sorcerer who wants revenge? Do you have any idea what I've lost because of you? Will, my father, Freya, Lancelot! Even Gaius and my mother have suffered for you! How many of my kind have I sacrificed to keep you safe?! I've lost count! All for you! I'd do anything for you! How can you think I'm playing games?"
Arthur looks a cross between furious and stricken, but at that moment, Merlin doesn't care. He jerks to his feet and hurries away, barely cognizant of Aithusa running beside him. He'd known, damn it, he'd known it was going to be like this. Arthur loathes deception, and after all the betrayals he's endured - Merlin never had managed to envision a scenario where Arthur took the news of his magic well.
Idiot king, Aithusa grouses, launching into the air and darting ahead of Merlin. So dumb.
Merlin doesn't answer, just runs until he trips over something and doesn't have the will to rise again. He gasps in air between sobs, giving the guilt of his betrayal free rein to do what damage it will. He's so tired, and it hurts so much, because part of him feels betrayed, himself. What will it take for Arthur to see magic as a force for good?
Aithusa tucks in behind him, right up against his newest scar - for which he doesn't blame Arthur at all, because what kind of an idiot jumps in front a sword like that? - as if she can shield him from himself. Her scales are hot against his exposed skin, and some small part of Merlin distantly bemoans the hours of sewing that it will take to repair his shirt; his coat will never be the same, again.
They are alone for some time, Merlin drowning in his misery, Aithusa chirping words of comfort that barely penetrate his awareness. The forest around them is vibrant with life, but Merlin feels no joy in it, no sense of belonging, despite how his magic reaches to touch everything around it. He gives it free rein, too, because there's little left to hide anymore, and Arthur's not around to see him in any case.
Merlin feels the presence before he hears the footsteps: Gwaine, tracking his progress through the woods, coming to kneel beside him. "Oh, Merlin," Gwaine sighs, running a hand up and down Merlin's arm. "Come on, love, up you get."
Merlin lets himself be pulled into Gwaine's arms, but his tears are all gone, and he rests there, just breathing in Gwaine's sympathy and acceptance.
"We laid into him but good after you left," Gwaine says eventually. "He's still not happy, but we made him swear to listen to everything you have to say before he decides whether to banish you or not. And I meant what I said; if you have to go, I'll go with you."
"You like it here," Merlin croaks after a moment, the first words he's spoken since the fireside shouting match.
"I like you more," Gwaine replies plainly.
"Even if he tells me to go, I won't," Merlin says eventually. "I have to stay nearby in case there's trouble."
"Where you go, I go," Gwaine assures easily.
"Why?" Merlin has to ask. "What if this-" this nascent need that isn't quite love, yet- "doesn't work?"
"Then it doesn't," Gwaine says, "but at least I won't be able to say I didn't try." He hugs Merlin closer, and whispers, "I'm tired, Merlin. So fucking tired of losing, tired of leaving everything behind, of giving up on what I think is right just to stake a place for myself. I want one thing to hold on to, one thing that lets me be true to myself. That's you, Merlin. I want you."
"Even though I'm magic?" Merlin has to ask. "Even though my first priority is Arthur?" Because it is; it has been almost since he'd set foot in Camelot, and he knows he's in for life. Even if destiny shatters into a thousand pieces, Merlin's greedy heart will not let Arthur go.
"Nothing wrong with magic, love," Gwaine tells him, "and I've known for a while now that Arthur's half the deal. That's part of what I like about you. I've never met a man more devoted."
Merlin huffs bitterly. "That's not always a good thing."
Gwaine drops a light kiss into his hair. "Never said you were perfect, Merlin. But I know where you stand, and what you stand for; that's worth a fortune."
There's not much Merlin can say to that, so he doesn't try. He settles more comfortably in Gwaine's hold, and lets Gwaine carry his destiny for just a little while.
When Merlin trails back into the clearing after Gwaine - the sodding dragonet still at his heels - Arthur steels himself for a conciliatory gesture, even though much of him doesn't feel conciliatory at all. His men are right, however, in that he must hear all of Merlin's story before he makes a decision.
He still doesn't know what Merlin can say that will balance his law-breaking, but Arthur has ignored Merlin's cautions as often as he's heeded them, and those times have frequently proven disastrous. If nothing else, it's time to sort out how the man always learns bad news before Arthur.
"Arthur." Merlin speaks before Arthur can. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
"So I've been told," Arthur replies, "repeatedly, and at great volume." Against his better judgement, a trace of humor colors his tone. He can't really help it: Merlin's forlorn, shamed mien makes him ache almost as much as Guinevere's tears.
Merlin's mouth lifts in the barest smirk, and something in Arthur's chest relaxes. He gestures at the fire. "We left you some chicken."
"Thank you," Merlin says, and lets Gwaine cut it up and serve it to him.
Arthur watches them, and wonders why he's surprised at this new development. Merlin is Gwaine's oldest friend in Camelot, and Gwaine has made little secret of his lack of discrimination in bed partners. Maybe it's that Arthur's never spare much thought to Merlin in a relationship; an adolescent crush, perhaps, but a nothing more serious.
