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It takes them three days to reach Camelot.
Having traversed through the thicket of the Valley’s underbrush in efforts to stay away from the main travel routes, they are growing tired of both the forest and each other. Nothing perilous or even remotely interesting had been gracious enough to jump out and give them any excuse to stop. Magic had buzzed in the air around them during the final stretch, and Merlin had resorted to levitating sticks around in hopes of giving himself an outlet.
So, after a journey as dull and quiet as such, you cannot fault Merlin for hoping that the city will offer excitement in any way, shape, or form.
Once the glimmering white of the fort that serves as Camelot’s heart comes into view, he’s hopeful. It reminds him of home, and even though the scattered buildings beneath the limestone beast the royals reside in aren’t nearly as impressive from afar, he expects the same liveliness of the streets in Nemeth.
However, as they step onto the road and trot into town — Merlin quickly decides it to be as dull as the swamps of the Valley.
The houses are poor, akin to those one might find on the edges of the kingdom on those lands where no one is sure which tyrant rules them — Sarrum or Cenred. The streets can barely be described as such, a muddy stream of quicks would be more accurate. Merlin’s skin crawls even under the thick cloak he dons, unsettled by the suffocating atmosphere that constantly having someone around you brings.
Repeatedly he has to yank on Aithusa’s mane to stop her from trampling a blissfully ignorant child or a servant in a rush. Her strong muscles work beneath his legs, powerful lungs expanding as she snorts in frustration and tosses her head around.
He pats her neck soothingly, letting a string of magic flow from his palm to settle the creature, the thought of a fire-breathing horse berserk in Camelot enough for him to risk it. Aithusa sighs and relaxes, while Merlin sits back, looking around.
They receive more than one doubtful look as they keep moving as if they’ve never seen someone ride bareback before. Or maybe it’s Aithusa they’re watching, her blindingly white coat undoubtedly a rare sight in a place like this. A few children gasp delightedly to his right, pointing at his mount with wide grins.
Merlin snickers as Aithusa raises her head proudly, puffing her chest out. He imagines her wings are presented and awed somewhere in her head, and morbidly considers the reactions she’d receive if they were.
Eventually, the looming gates to the citadel appear around the bend, and the squelching surface beneath Aithusa’s hooves turns to steady clops of cobblestone. He steers her onto a less crowded street and dismounts, stopping someone passing by for directions to the nearest stable. Aithusa huffs and nips at his cloak.
“Oh, calm down will you?” He pushes her off and pats her neck firmly, looking into her displeased eyes sternly. “You know it’s only temporary.”
Despite the rough way they live at times, Aithusa still always manages to act the diva, and Merlin has to suppress a laugh as the stables and their towering muck-piles eventually come into view.
She resists until he hushes her again, then hangs her head and lets herself be handed off to the stable hand that greets them on approach. The boy initially has a grin on his face at the chance of a new customer, which quickly drops as Merlin saunters over with a loose, large horse behind him.
Merlin hands him the pay — some extra silver thrown in simply for the trouble of putting up with her — and pulls a thin leather string that he had thrown over her neck seconds earlier to act as a less restrictive bridle. The boy takes it, glancing at Aithusa nervously.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he tells them both, then adds a firm “behave” aimed at Aithusa. She snorts, but dutifully follows the boy to an empty stall which Merlin takes as a good sign before he heads off himself.
The citadel is like a different realm once the gate passes overhead. Outside, the world is loud and lively, sure. A cacophony of entangled people constantly speaking over each other, definitely. However, the atmosphere in the courtyard makes the outside seem peaceful.
A thick crowd fills the courtyard, too thick for him, so Merlin steps off to the side, pulling himself onto a half-wall separating the outer corridors and the actual citadel.
Knights and soldiers bearing Camelot’s crest are in varying degrees bruised and battered. Blood stains their crimson cloaks an even deeper red, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’ve just returned from something wretched but — judging by their expressions — fruitful.
Even in the sea of people, Merlin spots the king, Arthur Pendragon, immediately.
Merlin watches him, intrigued to see his target in action so early. His hair is as golden as the stories say, a glowing halo in the afternoon sunlight, yet his face is blank, a tense wall stretched across his features. There is no pleasure hidden behind it, no fear - there is nothing at all.
His voice is collected as he speaks and the people go silent. “Today is a proud day for Camelot.”
With the king’s tone that empty, it certainly doesn’t sound like it. Merlin raises a brow as the man gestures to the knights who instinctively straighten their backs under the attention.
“Thanks to your loyalty,” the king continues, looking back at the crowd before he throws his hands out. “The ridge of Ascetir is ours!”
The crowd cheers, and Merlin begins to wonder if they’re deaf to the emptiness of the words. “Tonight, we will celebrate, and tomorrow, we will continue to prevail against our enemies.”
Merlin is no stranger to war. He’s lived it, hell, he’s fought in a handful, albeit minor, battles. But in his experience, the kings find joy in winning battles flaunting their military wealth. They’d stand there instead of Arthur, say the exact same thing, except it would be with grins on their faces and the bodies of their enemies drawing flies below.
Sure, he’s only ever seen that in Mercia, but Merlin has heard stories of Uther’s rule since he was a child – since they were taken from him. He’d just assumed the man’s son would find the same pleasure in destruction and war.
“Let the celebrations begin!” The king concludes and promptly disappears back inside the castle, a curious handful of knights not far behind.
The crowd disperses, nervous murmurs passed back and forth as some filter into the castle and others back into town. Spectacle over, it seems.
**
Laughter, wine, bodies everywhere.
With flushed cheeks and propriety discarded, nobles and knights of the court drink and dance together under the glazed gaze of their king, celebrating another inch of land won on their borders, another bloodied battalion of knights returned for a night of food and warmth before the lack of trained soldiers had them on their way back once more.
The women of the court spin around the throne room merrily, skirts fisted in their hands so as not to trip as their counterparts make daring sleights with greedy fingers. Only the servants and the most prudish of women abstain from the joys, busy either maintaining their dignity or making repeated runs to the royal kitchens depending on their status.
The Lady Morgana might’ve been with them once, basking in the youth she still possesses. As it is, she sits on the king’s right with a woman on her left, likely twice her age, who’s attempting to strike up a conversation between the two. Perhaps because of a lack of common qualities or unfortunate first impressions, she fails to capture the Lady’s attention.
No, that lies across the hall, unflinchingly stuck to the tables nearest the great door currently open to the world. It is where the knights enjoy each other’s company, the source of her distraction lies. Perhaps the Lady feels she has more in common with the men drunk off of wine and ale, laughing obnoxiously, than the prim woman who begs for her opinions on the bachelor of the hour.
Repeatedly, the ever-observant shadow from the crowds watches her kick the king beneath the table - fishing for aid to escape the chatty one on her left.
The king resembles a stone wall, casting her minute glances as his ever-scowling face continues to look out over his subjects. He hasn’t laughed once, politely turning down every ambitious noble who requests his ear. The very contrast of the feast he himself ordered to be held, lost in thought more often than not, and only occasionally reaching for his glass.
As such, his manservant is off serving a number of demanding members of the royal court, drawn in a dozen directions and perhaps damning his master for not being more keen on his wine. With a frustrated furrow to his brow, the poor boy slips away through the servant halls to refill his pitcher for the third time in the past hour.
This time, someone follows, the crowd too thick for him to notice
***
Cradling a full jug of wine to his chest, a man steps away from the sidelines, stride purposeful, as he crosses the distance to the dais, peering into the pool of deep red liquid. There’s a flash of gold, unnoticed by all, masked by the flickering flames of the chandeliers high above that reflect on every surface. The drink swirls, a handful of bubbles popping on the surface before it settles.
A head of dark hair slinks up the stairs, nearly toppling over at the hands of another hasteful servant in passing. Finally, the looming back of the throne comes into view, as well as the room beyond. The crowds of people seem to extend forever, the furthermost walls impossibly far away. Even though forms swarm on the dais as well, the air is stale - lonely.
A soundless step, and Fate twitches in anticipation.
“Might I quench your thirst, my lord?” A voice, tone light and easy, says.
Arthur jumps minutely, an almost unnoticeable act, hand instinctively gripping his goblet as he straightens in his chair. He clears his throat and turns, bleak eyes gazing up at the form next to him.
Under the heavy, imploring gaze of a king, warmth spreads in Merlin’s body, numbing in some strange way. Perhaps it’s the glint of gold on the polished crown or the equally as golden hair that gives him the urge to squirm, but he has never felt this way before.
Arthur Pendragon regards the servant crest of his stolen clothing, then gives a nod, turning back to face the hall again.
“Fine.” He offers the mysteriously empty goblet to the man from the shadows. Merlin dutifully refills it with a small smile, triumph blooming in his gut as he watches the man drink. He backs away silently, eager to leave this drunk room and this crowded city and this doomed kingdom.
“Wait.” The king’s tenor, cold and commanding, halts him before he has time to get anywhere. “Where’s my manservant?”
Merlin spins on his heel, forcing an apologetic frown onto his face even as fear speeds his heart. He steps closer, bowing his head as the first sign of respect he’s practiced tonight. “My Lord, I am sorry to say George has been uhm- Taste-testing more wine than his stomach finds agreeable.”
Arthur furrows his brows, shooting him a doubtful look. “You’re sure of this?”
Merlin nods solemnly, praying that his lying has improved since he got caught every time he freed the pigs set for slaughter as a child.
The king takes another sip of wine, still facing the crowd. His expression returns to its blank slate, but there is something else in his tone when he speaks: “Then I expect you to act in his stead.”
Eyes go wide, and Merlin stammers, shaking his head quickly. “Sire, I don’t think-”
A sidelong glance has him clamping his mouth shut, closing his eyes, and begging that this won’t get him killed before he assumes his position next to the king once more. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
*
Soon enough, the blaze of the feast bleeds into silent embers.
Nobles retreat to their chambers, a companion or two on the arms of the most wine-gladdened ones. A majority of the minstrels have abandoned their various instruments to treat themselves to leftover food and drink. Only the tired strumming of a lone harp rings out from the jongleurs’ stage. Even some of the servants have sat down, gossiping with each other over whatever drink they managed to keep for themselves.
The atmosphere takes a turn and has been slowly lulling since the hysterically drunk nobles and knights left. Few remain, hunched over the tables in deep conversation. Merlin recognizes them as the ones who returned this morning, drenched and filthy as they strode through the halls to tell the king of their triumphs.
Lady Morgana left long before the feast reached its climax, muttering something to Arthur as she took her maid and left, but the king himself is still here.
More concerningly, the king is still alive.
Merlin has been waiting, expecting him to drop every time he takes a sip from the poison Merlin is serving him. Yet somehow, Arthur looks better than he did before Merlin poured him cursed wine.
He’s been here, unmoving, the whole feast, staring down into his seldom empty cup as if it holds the very answers of how to win the war. Merlin finds it strange that the man refuses to celebrate his victories, but then again, even if he is the king, he’s still a man; still a stranger. Perhaps he just despises parties.
But then, hours have passed - and if one really disliked music and drink and food so much, then surely they wouldn’t be so stubbornly decided on sitting here and enduring it.
Merlin himself hasn’t had the fortitude to pretend he enjoys the occasion either, even though he normally would’ve. Anxiety keeps him on edge, observing the king while also slowly coming to the conclusion that the poison isn’t working. The half of his mind that isn’t plagued by constant, ever-increasing panic, is the only thing that stops him from trying it for himself to be sure of its potency.
He should be miles away by now, nearing the borders as the sun rises and Camelot awakes to its beloved king dead by tragic means. Instead, he is here, by the side of the very royal that he’s supposed to murder, refilling his goblet and listening to the dull small talk of the two guards behind them.
Will told him this would go wrong. He’d begged Freya to convince him not to take the job, swearing on his life that this would get Merlin killed. She hadn’t been very happy to see him leave their little den either, but spoke to Will of trusting his capabilities and trusting him.
Oh, if they could see him now. Merlin wishes he had listened; wishes he had ripped the ambiguous letter that told him to kill the king of Camelot to shreds instead of drooling over the potential coin like the sticky-fingered tween he used to be. To hell with the future it could’ve brought them! At least he’d be alive.
Merlin sighs. His bottom lip has been chewed into ruddiness and his knees ache from the way he’s kept them locked for the past hour. He glances at the king’s cup anxiously, trying to gauge if filling it again would be suspicious or not. Stepping forward, Merlin hopes his trembling hands aren’t too noticeable as he raises the pitcher to pour another glass.
However, just as a single droplet slips from the edge of the silver, a hand shoots out to cover the cup. Merlin swallows, looking down at Arthur with a poorly hidden frown.
The king watches him in turn, eyes glued to Merlin’s own as if the man’s innermost thoughts can be read on his irises. The lights have dimmed, but Arthur’s golden hair still outshines the crown, his blue eyes glinting with intrigue.
“Uh- My lord?” Merlin ventures once the silence stretches far beyond awkward territory.
Arthur blinks at him sluggishly, face missing the wall of sternness he’s been wearing the whole night. He licks his lips, looking at Merlin’s, and it is at that moment that Merlin realises that, even though the poison in the wine hasn’t been very effective - the alcohol works just fine.
“Mm… Where’s- Who’re you?” Arthur slurs, leaning on the table more than a respected knight should. He squints against the low candlelight of the hall, rosy lips drawn into a pout as he tugs at his crimson tunic impatiently.
Drunk. The King of Camelot is drunk.
Merlin blinks, mouth caught in the act of astonished and impolite gaping. He sets the pitcher down slowly, only now recognizing how empty it has become, before turning to meet the burning gaze of the royal once more.
“Sire…” He starts, carefully moving the ungloved hand that’s snaked its way to the top of his, neglecting the thoughts of how his skin burns. “I’m your… Uh, loyal manservant. Don’t you recall?”
Arthur furrows his brows in thought, peering at him through glossy eyes as he seems to mull over the idea. A moment passes before he nods and stumbles to his feet.
“We’re going to my chambers,” he announces, adjusting the crown that Merlin has come to realise sits a little awkwardly on his head before setting off.
He’s already moving by the time Merlin’s mind catches up to him, staggering down the hall with as much dignity as he's probably able to muster in his state. It doesn’t take long to catch up to his drunken pace, but Merlin hurries regardless.
The handful of servants still present send him curious looks as he passes, likely confused by the fact that the boy who began his duties this morning already climbed his way to the top of the ladder of service. Another laughs, the usual decorum one keeps for the king lost to the dulling edge of the wine, watching him scurry after the drunken royal like they’re a pair of jesters.
Luckily, the knights don’t pay them any mind, and Merlin soon finds himself tailing Arthur in the much quieter atmosphere of the castle halls. At first, his thoughts are a scrambled, panicked mess that only lets him mindlessly follow, silently debating if this is the moment he should make his escape. If he should accept failure and trudge back home to Will and Freya and admit they were right.
Then, as Arthur clumsily rounds another corner, slipping through a pair of heavy wooden doors into what Merlin supposes is his chambers, something else strikes him. A dawning so stark that it echoes in his mind like the clashing of blades. He swallows thickly, feeling for the dagger stuffed in his boot as a last resort.
It’s not too late. He can still do this.
Following the man inside, Merlin conceals the recently sharpened blade in his sleeve. Already, Arthur has freed himself of his doublet, discarding it on the floor as he tosses his crown on the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the gold that loses its glow in the low light of his chambers.
Merlin tiptoes further in the room, regarding the sheathed sword on the man’s hip with a shaky inhale. Arthur leans against the wall next to the window, peering out at the knights milling about on the courtyard below as he keeps his back turned. For a moment, it seems he’s forgotten Merlin is there at all.
Then - “I’m sending them to their deaths, aren’t I?”
Merlin frowns, freezing halfway through picking up the doublet to look up at him. He knows he should stay silent, should hurry up and bloody his dagger before the guards resume their duties and the dawn gets too close for him to maintain the cover of night. Still, Merlin has never done very well at biting his tongue.
“Maybe. And yet they go willingly,” he says quietly. “For their home, for you.”
Arthur shifts, posture slumping further as the wall supports more of his weight. When he speaks, his words sound defeated and broken, like this is a conversation he has held, perhaps with himself, before. “They shouldn’t have to.”
“This is war,” Merlin points out. “And, from what I’m gathering, you’re doing a pretty good job of winning it thus far.”
Arthur sighs and rubs his temples before trailing his fingers to the centre of his chest. For a long while, he neglects to respond, and Merlin inches closer, letting the dagger slide into his palm.
“My father would’ve known what to do,” Arthur whispers at last. “He always knew people’s true intentions before they had the chance to act. He kept our people safe, would’ve never let this happen.”
Merlin blinks, trying to stave off the flare of grief in his chest before his mouth gets the better of him. He’d heard of Uther’s death when it occurred, months ago. It’d changed the scale of power between kingdoms the same night his mysterious illness got the better of his health. Only a week later, Mercia declared war.
Watching his only son, now, Merlin feels something akin to pity festering in his heart. What a lonely fate, he thinks, to rule in the shadow of the father he never got to mourn.
His magic pulses in sorrow, his hands sticky with blood he washed away years ago, his eyes blurry with tears he’s already shed. But as much as he feels for Arthur, a son burdened by the sins of the father, his heart was charred black long ago, and he’s chronically unable to sympathise with the man who took so much from him.
“Your father was not a good man, even if he ruled well,” Merlin snaps, eyes widening at his own boldness.
He watches Arthur tense, shoulders hiking up to his ears as he looks over one of them, eyes wide and brows creased. Slowly, he turns back to the window, sighing shakily.
“You don’t know anything,” he mumbles solemnly, still slurring from the wine. “He- He cared —”
“Not for all of us,” Merlin hisses, absently surprised by his unforgivingly harsh tone. “Not for my people .”
Arthur turns then, finally looking at him properly. He blinks, brows furrowed in an innocent act of confusion, and Merlin’s heart tugs. It’s been a while since he killed someone face-to-face like this, much less someone this breathtakingly beautiful—
“What are you…” Arthur frowns and takes a single step forward, then freezes.
Finally, he sees the dagger.
The king’s demeanour shifts instantly, like he’s just been doused in cold water. He straightens, hand going for the sword on his hip. His face hardens, closing off and returning to the stoic prince from the feast.
Merlin swallows. No more is the drunken boy or the lonely prince. This is Arthur Pendragon, sole ruler of Camelot and trained knight.
By the Gods, what has he gotten himself into?
He widens his stance as Arthur draws his sword, teeth glinting dangerously as he raises the dagger. His heart speeds in his chest, his veins itching with power as golden strands of magic flow through them. In the metallic blade of his weapon, he sees the glow of his own eyes.
Arthur carefully steps around the desk separating them, sword raised and aimed straight at Merlin’s chest. Merlin backs away in turn, the difference in size of weapon putting him at a disadvantage. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that even if he can’t fight Arthur on fair ground, he’s an expert at cheating.
Merlin lunges.
Swiping his dagger, once, twice, he dances around the man’s tense form almost soundlessly, slinking behind him like the shadow he’s been embodying all night. He tries to make it quick, except Arthur moves with him, skillfully keeping his blade between them to block every strike.
Merlin is slim, talented when it comes to flowing with the motions around him and blending with the shadows. But Arthur is strong, instincts sharpened to perfection as he adjusts to match Merlin’s movements and keep the distance between them minor.
He swings, sword gleaming as it arcs towards Merlin’s head. The man in question ducks, throwing his hands up instinctively as his eyes flash gold.
“Ásprenge!”
The sword flings from Arthur’s hand, clattering to the floor across the room as Merlin stumbles to his feet, panting. Arthur looks at his empty hand, then the sword, then Merlin. For a second he only stares, brows furrowed in frustration before his expression morphs into a mutant mix of fear and rage. He staggers back, reaching for something hooked on his bedpost as Merlin regains the grip on his dagger.