He's not sure, upon reflection, when Merlin would have time for it.
The dragonet is sniffing at Merlin's bowl, but Gwaine lifts the beast away like it's a nosy puppy. "You had yours, already!" he admonishes.
Arthur frowns. "What do you mean, Gwaine?"
Gwaine spares him a glance. "Didn't I tell you? She brought back two chickens; only gave me the one. Charred hers and devoured it before anyone else woke up."
"Wonderful," Arthur exclaims. "So I owe some poor farmer for two chickens." He pauses in though, then turns to Merlin. "No, actually, you owe some farmer for two chickens. It's your dragon that stole them."
Merlin hangs his head and groans.
"Are you going to charge him for every chicken she's swiped?" Gwaine demands, glaring.
Arthur strikes a thoughtful pose. "Say, now there's an idea! It'll only take a few months' pay."
Merlin hides his face in his hands, muttering, "Why me?" The baby chirps something that sound like 'King Idiot,' but as it's an improvement on being roasted alive, Arthur lets it go.
They start for Camelot around noon, intending to set a straight course back to the city. Merlin has the nagging feeling that they're forgetting something, but it takes his eye catching on Arthur's belt, riding higher than usual, to realize what that is.
Merlin lets his magic roam, but Excalibur is nearby, hidden under some flattened grass at the very edge of the clearing. "Arthur!" he calls, as he stoops to grab it. "I found your sword!" The magic of the weapon hums in resonance with his own, and Merlin spends a moment admiring the sheer perfection of the thing.
When he looks up, it's to see Arthur frozen mid-stride, face pale and guilt-ridden. "Arthur?" he asks cautiously. "Are you all right?"
"Leave it there," Arthur orders, and turns away. "I'll get another."
Merlin stares for a moment, utterly confused, then cradles the sword against one arm and follows Arthur to the horses. His scarred shoulder twinges at the blade's proximity. Merlin frowns at that, and says, "It's yours." He tries to press the weapon into Arthur's newly-bandaged hands, but Arthur refuses to take it. "Arthur, if was forged for you. No other man should wield it."
"It is magic," Arthur spits, "and it is the blade I almost killed you with - the only one that can kill you, Talfryn said. I will not carry it! How can you even trust me to?"
Merlin blinks. "I'm pretty sure any blade will kill me, Arthur, if the blow is true."
Now it's Arthur's turn to stare. "So what Talfryn said is wrong?"
"What did Talfryn says?" Merlin asks, extremely confused.
"Emrys!" Aithusa shouts from her perch on Gwaine's shoulder. "Emrys! Idiot Merlin."
Arthur snorts. "Your dragon is right, on both counts. I will not carry that sword."
Merlin ignores the first part, because he's really not sure what Arthur means by it, but the second part is not negotiable. "Excalibur was forged for you, Arthur, no one else. It is a powerful weapon for an honorable king, and there is no one I trust more with it."
"Put it back in the bloody stone," Arthur says, crossing his arms. "I will not carry it."
"King Idiot," Aithusa huffs, and Merlin, in his frustration, is inclined to agree. But he can see that Arthur will not be swayed, not here. He sighs, pulls Arthur's empty scabbard from his pack, and sheathes the sword. He ties it to his own saddle, because he wants it close to hand, but doesn't feel right carrying it himself - not now that Arthur's wielded it in battle.
Oddly, the fact that his own blood has left a faint stain on the blade, as if Excalibur's magic had resisted his healing, doesn't bother Merlin at all.
- - - Epilogue - - -
Kilgharrah perches above his mountain eyrie, staring into the middle distance, lost in the earthquake of shaken destinies. Everything is changing. Some of the anchors have grown brighter, while others - the ones he wants to see snuffed out - weaken and dim. The framework bends and warps even as he watches, struts melting, reforming elsewhere, or disappearing entirely. He had feared for the collapse of his favored destiny - the shimmering promise of Albion that he knows he will not see - but what has come to pass is, quite possibly, the best that could have, so late along the path. He revels in the growing solidity of the future, relieved that his madness has not set a torch to all that he desires.
Deep in the cave below him, warmed by the heat of ancient magic and near-molten rock, the first of three large, blue eggs cracks open and begins to hatch. Kilgharrah feels it in his very bones, the culmination of a thousand years' work, the cost of his very soul finally redeemed with this new life - this unbound creature who will answer only to herself, not to man or dragonlord or magic.
He roars his joy and victory to the skies, heedless of who might hear the call. Here is Kilgharrah's own destiny finally come to ironic fruition: the same chains that have shackled him to Merlin and Balinor, and every dragonlord before them, are his to break; the same magic that made him is his to manipulate-
-the same destiny that guides him is his to shatter, utterly.
The dragonet shakes off her shell, blood red scales glowing in the darkness, and takes her first breath as a purposeless creature: unchained, with no destiny, absolutely, irrevocably free.