“Cbeft,” Merlin breathes, power surging within and embodying him with the strength to tackle Arthur to the ground. He lands on the man’s back, clinging to the fabric of his tunic as he scrambles to restrain his hands.
A clatter. Merlin stills.
The dagger wobbles on the floor a few feet in front of them, lost in the panic of overpowering the king. Arthur looks up from beneath him, taking a single breath before crawling forward. Merlin grunts, the concentration required to hold his spell making him sway as he stays on top of Arthur’s back, still trying to pin him down.
As soon as he sees Arthur’s fingers brush the handle of the blade, Merlin loses the focus he had tried to keep and loses grip on the magic, instead reaching over Arthur to fumble for the weapon as well.
The man grunts, withdrawing his hands to instead roll the two of them over, hands finding purchase on the kerchief around Merlin’s neck. His world tilts just as his fingers close around the handle of the dagger, cold air suddenly brushing his throat. Merlin’s eyes instinctively squeeze shut, and when he opens them again, his left hand is pinned over his head and Arthur is looking down at him, wide-eyed.
More specifically, his throat.
Merlin swallows involuntarily, blinking up at the intense gaze of Arthur, his world dimmed by the shadow of the warm body leaning over his own. He moves his right hand before the king has time to react, settling the dagger between them, tip brushing the very centre of Arthur’s chest.
The only sound in the room is that of their heavy breathing, and they must be close to the hearth because the air is inexplicably hot between them. Arthur’s gaze is heavy, his brows furrowed and his grip tight. He’d been so intent on not dying before, but now he barely seems to notice the blade threatening his heart.
“Your…” Arthur pants, eyes jumping from Merlin’s eyes to the mark he knows sits in the centre of his throat. “It’s- I didn’t…”
Merlin drops his head back in triumph, letting his hand slowly guide his blade into the king’s flesh. He lets out a deep, slow breath, blinking sluggishly as the thrum of adrenaline-induced magic dies down.
The king is dead, he thinks, he just crippled a kingdom.
Except, Arthur isn’t dead, and Merlin’s lidded eyes catch on a bright glow emanating from what should be a gaping wound. Yet there’s no blood, and Merlin realises that the dagger has gone limp in his hand, the blade sliding to the floor with a dull clinging. His brows furrow; what the —?
Arthur sits back, releasing Merlin’s wrist as the sorcerer regards the circular, golden-lined, mark on Arthur’s chest. It moves as the man breathes and the reflection of candlelight catches on the sheen of sweat covering it, almost moving before his eyes. Merlin’s breath catches.
A dragon, thin and snake-like, sits curled around an intricate sword - both of them encircled by the etchings of a coin. Beautiful and detailed and perfectly identical to the one on Merlin’s throat. The same one he’s been wondering about all his life. The same one he’s hidden under scarves and hoods for years.
“That’s— It can't,” Merlin whispers, barely holding himself back from raising a hand to trace it. “I can’t be…”
Yours, he doesn’t say, because it can’t be true.
Arthur’s face is dejected, jaw clenched as he grinds his teeth. He stares at the man he’s regarded from a far-away, skewered, perspective for years, an image always too distorted for him to see through it clearly. Ever since his father taught him to be wary of his dreams' reality, Merlin’s been looking at the crimson red and glinting metal with paranoia, dreading the day some unlucky soul is tied to his dangerous existence.
Never in a thousand years could he have prophesied this.
A king, the King , stares him down as they simultaneously feel the connection between them, the invisible thread of Fate, cement. Merlin wishes it came with the ability to read thoughts, unsure of what to do with the soulmate in front of him. Should they plan their future now? Should he tell him his name? His secrets?
Does the mark on their skins entitle him to the deepest caverns of his heart? Are they now one and the same?
Merlin supposes he’ll have to burn the contract now, to start.
“You—” Arthur says, pulling him from his pointless string of thought and looking like he intends to go somewhere with that, but he can’t because suddenly someone is banging on the door and yelling out in the hall. Knights, Merlin thinks.
For a second, they don’t move, as if their bodies can sense that this might be the last time they’re brave enough to be this close.
Then, Arthur springs to his feet and Merlin is close behind, suppressing the initial panic that blooms at the sight of the sword back in Arthur’s hand. He manages to string a coherent enough thought together and flings his hand out, letting his eyes flash gold and the bolt on the door clunk shut.
“Sire?!” A voice, vaguely familiar, shouts out beyond the thick door. Merlin freezes, then winces, the image of George’s horrified, confused expression as Merlin got him drunk on magic and gave him an inexplicable urge for wine swimming before his eyes.
The sound of more footsteps joining the nervous pacing outside and that of armour clattering against one another is nearly deafening, and he shoots a helpless look at Arthur.
Arthur watches him wide-eyed, seemingly struggling to grasp the situation at hand. Or perhaps he knows what is about to happen. Perhaps he has already come to a decision, painfully aware that the king of a land at war can’t have rumours spreading of people plotting to kill him.
Another shout rings out beyond the door, and Merlin’s mind floods with the need to run, the need to get out of here alive. Barely casting a glance Arthur’s way as he passes, Merlin makes his way towards a window, hoping the king doesn’t notice his hands shaking as he unclasps the lock.
He climbs onto the windowsill, taking a look at his climb with a gulp. It’s a long way down, he’d better not slip. Only as he sets the first foot on the trellis does Merlin dare look over at Arthur.
The king hasn’t moved, eyes glinting as he just stares back at the man who just tried to kill him. Everything in Merlin screams at him to stop as he pauses and bares his teeth in a wobbly smile, needing his soulmate to remember something other than his intent to kill and cowardly escape.
“I’m Merlin,” he says, then doesn’t let himself hesitate further as he continues his downward climb.
It’s painful. It hurts as he gets further and further from his soulmate. Even his magic protests, buzzing in his veins as his boots land on the courtyard. He doesn’t let himself think about why.
Merlin looks up just as he hears the window shut and voices ring out, muffled behind the glass, but Arthur’s is still unmistakable among them. He absently wonders if this is the way he is going to view the world now – with Arthur at its centre – as he makes his escape.
Gods, he thinks, Will and Freya are never going to believe him.
*
Merlin retrieves Aithusa from the dark stables quickly, neglecting to explain anything to her and the bleary-eyed stablehand who fetches his grumpy horse.
Merlin pays the kid with so much silver he’s sure his eyes are going to pop out before he leaves, putting little effort into seeming like just another traveller. It’s early enough for the streets to be mostly deserted, any drunk stragglers having already retreated to the crowded inns, but they have to hurry to take advantage of the lull.
Hastily, he takes Aithusa’s mane and begins to steer her down some narrow streets that he hopes lead to the main gate.
The revelations of the evening still buzz in his mind, but Merlin forces himself not to think about it. The stress is already giving him heartburn, he does not need a mental breakdown to top things off.
Aithusa picks up on the tension and stays pliable and quiet even as his jerky movements tug on her mane harshly. The night is silent, the only sounds coming from Aithusa’s hooves.
He looks through the windows of countless sleeping homes, thinking about how blissfully unaware they are that someone just tried to murder their King. How comfortably they must sleep, he thinks, when they don’t know that that same murderer walks their streets.
Merlin wonders what Arthur will tell his knights, what excuse he’ll come up with, if he'll even bother to buy Merlin some time. Perhaps he’ll speak the truth and tell them of how Merlin came in there, disguised and arrogant. Maybe he’d tell them of their supposed bond and how Merlin fled, tail between his legs.
It’s not shame that fills him at the idea, because, soulmates or not, Merlin doesn’t know what Arthur would do to protect his image, only what other kings have done.
Merlin protected himself first, as he always has. The only reason he isn’t dead yet is because he’s so used to leaving.
Aithusa snorts suddenly, and Merlin pats her neck loyally. “You too, girl,” he adds mentally.
However Aithusa doesn’t calm down, and Merlin removes his hand as he notices the way her ears are flat backward. Wide, blue eyes watch him, dilated and panicked as she stomps restlessly.
Merlin reaches a hand out to soothe her with magic, recoiling as the effort burns his palm. He looks at it, dumbstruck.
Aithusa continues to squirm, rising to her back legs and assaulting the ground with her front hooves again and again. Smoke puffs out of her nostrils, and Merlin decides, enough.
It hurts worse the more he tries to defy it, but he pushes through, laying a golden hand on his dragon’s coat and watching her body shift and grow smaller, until she’s a white clump of fur on the ground.
Suppressing a pained groan, Merlin leans over her. “Aithusa?”
A pair of blue eyes blink at him, and a long, fluffy tail unfurls from beneath her as she flicks a pair of pointed ears. Merlin blinks.
“Oh, okay,” he mutters under his breath, picking the cat-dragon up and petting her head to test the water. To his amusement, she only starts to purr. “Not what I was aiming for, but whatever.”
A sharp pain stabs his temple suddenly and he yelps, his hands flying up to grip his head as if it might explode. Aithusa jumps at the sudden sound and yowls worriedly, stepping around him to nudge his foot with a soft rumble.
Blindly, he reaches for her on the ground, nearly crumpling as the pain continues to rise-
“Merlin…”
Merlin nearly drops Aithusa as the sudden intrusion on his mind makes him jump. His eyes dart up and down the street, but he remains alone. He grips the cat tight to his chest. Now he realises why she’d been so upset.
There’s a tugging in his chest, a new one, and when he turns to follow it, it leads him right back towards the castle.
His ears ring something terrible, but the voice still pierces his ears with its breathy hissing. Panic is what has him instinctively whispering back, “Who are you?”
“Find me…”
Merlin follows the voice blindly, slinking down the halls in a feverish fashion as the connection grows stronger. He holds his breath, mind clear enough for him to duck into an alcove when the tell-tale jingle of a guard patrol reaches his ears.
Just as they pass, the voice speaks again.
“ Merlin…”
“ Who are you?!” The man hisses for the nth time as he sets off again, frustration bubbling in his chest as his body tugs him along. Aithusa clings to his shoulder, not even making an effort to hide beneath his cloak, the stranger clearly affecting her too.
There’s no reply, of course. In fact, it’s strangely silent as he sneaks past the guards in the dungeon with a simple illusion spell. He passes the cells currently vacant and heads down the dimly lit tunnel that he’s nearly certain leads to the sewers.
Right as he begins questioning his own sanity, there’s a ringing in his ear that slowly forms into words.
“This way…”
Merlin turns and looks around, eyes eventually finding the nearly rusted-shut gate that leads down a dark pit. He frowns, throwing his hands out with a huff. “Seriously?”
No longer expecting any answers, Merlin takes one of the cold torches from the wall and offers it to Aithusa, who lights it with a sneeze. Patting her head, Merlin ventures deeper into the dark tunnel, feeling the world be reduced to only what the fire lights.
Eventually, the tunnel opens up, and he steps into a giant cave. His torch does a poor job of illuminating the large space, and he’s not sure how big it is in its entirety.
“Hello?” He calls, squinting in the low light as his voice echoes through the cavern.
No answer.
“Where are you?”
The buzzing in his ears has subsided, and even though the tugging at his power is still persistent, it has reduced to a dull urge rather than the desperate scramble he felt earlier. The pause lasts just long enough for him to wonder if he imagined it all.
Then there’s a loud noise from above. Aithuse squawks and scurries down his back, finally retreating beneath his cloak, leaving Merlin to face the descending shape alone.
With a thunderous boom, a gigantic dragon lands in front of him, extending his wings in a classic show of power. His hide is a dull yellow, with overlapping scars staining it a darker green in some areas.
Merlin gapes.
The creature gives him a curious look, lowering his great head to peer closer as Merlin holds very, very still. Swallowing dryly, he tries not to look away from the pair of cat-like pupils that scan him even as the intense gaze has fear seeping into his hardened heart like syrup.
Another moment passes before the dragon withdraws, settling back to rest his weight on the stone and lowering his wings.
“Young warlock,” he greets.
Merlin blinks, his brain simply not cut out for this much input at once. The only thing he manages is to close his mouth and hope he has yet to offend the creature. Sharp teeth glint in the light and Merlin is reminded of jagged scars on his father’s skin as he cut firewood beneath the unforgiving sun of summer.
With his father in mind, Merlin becomes even more nervous. The man has taught him almost everything he knows about dragons and magical creatures, and everything that he should and shouldn’t do passes his mind so quickly he isn’t sure which is which.
Respect, he remembers, then startles. Should he be bowing? He should be bowing.
The dragon laughs, loud and hearty, as Merlin falls into a deep bow. The noise is eerily humane, and the bewildered assassin looks up, watching the dragon throw his head back, grin putting every single one of his deadly fangs on show.
Slowly, Merlin straightens, patting his cloak awkwardly and accidentally nudging Aithusa’s tail. She trills with intrigue, but quickly settles after but a stern thought from Merlin.
The dragon bows his head in return, the amused smile not leaving his lips. “I’m glad to finally see you for myself, Emrys.”
Merlin frowns, stepping back. “How do you know who I am?”
The dragon laughs again and for a second, Merlin fears it’s going to drag as long as the other did, but he settles after an entertained snort. He grins, inching closer even as he speaks louder still. “Everyone knows who you are, Merlin! You are Destined!”
Growing more confused by the second, Merlin tries to command Aithusa to stay still as he looks up at the dragon with furrowed brows. “I’m not, I- What?”
The dragon catches the action, his eyes glinting with interest before they’re drawn back to him and his unintelligent stammering. “The most powerful warlock to walk the earth, born of magic and intertwined with destiny. It’s an honour.”
Merlin stammers, blinking rapidly to clear his mind. The words certainly stroke his ego, but he’s not sure if that was the intended purpose.
“And you?” Merlin asks, eager to shift the focus of the conversation.
This time, the dragon really does bow, lowering his head in an act of respect. “I am The Great Dragon,” he announces extravagantly, then adds, “but you, young warlock, may simply call me Kilgharrah.”
Fond memories flood him at the name and at first, Merlin can’t place where they’re coming from. Then — his father’s face, and thick yellowed skin under his own small hands.
“Huh.” Merlin smiles absently, looking up at the dragon. “My father spoke of you. I think we might’ve met before.”
“Yes,” Kilgharrah nods his head, something like grief passing over his lizard-like features. “Balinor was a good man, I can sense him in you.”
Merlin takes a deep breath and lets the clump in his throat subside while Aithusa grows too curious for her own good and climbs into his arms. He’s grateful, if a little scared, that his father’s old friend has an appetite for crisp cats.
“Is that how you found out I was near?” He asks. “You… sensed me?”
Kilgharrah laughs again, though slightly more merciful this time. “Your arrival in Camelot has been prophesied since the birth of magic. I've been expecting you for some time.”
Letting all of the implications of that pass over his head, Merlin takes a step forward, desperate for validation. This need to know that he’s doing the right thing taking over.
“Then you know why I’m here? Why-” Merlin bites his lip. “Why I must leave?”
Kilgharrah goes very still. Slowly, he brings his head closer, eyes wide and imploring.
“You cannot leave , Merlin,” he says slowly, his breath fanning Merlin’s entire body. “You are connected to Camelot now, to Arthur Pendragon.”
Merlin frowns. It’s what he’d been expecting, but that does not make it easier to hear.
“We share a Mark,” Merlin says, trying not to sound bitter at the fact.
“You share so much more than a Mark.” Kilgharrah sits back and eyes Aithusa absently before looking back at Merlin. “Arthur is your destiny, as you are his. You were not fated to be apart.”
“But that is how it must be!” Merlin urges, frustration flaring in his chest. “I would get him killed, the people I’ll anger by not murdering him like I’m meant to are- They’ll never stop.”
“Do not be so certain of the difference between life and death,” Kligharrah says instantly, as if that isn’t the very thing that you should always be certain of. “You will save him, as he will save you.”
Again Merlin is meant to save him? They just tried to kill each other. Seems unlikely. “You keep saying that —”
The dragon spreads his wings, and Merlin takes a few steps back as the creature grows impossibly larger.
“You must stay,” he says again, voice bouncing on the walls of the cave. “If you don’t, the witch will kill him, and Albion will be lost forever.”
The powerful swoops of his wings make the ground tremble, and Merlins stumbles slightly as Aithusa squawks and digs her claws into his skin.
“What?” He has to shout to be heard over the rumbling . “What witch—?!”
“This is your destiny, young warlock, but others will tread your path to fulfil their own. Beware-” Kilgharrah kicks off and ascends. “-darkness is coming!”
And with that, the Great Dragon is gone.
*
Merlin looks behind him at the looming towers of the castle, imagining those piercing blue eyes watching him from one of the dark windows. The seasoned assassin part of him urges him to leave, to not risk his life over the gamble that the king will keep their encounter a secret. If he stays, the execution set for the morning might very well be his.
The witch will kill him. You cannot leave.
But then, his mind shows him golden hair and smooth, marked skin, and his heart skips a beat. It doesn’t feel real, even having a dragon confirm it. The king of Camelot — the future king of Albion , apparently — simply cannot be linked to a tainted man like him, a man who kills for coin and lives in the shadows.
The invisible connection between them tugs and Merlin inhales. Aithusa shuffles under his cloak, agitated by all this standing still. He lets her crawl onto his shoulder, pressing his face into her fur and inhaling the familiar scent of ashy dragon-hide.
“What do I do, girl?” He murmurs, getting a bite to his ear as a response.
Darkness is coming.
In the end, Merlin realises it is not a decision for anyone to make. Arthur and him are soulmates — however unfortunate — and for some reason, Fate wants them in the same realm. He may be powerful, and he may not be as a believer as the druids, but he is not arrogant enough to deny the will of the world.
Sighing, Merlin turns on his heel, retracing his steps towards the nearest inn.
**
Bark sprays through the air, showering the moss-covered bed of the forest with it as the tree it came from crackles with dying flames. Merlin grunts, sweat dripping down his brow as he tosses himself out of the way of another blast. Heat envelopes him on either side, and when he moves away from the boulder, he finds it singed black.
Across the clearing, there are more sounds of flickering flames. But Merlin is prepared as they fly at him, and expertly covers himself with a sheen of solid gold, and the fire bounces off his shield. He grins, dark and wicked, and slips into the shadows.
“Why are you doing this?” A shrill voice demands, its source unclear. “We could work together! I-I swear, we’ll split the bounty!”
The night is silent, as are the woods around Camelot, so when the crunching of autumn withered leaves appears, Merlin takes his shot. Springing out of hiding, he brandishes his dagger and jumps his opponent, making sure to keep a tight grip on the handle. The man’s magical staff goes flying, and the sound of it cracking against a tree is like music to his ears.
Damp seeps through his pants and chills his knees, but Merlin doesn’t relent until he’s straddling the sorcerer who’s been evading him ever since he came to town a few days ago. He lets his dagger hover just a few inches above the man’s pulse point, pleased to feel the man go limp beneath him, a clear sign of defeat.
Just beyond the trees, there’s a flash of white and some rustling. Merlin grins and slowly leans down to whisper in the man’s ear.
“Only I get to kill the king.”
Merlin gets up, the sorcerer scrabbling in the dirt behind him, and takes a few steps away. When he looks back, he only has to whistle before the scrawny build of the man is completely covered by a large, white creature. There’s a choked scream, monstrous growling, then silence.
He walks through the woods, wincing as he jostles the forming bruises, until the outer buildings of the town come into view. Merlin can’t exactly say he’s eager to go back to his wooden bed in the local inn, but it’s been two months, and he’s pretty sure it would hurt more to sleep on a cloud at this point.
Aithusa’s arrival is far from silent, and Merlin sidesteps as she comes stumbling out of the woods. She bounces around him happily, teeth stained with blood that drips down her pristinely white hide. He tuts, using the edge of his cloak to wipe off the worst bits.
She grumbles but ultimately lets him clean her up until she looks less like she picked a fight with a gryphon.
“There,” he says, patting her snout. “I’ll see you tomorrow, be good.”
And with that, he’s off. Slipping through the lower town has become second nature to him at this point, not to mention the castle’s security. He barely even has to think about it as he uses the shadows and alcoves to sneak past the guards posted at the gates to the citadel. The knights patrolling the inner halls barely get a second glance as he summons invisibility and walks past them, unseen.
It is only at the king’s door that he falters.
Still, he only requires a deep breath before he’s ready to slink inside and begin his routine search for anything different from yesterday’s check. The closet gets tossed, the refolded a hundred times more cleanly than they were, and he skims through the papers on the big desk in front of the hearth for any cryptic messages that bode ill will.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to burn any invitations to traps this time, so he moves on. The king’s bed is next, and in it, snoring on his stomach, as usual, is the king. His blond hair tangled and too long for Merlin’s liking. His lips just slightly open and his breathing steady.
It is not that Merlin has to put extra effort into being undiscovered, because the man sleeps like a dead one, but even so, he’s slow and deliberate when he checks the underside of his bed for any suspicious parcels.
There’s nothing. Only one more place it could be.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Merlin reaches for Arthur’s head. He has to move the man’s hand to lift the pillow properly, and as his cold fingers close around the king’s wrist, Merlin feels a bit of that warmth spill over into himself, as if sensing that he needs the comfort. He takes a shaky breath of relief as a small leather pouch comes into view, and he removes it, feeling the weak magical energy vibrate in his palm.
This could’ve killed you , he thinks, watching the sleeping man mumble and stir as he steps away.
Before he leaves, he discards the pouch in the lit hearth. The flames flicker and blanket it, almost dying entirely before the fire flares and doubles in size. The green glow of the hot tendrils reflects in Merlin’s eyes before they turn back to their normal orange.
Merlin sighs and slips back out into the hall, heading towards a few hours rest before the world wakes up and his duties as the king’s shadow resume.
**
Merlin’s heart beats in his throat as he hurries down a hall in the castle, barely even thinking about it as he slips past guards and blends with the shadows. It has become second nature to him, now, to hurry through the castle in order to vanquish yet another threat to the king’s life.
Tonight, he clutches one of the familiar pouches in his hand. For months, he thought them only nuisances, and that someone with apparition magic had it out for him. He’s lost count of how many he’s cleared out from the castle. But now he knows better, now he knows that they were just keeping him distracted.
Merlin curses himself for being so blind, but then, he supposes he wasn’t the only one looking.
As usual, Kilgharrah refuses to offer anything helpful beyond riddles that only make sense after another is due. He’d take a detour to tell the dragon of what he’s learned since he left if he honestly thought it wouldn’t leave him more confused. Though perhaps he’ll go there later. If the rumours are true, a dragon would be a comfortable advantage.
Misleading the guards with some thoughtless magic and slipping through the doors to the king’s chambers, Merlin finds them empty, which shouldn’t be as worrying as it is.
Seriously, he was only gone for a day and a half, there’s no way his soulmate managed to somehow die in that time.
Merlin swallows, suddenly doubtful, and turns around to search elsewhere.
He left Camelot to follow the trail the pouches were leaving him as soon as he realised what they were. The relief he was expecting after spending months either inside the castle or in the woods around it while trailing Arthur’s occasional dull hunting parties was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found. All the while, he was worried about what would happen in his absence, well aware that it could be a ploy to lead him away.
Once he found out that Morgause was planning a surprise invasion, along with her sister the Lady Morgana , no less, well, his concerns certainly did not get better. God, he’s barely slept since.
Maybe that’s what has him doing this. Searching for Arthur? Sure, that’s practically his life now. Intending to speak with him? For the first time in months? Merlin suspects he’s gone mad.
He knows nothing of what the king thinks of him, greatly because the man doesn’t share Merlin’s habit of speaking to himself, and has stayed quiet about their encounter earlier this year. But he’s seen things, things that tell Merlin that he doesn’t need to be afraid. He’s as sure of Arthur’s pure heart as he is of his magic, so at least he won’t be killed. Probably.
**
After visiting all the usual spots, Merlin’s worry has cemented and set in his stomach.
The king is not in the throne room or the dining hall. The armoury and training yard is vacant at this time of night, and out of pure desperation, Merlin checks the library and kitchen, both equally as empty.
He’s running low on options, so when Merlin spots someone on the wall overlooking the citadel, near a patch of grass, it’s by accident. He’d just left the south wing after doing another lap of the living quarters, and he quickly ducks under a wooden walkway on the hill above. Inching closer until the cover ends, Merlin breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of familiar shoulders and a crowned head.
The man is still, face tilted to face the skies, even as sounds of preparations can be heard from the citadel below. Merlin’s first thought is that he’s waiting for someone, but considering the time he spent turning the castle upside down in his search, the man must’ve been here the entire time.
It’s strange, seeing a man constantly in action so still.
Merlin shifts out of hiding, still letting the shadow of the towers behind veil him. Except the wood creaks once he does, and he freezes.
If he was a lesser man, he would have blamed his misstep on running on minimal sleep. But he’s Emrys. He doesn’t make mistakes.
Arthur’s hand goes to the hilt of his blade, muscles tensing under the thin tunic. Merlin stills, waits. A moment passes with the sounds of the breeze as their only companion, with the rustling of leaves as the knife to the thread of silence and words stuck in their throats.
He wonders what he’s thinking right now, who he’s expecting to be the one sharpening a dagger for his back. He’d ask for the name to rid his Prince of the threat if he didn’t know that it is him, Emrys, that Arthur fears. It’s ironic. His dagger is wedged in his boot, sharp and ready to kill a royal, but also stained with the blood of the latest fool who tried to do the same.
Merlin isn’t very sure what he’s doing, actually, as he watches Arthur relax and set his hands back on the stone rail.
“So it’s you,” the king says, tone indifferent as he hunches over his clasped fingers.
Merlin tilts his head to gauge his intent. In the moment the King rested his palm over the tool of death he has known since cradle, a decision was made. Kill the assassin, or let him kill you.
In the end, what Arthur chooses has no effect on Merlin’s confidence in his own capabilities. He swings down from the shadows, soundlessly landing on the grass a few feet away. Slowly, he closes the distance between them, his speeding heart betraying the attitude of ease he attempts to display.
Arthur doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t let his expression slip for even a second as the cloaked figure joins him in looking out over the citadel. Merlin watches Arthur, though. He could never prefer the perpetual stillness of the night when the mystery of Arthur Pendragon is infinitely more intriguing.
Like this, Arthur looks so much like the weight of all kingdoms rests on his shoulders. At times the looming shadow is too large on him, like a child wearing adult clothing. Merlin supposes it is, Arthur is barely older than himself, and both of them were burdened long ago.
“Arthur,” he says, then doesn’t continue. The words he meant to say seem far away, suddenly.
Watching Arthur’s eyes fall shut against the moonlight, Merlin can’t help but feel like this was a mistake. He could’ve just left a message to deter them, or enchant the entire castle if that’s what it takes for them to stay. But maybe he just wanted to see him. Maybe he’s been looking for an excuse for them to talk ever since he took up his position as the king’s shadow. Maybe this is selfish.
“We’re marching tomorrow,” Arthur says, growing sick of the silence. “For the last time, one way or another.”
The macabre words revive Merlin’s urgency, and he steps forward. “It’s a trap. Arthur, you can’t go—”
Arthur raises a hand, and Merlin hates himself for the way his mouth instantly falls shut. “It very well might be,” he says evenly. “But my father’s knights are the best in the realm, there’s a good chance we’ll win.”
Merlin doesn’t remark on the way Arthur still refers to his people as his father’s, frustration taking over as he grips Arthur’s upper arm, feeling him tense under the touch. “You don’t understand, Arthur. I’ve heard—”
Arthur spins around, stepping out of Merlin’s reach with an expression of hurt on his face. “You’ve been gone. What could you possibly know that I don’t?”
Merlin winces, scratches his neck and takes a risk. “I didn’t.”
That has Arthur stopping, his face falling to one of confusion. “What?”
“I never left Camelot,” he admits quietly. “I couldn’t, not-not when I started finding plots to kill you at every turn.”
Arthur shakes his head, using the stone to steady himself. “That’s impossible, there’s been no trouble since-since you.”
“Obviously, I’ve been doing a great job of protecting you.”
For the first time, Arthur looks genuinely afraid, and it hits Merlin like a bucket of cold water. He takes a step back, hand hovering in between them as its fingers twitch in response to Merlin’s moving. Merlin expects the other one to go to the king’s sword, but instead, it rests just over his heart, where they both know their familiar markings lie.
“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur asks, and his voice is so broken that something in Merlin’s heart crumbles.
“Because Camlann will get you and your men killed, Arthur,” Merlin insists. “Morgause is going to raise an undead army, but she needs an artefact from your vaults to do it. While you’re out there, dying, she’ll be here, claiming the citadel and making it impossible to ever beat her.”
Arthur scoffs, crossing his arms as he turns to face the wall. “That sounds—”
“Unbelievable, I know,” Merlin continues quickly, reaching out to twist the king back towards him. “But I need you to trust me, because I can’t protect you from her.”
And it’s true, Merlin cannot simply kill Morgause, and he hates himself for it.
Arthur meets his eye, and Merlin becomes aware of the magic pulsing from his core and the way the hairs on his arms stand on end. Swallowing, he removes his hand, stepping back as he reminds himself that he’s not here for himself. He knows that what he’s saying might sound ridiculous, but he risked his life countless times to warn the king, and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to be believed.
“Arthur—” Merlin says at the same time as Arthur says: “I believe you.”
Merlin blanches, gaping dumbly. “What?”
The king reaches forward and, to Merlin’s utter shock, grabs his hand. Calloused palms envelop cold fingers, and Arhur steps closer.
Merlin swallows dryly as the king watches him intently, oh gods.
“I believe you,” Arthur says again, and Merlin starts to suspect this is a dream until the king continues: “But—”
Ah, there it is. Brought back to reality, Merlin tries to step away, but Arthur stubbornly holds on.
“But-” He waits for Merlin to meet his eyes. “We can’t give up. Even if there’s some truth to what you say, we won’t survive by staying here. Our food supplies are already running low, and winter isn’t getting further away.”
“I can—” Merlin is already offering, but falls silent as Arthur drops his head to his shoulder, breathing deeply.
“Please,” Arthur murmurs so silently Merlin wouldn’t have heard it if the words weren’t spoken into his neck. “I need to do this, Merlin. I’ll leave guards behind, to protect the vaults. But I— We need to fight, Merlin, it’s our last chance.”
Merlin can’t move. He doesn’t know what has the king confiding in him like this. But then – he does, doesn’t he? It’s the same reason he won’t leave Camelot, and the same reason he goes to bed afraid of waking up to hearing of the king’s death every night.
Perhaps this is what Arthur feels for his kingdom, since he can’t possibly feel it for the man who learned of their connection and ran. Maybe Merlin won’t ever understand what it’s like to care for strangers the way Arthur cares for his people, but the king’s broken posture and cracked voice make him see it, if only a little more.
“Alright,” he says, determination smouldering inside, ready to burst into flame at a moment's notice. The king steps back, and Merlin’s knees nearly buckle under the weight of being alone again. He looks at Arthur seriously. “Then we fight.”
**
Oh, how naive they were.
“You’re an idiot,” Merlin grits out. “An idiot. And a dollophead—”
His hands are freezing, the chill seeping so deep within his bones it hurts. He clings to a limp body that’s too heavy and too cold and—
“An arrogant prat with compost for brains—”
The ground is cold and wet and the snow is thick enough that Merlin barely registers the fact that they’ve fallen again. Panting, he drags himself to his feet, never once easing his grip.
“A royal arse. You’re-You-” Merlin chokes on the words. He’s exhausted, his hands numb and unwilling to cooperate as he tries to unclasp the armour that’s been slowing them down for the past mile. He curses and abandons the effort, dropping his head in defeat as his breaths rattle in his lungs.
“Arthur…” He whispers; begs. “Come on, I can’t do this alone.”
There’s no reply, obviously. Arthur’s lips remain unmoving and blueish, and Merlin is alone. Desperation festers in his heart as he finally lets the tears fall. He’s frustrated, and he’s tired, and he’s terrified that this is going to be it; he can’t hold back anymore.
As darkness starts to swirl at the edges of his vision, he barely recognizes his own voice when he throws his head back and screams at the sky. Gold spreads throughout the clearing, reflecting on the crimson trails in the snow. Inside his mind, he hears a heavy chain break. Merlin, hunched over Arthur, lets his eyes fall shut and doesn’t open them again. Not even when wings beat in the air above them, and suddenly they aren’t so cold anymore.
He barely registers the words over the sound of the winds rushing around them.
“Oh, young warlock, what have you done?”
**
When Arthur wakes, it’s to a pair of large blue eyes watching him. It doesn’t register at first, but as the final traces of sleep slip away, the smell of smoke and leather finds his nose. He rubs his eyes, takes a breath as his brain catches up to what he’s seeing.
The blur of white moves away, a concerning series of trilling noises following it across what looks to be a cave. It paces around a pile of twigs before huffing and stopping, spreading its wings, and breathing fire on it.
A dragon.
Arthur shoots up, hand going for the sword that should be sheathed at his hip but isn’t as the panic builds in his chest. He pats the ground around him in a frantic search for a weapon, only now realising that his chainmail and armour have been removed.
There’s nothing but a rock at his service, but Arthur will make do, even with no idea how he got here or why the dragon hasn’t killed him yet, he’s a knight first.
He scrambles to his feet just as it notices his awakening, gripping the rock tightly and gathering his composure. Its head shoots up, wide eyes with slits for pupils instantly trained on him as its tail swishes in the dirt. The fire below it illuminates its scales individually, and Arthur finds himself nearly entranced by the way they shimmer as it moves.
Slowly, carefully, it starts to close the distance between them, uncaring of the way its prey is quickly backing away. Arthur’s heart thunders in his chest and his breaths are short and fast. Everything else falls away, and now it’s just him and his training facing those piercing eyes and its pointed tail.
If the king of Camelot is going to die here, he thinks, he’s going to have put up a fight.
As the dragon inches closer, there’s something else glinting in the light behind it, and Arthur makes a split-second decision.
He throws the rock.
The dragon draws back, shaking its head and pawing at its nose as Arthur ducks past it and snatches the blade he’d spotted among his chainmail. As his fist closes around the hilt, he breathes a breath of relief at the familiarity of it in his hand. He turns around to face the dragon again, a hundred times more confident than before.
Its teeth are now bared, a dangerous growl arising from the depths of its throat as it prowls low to the ground. Arthur keeps his sword in a defensive position, trying not to think about what’ll happen if it decides to shower him in flames. He strikes through the air as it moves forward, missing its head by barely an inch.
Again, he moves as it does, swinging his blade every time it dares to advance. It shrieks in frustration, high-pitched and angry , and Arthur winces as the sound bounces off the walls of the cave. It seems to grow louder every second until it hurts—
He cries out, his sword falling out of his hands as he brings them up to cover his ears, every other thought forgotten as his eyes water as a result of the noise. In the end, none of his training comes to help him once there’s a clawed paw on his chest and his breath catches as his back collides with the ground.
Arthur grips the limb, trying to pry it off of him even as the dragon’s fangs are inches from his face.
It is only then he realises that the noise has faded, and has been replaced with something else. A deafening beating against the wind comes from outside. For the first time, Arthur looks towards the cave entrance, and nearly has a heart attack.
There are more.
Goddamnit, there are more.
Barely on the edge of where the light reaches, are a handful of other creatures, similar to the dragon, but smaller, and their scales lightless and black. Their eyes glint bright red, as do their fangs once they bare them. They look more terrifying than anything in Arthur’s nightmares, but it doesn’t compare to what comes next.
A form so large Arthur first assumes the mountain itself is moving appears in the entrance, which Arthur only now realises is almost a hundred metres tall. The ground beneath him shakes as it lands and steps inside, still having to duck to fit.
Oh no.
Its eyes, yellowish, have an aged hint to them, and even though it doesn’t have eyebrows, it still seems to raise one as it notices the white dragon and Arthur, both equally as frozen under its gaze. It huffs a breath, throwing his head back and –
Laughs?
Loud and booming, it’s unmistakable, the mirthful cackling eerily human as it bares its sharp teeth in a grin. Arthur fights the dragon on him harder, hoping to take advantage of the distraction and somehow make it out alive. His fingers are just inches from his sword, if he could just reach –
“Oh, Aithusa, is that any way to treat our guests?”
Arthur snaps his head up, eyes wide and brows furrowed in bewilderment as the gigantic dragon brings its head down and speaks. The dragon is speaking . Arthur must be going mad, or perhaps this is his purgatory and he’s already died. This simply can’t be real.
The one on top of him —Aithusa??— croons and lowers its head in a clear sign of respect before easing its grip on Arthur’s chest and stepping off of him.
As soon as his freedom is returned to him, Arthur hurries to his feet and fetches his sword, gripping the hilt tightly to hide the shaking of his hands. He will not show fear to these beasts, not even if there’s no chance he’ll survive.
The huge dragon’s eyes glint curiously as it moves his gaze to Arthur, head tilting like he’s some visual puzzle it can't figure out. Again, it chuckles, smoke billowing from its nostrils in turn.
“Stay back!” Arthur demands, ignoring the way his voice cracks and slicing his sword through the air.
Slow, slow enough for Arthur to be able to use his sword, it brings his head down further until it’s only a few feet away. For some reason, he can’t find it in himself to move, limbs frozen and blade wobbling in the air.
“Your Majesty,” it says, and it almost sounds mocking, even as it bows its head.
Arthur steps back, gaping. “What– Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”
He gestures to the cave while looking around himself. There’s the campfire in the centre of the cavern, burning brighter as some of the smaller creatures chatter amongst themselves and pile sticks on it. Next to it is a bedroll, where he supposes he’d been resting previously. The cave seems to go deeper, and there’s a bend that conceals the remaining sections.
Looking back at the dragon, it bears an amused smirk. “We did not have a choice in the matter, Arthur Pendragon. The reason for you being here is greater than even I.”
Arthur steadies his sword. “What reason? Who are you?!”
The dragon sighs, sitting down and settling on its front paws. “I am the Great Dragon,” it announces proudly, then nods at the white dragon who’s chasing its own tail in the corner. “That is Aithusa. Forgive her eagerness, she is still young, and certainly acts her age.”
Aithusa looks up, tail in her mouth and blue eyes wide, the very essence of innocence. Still, Arthur can’t lower his guard. He points his sword at the smaller dragons by the fire. “And them?”
The Great Dragon shakes his head. “Only here by association. Distant cousins to us.” He snarls and snaps his jaws as one of them stuffs its head in a bag and comes out with a blue tunic clasped in its mouth. It makes some panicked noise and scurries over to its kin again. The antics remind Arthur of the rats in the dungeons.
“Wyverns,” the Great Dragon tuts, watching them fight over the piece of fabric for a moment before looking back to Arthur. “Do not concern yourself with them, or any of us, for that matter. We could not harm you, even if we so wished.”
Arthur nearly chokes on his bitter laugh. “You expect me to trust you? You’re dragons, your kind slaughtered hundreds of humans! My father—”
“Do not speak to me of Uther Pendragon!” The dragon bellows, standing up abruptly to tower over Arthur, who quickly brings his blade up in defence. “My kin, slaughtered like cattle! Our spiritual brothers burnt alive as the bonds between us shrivelled and rotted! All in the name of a man whose ego simply could not handle the shame of consequences!”
Arthur steps back, making sure to keep the blade steady between them. “Liar!”
The dragon leans closer, eyes narrowed as he growls. “I do not lie. It is your kind who refuses to hear the truth.”
Breathing heavily, Arthur raises his chin defiantly, grip tight around the hilt of the sword. “I will not take your word over that of my father. I might not have agreed with all his decrees, but I will not stand for you smearing his name.”
The Great Dragon sits back and settles down, smoke billowing from his nose in a frustrated huff. “Believe what you will. I am not the one meant to change your mind.”
Arthur shakes his head, lowering his sword to his side as the tension in the air dies down. “Now tell me; you’ve captured me, why?”
The dragon chuckles, nodding his large head at the open entrance of the cavern. “We are not your guards, Pendragon. By all means, leave if you wish.”
Arthur shoots the dragon a doubtful look before looking out at the whipping winds beyond. In the distance, he can see the tops of the forests, and he gets the sense that this cave is not meant for ground dwellers. Taking a deep breath, he lets the tension slip away somewhat and drops his sword, sitting down on a rock as he pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s not like it was going to do much anyway.
“Please,” he says, voice embarrassingly small. “Just-Just tell me what happened.”
Something in the Great Dragon’s expression softens, and as he climbs to his feet, Arthur barely has the urge to be afraid anymore. The beast stretches his wings, seemingly annoyed by his inability to extend them fully in the cave, and nods to Arthur.
“Come,” he says. “It’s best if you see for yourself.”
Only somewhat wary, Arthur nods and, after some slight hesitation, pauses to sheath the sword at his hip again before following. “Very well, lead the way.”
The stomps of the dragon reverberate through the floor of the cave, and Arthur does his best to keep up with the pace, but inevitably falls a short distance behind. Aithusa is quick to fall in step with her larger kin, and Arthur hears the Great Dragon mutter to her softly, even though she only croons in response.
It’s a strange dynamic, but Arthur gets the sense that it goes deeper than he could understand anyway. However that is the case with most meaningful connections he sees people make: always an outsider, someone looking in.
The cave doesn’t go as far down as he first thought it would, and there’s only a single bend before it opens up into an even larger space. In here, fauna clings along the walls, and a number of candles are spread throughout the room, making the air warm like it’d be in his chambers back in the castle. Something about it bears a human touch, and Arthur can’t imagine this is the dwellings of a dragon.
As soon as they round the bend, Aithusa springs forward and jumps on a few tables that are in the way of her prancing. The Great Dragon sighs, but ultimately seems to decide it’s a lost cause to intervene.
Arthur looks around at a number of old, dusty, desks strewn with yellowed parchment with partly unreadable text. The ones he can read seem to be mostly nonsense, or terribly outdated. He peers up at the Great Dragon. “Is this meant to give me answers?”
The dragon huffs. “Patience. It seems your host is wandering the caves against my heeding, again. One moment.”
Deciding against asking any more questions and annoying the dragon further, Arthur scans his surroundings more intently. There’s a bundle of furs and blankets he hadn’t noticed before, on a raised platform on the cavern wall, and something in his heart tugs at the sight.
“Kilgharrah I swear to the Goddess—”
Arthur freezes, shoulders hiking to his ears as they register the voice that’s been haunting his dreams and waking hours for months now. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Of course it’s him.
He turns around. “Merlin.”
Arthur, in turn, watches Merlin drop what he’s doing, his hand letting go of a basket in favour of a hand instinctively flying to his neck, where a dark purple neckerchief covers their mark. He doesn’t know what to feel, but he hadn’t expected the first thing to be relief.
Merlin and his jet-black hair, tousled and grown, stands in a small opening in the wall, piercing eyes fixed on Arthur. It feels familiar, even though they’ve only really met twice.
“Arthur,” he breathes, eyes wide and concerned as he takes a few steps closer. He’s pale, Arthur notices, a sickly pallor to his skin that most definitely wasn’t there last time. As he walks, his legs drag awkwardly and Arthur is struck with the urge to make sure he doesn't fall.
They both step closer, equally as concerned for the other, and meet in the middle. Instantly, shamelessly, Merlin’s hands are on him, casting him barely a glance as he finds the hem of his tunic and - to his mortification - begins examining his torso.
“You’re awake,” Merlin says once he’s done, and as Arthur readjusts his shirt, he notices the jagged hole in it, right above his hip. He looks up at Merlin questioningly, but the man is distracted, looking up at the Great Dragon.
“You should’ve come to find me,” he says, unfazed by the dragon bringing his head down and breathing hot air on the two of them.
The dragon’s tenor is silky this close. “The crystals’ powers are not to be reckoned with, young warlock, how many times must I tell you?”
Merlin rolls his eyes and goes to say something else before he notices Arthur watching him, and looks between him and the dragon quickly. “Oh.” He scrunches his nose. “Oh! Did you guys, er, get through the introductions already?”
The Great Dragon snorts and leans back, and Arthur nods doubtfully, still not entirely sure of where they all stand. “We-Great Dragon told me a little, but I’m-Merlin, what’s going on here?”
Merlin raises a brow, then turns around to face the Great Dragon who’s settling down to rest around the bend of the caves. “Really? Great Dragon?”
The dragon in question chortles, but doesn’t grace them with an answer, resting his head on his front paws and watching them lazily. Merlin snorts and faces Arthur again. He gestures to the dragon, and Arthur is amazed by the nonchalance he expresses towards the ginormous creature.
“That’s Kilgharrah, he’s full of himself,” Merlin tells him and reaches for Arthur’s hand. It’s careful and awkward at first, but he quickly gains more confidence once the king tightens his grip. “Come on, I think we need to talk.”
Arthur shakes his head to clear his mind and nods, following closely behind Merlin as he leads him up a narrow pocket that quickly opens up into the same cave. They’re on the balcony where Arthur had seen the furs earlier.
There’s an opening in the ceiling of the cave just above it, providing him with a view of stars in the sky. Even more candles surround the bed, and he’s starting to question who keeps them all lit, accompanied by a stack of books. It’s… cosy.
Merlin lets go of his hand and drops on the makeshift bed, awkwardly rearranging the blankets for Arthur to sit on. They quickly discover it to be in vain, however, as Aithusa scrabbles up the edge of the balcony and flings herself onto the furs.
Merlin yelps and jumps out of the way, sighing as the creature claims the entire bed as her own. Sheepishly, he tugs a fur out from under her and spreads it on the ground. They both sit with a reasonable space between them, and Aithusa rests her head on Merlin’s shoulder.
“Talk to me, Merlin,” Arthur prompts as soon as they’re settled, voice coming out more annoyed than he meant it to. “What am I doing here?”
Merlin takes a deep breath, and seems to steady himself before he shifts so their legs are almost touching. His eyes are serious, concerned, as if he’s trying to peel back his layers. “What do you remember?”
Arthur sighs.
Camlann… Swords clashing, fire and blood, the thrum of adrenaline in his veins. His knights, Leon and Elyan staying close. Percival and Gwaine fighting in the distance. Sweat dripping down his forehead, freezing as cold air crackles in his throat. Metal glinting in the sun, the ache of muscles, and the creak of leather.
It all comes in disjointed flashes he can’t make sense of. It’s confusing and distant, as if it was all a dream. Except there’s something else, an image in his mind. A face, he realises, but blurred enough that he can’t make out the features. Arthur brings a hand to his side unconsciously, rubbing the increasing burn there.
“The battle,” he says, grimacing at the phantom sensation. He looks up at Merlin, another worry beginning to fester inside him as the man refuses to meet his eyes. “Merlin, who won?”
Merlin hesitates. The silence is enough of an answer.
“Arthur—”
The king gets up to pace, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. What of his knights? His people? How long has it been? Why isn’t he with them? He’s riddled with so many questions his mind blanks, and the only thing he manages is to turn to Merlin and just short of begging. “Tell me, please.”
Merlin bites his lip, eyes calculating as he nods and pats the space next to him. Arthur complies, and takes a deep breath. “You fought bravely, but courage is meaningless to a priestess like Morgause. When she realised her men were losing ground, she stopped trying to win, and began trying to kill you. Things are-Things got bad, and your knights had to retreat.”
Arthur can almost remember. Sparks of fire that seem to come out of nowhere. A nonsensical ringing in his ears. Maybe it should instil him with some terror to begin to remember it, but it feels unreal when now he’s sitting in a warm cave speaking to a person he’s only ever dared to think about at night.
“I was-Arthur, you have to believe me, I was trying to get to you, but—” Merlin winces, his hand jumping to his chest. “I was too late, I’m sorry.”
Arthur shakes his head, catching the action before meeting his sincere eyes, a hint of confusion in his own. “I’m here now, aren’t I? It seems you were just in time.”
And it really does. In fact, Arthur can’t remember feeling better than this in a long, long time. He can’t even begin to understand what has the man so concerned and apologetic.
He watches Merlin’s face crumble into a grimace, and quickly continues, “I’m the one who should apologise.” Arthur presses their knees together to get the other man to look at him. “You warned me about her and I didn’t listen. This is my fault, if anyone’s.”
Merlin shakes his head quickly enough for Aithusa to fall off his shoulder and huff a breath of hot air at him in retaliation. “No,” he says and grips Arthur’s hand so hard it nearly hurts. “None of it is your burden to bear. I couldn’t keep her from—”
Arthur jumps as the man breaks off to cough. He thinks nothing of it for the first few seconds, but when they drag on, he furrows his brows and lets his hand hover above Merlin’s back as it continues to be wracked by ragged hacks that concern Arthur beyond reason.
“Merlin?” He prompts when the man turns away from him, curling into himself with his back turned.
He watches Aithusa perk up on the bed, head tilting as her big eyes fill with worry and confusion. She carefully slinks onto the ground and nuzzles Merlin’s neck, keening curiously.
The coughs don’t cease for another minute, and Arthur decides that’s enough. He wills his hand not to quiver as he lays it on Merlin’s shoulder and slowly turns him back to face him. As he does, his heart skips a beat.
Oh Gods.
Arthur stammers for a second before kicking back into gear, gripping Merlin’s face and watching blood flow down his face and neck. He doesn’t even think about it when he spins around to yell across the cave. “Dragon!”
He doesn’t wait for the creature, continuing to focus on Merlin, but Kilgharrah is at their side in an instant. Arthur looks at him with wide panicked eyes, hands growing sticky from the blood smeared on Merlin’s face. Recognition glazes the dragon’s eyes as he takes in the scene, and his tone is measured when he speaks.
“Young warlock.”
Merlin only groans in response, leaning his head on Aithusa with his eyes tightly squeezed shut. Arthur forces down the fear it incites within him and reaches behind them to rip a blanket from the bed and press it to his mark’s nose.
“What happened to him?” He demands thickly, staring as the pelt turns red with Merlin’s blood. “Who did this?”
Merlin raises a hand in the air for the dragon not to respond, mumbling incoherently. Both of them ignore him.
“He is unwell,” Kilgharrah says, as if Merlin is simply feeling a little under the weather. He shifts to address the man in question, and Arthur furrows his brows, wondering if that’s the only explanation he’ll get. “Merlin, I told you this would happen, if you would have listened to my—”
Merlin groans and coughs again, effectively cutting the creature off as his fingers rip the kerchief from his neck, pawing at his throat as if it'll help him breathe. Arthur braces himself for the sight of their shared mark, except his mind’s image has nothing over reality.
He’s only been able to conjure a muddy picture from memory since that fateful night all those months ago. Still, having spent so much longer — his entire life — tracing its twin seared to his chest, Arthur can’t help but notice that it wasn’t glowing before.
Gold so bright it’s nearly blinding emanates from the mark, the skin around it red and irritated. Suddenly he notices the scratch marks around it, promptly tightening his fists and telling himself it’s not worth asking about why they’re there.
Even so, Arthur shoots Kilgharrah a panicked look, but the dragon is too busy rolling his eyes to notice. It seems the creature has decided to be most unhelpful, and Arthur isn’t going to hold his breath for any answers.
Shuffling closer and manoeuvring himself slightly behind Merlin, he tries not to let fear affect him in the proximity of the other, smaller dragon. Her eyes watch him darkly, and Arthur gets the sense that he’s reaching the limit of what she’ll let him do to her master.
He tries to conjure the authority he somehow manages to hold in council meetings, forcing his voice to be steady as he says, “He needs herbs, or-or medicine. Where’s your physician?”
Aithusa blinks at him and tilts her head, clearly not as versed in the healing practices as he is. Which is a feat, since Arthur’s knowledge is minimal at best. He sighs, hoisting Merlin up to lean more on the bed. He considers asking the man himself, but Merlin’s getting paler by the minute, and certainly isn’t in any state to be guiding his pathetically shaking soulmate to keep him from dying—
Gods, Arthur, keep it together.
“Blankets,” he says quickly. “He needs more blankets.”
This time, Aithusa squawks in recognition and springs from the platform, luckily not remembering the many quilts on the bed. A few crashes from below follow, so Arthur takes this chance while he can.
Merlin groans as Arthur saves him from sliding into the dirt again, and he tries not to let the sound get to him. Arthur barely even thinks about it as his arms envelop his soulmate and pull him tighter to his chest. This is the only way he knows how to heal. If it doesn’t help, he has nothing else to offer.
Surprisingly, the rays of light coming from the mark dim, if only by a little. Arthur swallows thickly, bringing a hand up to brush the tender skin. His thumb strokes the mark itself softly, a nauseating sense of finally being where he’s supposed to be overwhelming him. “I assumed it was a trick,” he says without thinking, then continues to ramble. “Perhaps I hoped it was, I don’t know.”
“I could never—” Merlin breathes, eyes lidded. “Would never do that to you, Arthur.”
And he knows. Gods, he knows. The things he’s felt, the grieving of a person he barely knows is so much worse than what he went through as his father passed. He, a child raised to be a capable ruler, always thought his father would eventually win and he’d get trapped in a marriage with some lonely princess just as miserable as he.
Arthur barely knew what regular love felt like, but now he does. Even while they were apart, he loved Merlin and felt Merlin’s love in turn. No matter if it was conscious or not, Arthur has grown to love the trees and the birds and life in a way that can’t be entirely his.
At first his wishful thinking had him believing this was Merlin’s parting gift for him, except now he thinks that this is proof of their connection — that he got a piece of Merlin, and now he gets to see the world through his brilliant blue-gold eyes.
Still — and he hates himself for it — he is tired, and he’s been left neglected and bitter in the time they were apart, and he can’t help but ask, “Then why would you hide?”
Merlin’s breath hitches, and Arthur regrets ever opening his mouth. He keeps a firm grip on the man’s cheek to convey that he’s not looking to fight, and nearly faints in relief as the man raises his palm to meet Arthur’s cheek.
“Because, my lord,” Merlin whispers, “being with you, while not being able to be with you, is somehow a fate worse than dying.”
Arthur, unable to hold back, presses their foreheads together, their tears mingling on Merlin’s blood-smeared cheeks. The man sobs, but continues. “I’ll love you forever, I swear, Arthur—” He breaks off the cough again. “But you are a king, and I’m a murderer, if not just a sorcerer. I’d put you in danger by simply being near, and I- I can’t. I can’t be the reason we lose each other.”
“We can.” Arthur draws back, tears streaming down his face. “Merlin, I’ll-We’ll make it work—”
He’s interrupted as the mark begins glowing again, except this time Arthur’s mark glows too. It doesn’t hurt like he was expecting. Merlin isn’t as lucky, writhing on the dirt as his eyes fly open — gold, breathtakingly gold — in shock and he gasps for air.
Merlin cries out, clawing at his neck. “It burns!”
Hands hovering uselessly, Arthur is struck with urgency. This is it, he thinks, this is where he loses him.
“What do I do?” Arthur gets up to ask the dragon. “How do I help him?!”
Kilgharrah’s face turns solemn, almost mournful, but he still won’t speak. His tail brushes the ground behind him, knocking some tables over as he stares emptily at the boy Arthur is beginning to suspect he cares more for than he’ll admit. Anger comes to him at the thought.
“Tell me!” Arthur cries, drawing his sword and swinging it wildly as his voice grows even more broken and desperate. “Why won’t you tell me?”
Kilgharrah closes his eyes and sighs. Maybe he comes to some decision, because when he opens them again, he finally speaks.
“Because you already know the answer,” he tells them both, voice soft and tone gentle, as if he’s not supposed to be helping at all. “You both do.”
Arthur looks at Merlin, at his pale face and his bloodied skin. He barely knows what kind of urge has him stalking forward and kneeling at Merlin's side. He only feels the overwhelming force of acceptance and ‘this is right’ as he takes Merlin’s face in his hands, wipes the tears away and sees the pain in the man’s expression fall away, then kisses him.
Instantly, their world explodes with light. Golden and idyllic, it spreads in the cave so quickly and powerfully that several ancient creatures have to cover their eyes.
It doesn’t really register, Arthur’s too preoccupied with the softness of Merlin’s lips and the way they fit so perfectly against his own. So when Merlin smiles into the kiss, Arthur can’t help but do the same.
It’s not long before their embrace is reduced to them laughing into each other's mouths and falling until Arthur is leaning above Merlin on the ground — ironically familiar — and the latter is watching him with the brightest of smiles on his face.
His mark, Arthur notices, is its usual, dim, gold, and the skin around it is no longer red and angry. The scratches remain, but in time those too, will heal.
Arthur smiles and leans down to kiss him again, except Merlin speaks as they’re just inches from one another. “I’ll win you the war,” he says, as if that isn’t the furthest thing from what’s on Arthur's mind. Said man starts, sitting back with a dumbfounded expression as Merlin tacks on, “Let me stay, let me serve you.”
And how many times hasn’t Arthur heard that? How many knights have sworn to fight for him only to do so and then come back wrapped in blood-matted linen. He looks at Merlin, at his soulmate. That can’t be his end, not after all this.
“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “I can’t ask that of you. Not you, I- I’d be sending you to your death. I won’t lose you.”
Merlin grips his tunic, clinging to it as he squirms into a sitting position and faces Arthur with eyes burning with determination. “Arthur, I’d do anything-” The desperation in his voice seems to leave him breathless, and he takes a few rapid gulps of air while Arthur holds onto his arms.
“I’ll be by your side even if it’s in death,” he vows. “I’ll live forever with you if you so wish, I swear.”
And maybe it’s the magic, the gold swimming in his irises, or maybe Arthur has turned dumb by the love he holds for this absolutely insane man. But he believes him. Utterly and entirely. He meets the eyes of his soulmate and knows that Merlin won’t leave, gets the sense that he’s powerful enough to defy even death in order for them to stay together.
“Okay,” Arthur whispers, leaning their foreheads together and letting the weight of everything that just happened settle. He kisses the corner of Merlin’s mouth, murmuring so quietly that he’s sure the man won’t hear, “I love you.”
Merlin kisses him back properly. “I love you too,” he says once they break it.
The sincerity of their admissions lingers. Even as Aithusa returns with a pitiful rag in her maw she quickly drops in favour of tackling them both and licks their faces until Arthur’s hair is slicked back with dragon’s drool. He laughs and manages to duck out of the next round as Merlin fruitlessly protests Aithusa’s pungent breath.
Arthur glances over at Kilgharrah, catches the creature watching the pair with a surprisingly soft smile. He meets Arthur’s eyes, and they share a nod, finding mutual ground in the way they vow to keep the others safe
After a minute passes, Kilgharrah snaps his teeth behind Aithusa’s tail, and her head shoots up comically fast, spinning around to look at her older kin. She hops off of Merlin and begins chattering unintelligibly as Arthur side-steps her wagging tail to help Merlin to his feet.
Kindly suppressing his laughter as the man attempts to smooth his tousled hair down and brush off his wrinkled clothing, Arthur keeps his hand in Merlin’s even as he proves perfectly able to stand on his own. Eventually, he abandons the effort and nods to the path they took to get up here earlier. Arthur nods back, taking a deep breath to brace himself as they leave the warm reprieve behind them.
They still need to talk. Morgause still has an army on their way to Camelot, and Arthur still needs to find his knights. They have a war to win, after all.
And Merlin still needs to explain where the hell he got dragons.