Rohan: Thanks! I find it rather hard to choose a favorite, I have to admit.
Starts with a D: Nah, that's not dumb—I probably wasn't clear enough.
Starzinmieyez: I'm always glad when it's a bit unpredictable! Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)
Shalimar: No, that won't happen here. I don't think I've developed a good enough grasp on the characters yet to try to change something so fundamental while still making it seem in character. Maybe eventually in another story, though.
AzraelLilith: Oh, I always at least respond to questions. It's why I love reviews so much—they help me gauge where I've led people to think the story is going, or what's possible, etc. Plus, it's just nice to know someone cares enough about the story to think about this stuff (reviews=happy author, I have to admit). Anyway, answer: there's always that possibility. Though, a better chance for Merlin would probably be to test the limits of exactly what Arthur can and can't do to stop his magic. Can he make big sweeping statements that stop Merlin's magic entirely? Or does he have to be specific to the situation? Things like that. Arthur's power isn't absolute, even if Merlin can't break a direct hold on his magic—I'll say that.
DammitimmaD: Thank you!
alisseadreams: I agree—Arthur really hasn't thought out how unfair his request is. I think in some sense, though, that's just Arthur—he's been raised to think everyone ought to give him control simply because of who he is. It's an interesting aspect of his character to explore. Thanks for reading!
ruby890: Thanks for reading!
Alaia Skyhawk: Angst and characters' thoughts seem to be two things I can't avoid, so I'm very pleased you find both of them interesting!
They ride for Camelot as soon as they can get Balinor into a saddle. Merlin, Arthur is sure, would prefer to give his father a bit more time to recover, but he understands the necessity as well as anyone. The Great Dragon must be stopped, and Balinor is the only one capable of that.
And so they ride hard.
The sound of the horses' clipped hoof beats sounds in the trees around them, echoing out a familiar rhythm, one that Arthur could almost set his life by. The smell of the damp, earthy forest, dust of the road settling on him—he has done this so many times, and yet there is nothing the same about this time at all.
Your father will not see reason, his conscience tells him, and suddenly the hoof beats sound a bit more like the pounding of the drum at an execution.
I won't tell him. He doesn't need to know. Merlin is not a threat.
It's not a matter of law anymore, but of right and wrong, and of the knowledge that Merlin is a good man—Arthur's man. His responsibility. Just like every knight who serves under him is his responsibility, even more so is Merlin. Foolish, clumsy Merlin, who throws himself into danger purely to protect Arthur. It's not a knightly code he does it for. It's not honor. It's more personal than that.
The dust of the rode settles in Arthur's lungs, choking him as easily as the thick smoke drifting from a pyre.
You've taken something from him. He has never betrayed you, and yet you don't trust him. You forced him to give you control of his magic, because you didn't trust him.
Arthur spurs his horse a little harder, ignoring its affronted grunt. Behind him, he thinks he hears Merlin mutter something equally as irritated, but the words get lost in the sound of hooves and seem to fade into the trees themselves.
It's not true. I do trust him. Not others, though-not how they could use him. No man, no matter how good, should have unquestioned power.
By the time they finally sight the walls of Camelot, Arthur has gone half mad with his own thoughts: the horse has been pushed harder than it should have been, and Arthur himself is feeling equally as physically taxed, and, yet, despite his exhaustion, he still cannot block the thoughts that rise in his mind.
There's no denying the hesitant look Merlin shoots him when they draw to a halt in the courtyard, and, yes, he does have good reason to look worried, doesn't he? Balinor is here, in Camelot, and if that weren't enough, the destruction splayed on the stones around them would certainly be enough to sufficiently worsen the situation. Broken stone and charred wood, the wreck of carts and weapons—whatever anyone could grab in hopes of defending themselves. The bodies are gone, of course, cleared upon the break of daylight when the dragon seems to be content to leave off until the following evening, but stains remain on the pavement, as obvious as the bodies themselves to one who knows what to look for.
Arthur makes it a point not to look.
"Well?" Balinor all but grunts out.
Any other time, it would be insisted upon that Balinor clean himself up before being presented to Uthur. Truly, he looks terrible: there's blood staining his shirt—and they will quite carefully not mention how that got there, because there is simply no way Arthur can convincingly explain away a mortal wound—and his hair, unkempt and matted, falls around his face and into his eyes. His eyes, though—they may be the worst bit. There's just an… emptiness to them, a sadness that Arthur hadn't thought was possible. This goes beyond simple grief—it's agony that's sunk deeper until it defines Balinor, to the point where it haunts his physical appearance.
Thank God Merlin doesn't have his father's eyes.
Not yet.
Arthur dismounts just a little more viciously than he needs to, and his horse jerks in protest, pulling against the hold of whatever person has somehow materialized to take the reigns. He hardly notices, focused instead on how Balinor sits calmly on his horse, barely noting the destruction around him. He has no love for Camelot, it's true, but shouldn't he at least feel something?
"Well?" he echoes back at Balinor. "I'm waiting."
That at least earns him some sort of expression, though he can't quite define it. Whatever it is, it's gone quickly, and Balinor is instead shooting a glance toward his son as the both of them dismount—more peacefully than Arthur by far—and come to stand beside each other on the cobblestones.
Years alone in a cave would probably dampen anyone's inclination for emotional contact, and yet there is something entirely undeniable in the way Balinor looks at Merlin. Open the look certainly is not, but Arthur has seen that stare in men when they view something their very life hinges on. For a moment, he wonders if Balinor will say something, though he's prove wrong when the man only gives Merlin a small, slow inclination of his head before turning back to Arthur.
"Best finish this then," he says quietly.
Yes. That's for the best. To finish it. Of course.
If Balinor sees the stares of the few people around them—though, most people are still wisely hiding inside the buildings—he gives no indication. He hardly even acknowledges Merlin again as he turns to head toward the castle, but instead chooses to slip by him, angling in the direction of the doors.
He knows the way. Of course he knows the way. He used to live here.
Balinor used to live here, just like Merlin lives here now, and Arthur would never admit to the unpleasant tingle that thought sends down his arms—but that doesn't make that feeling any less real. Anyway, real or not, it loosens his tongue, and he's turning to speak to Merlin before he thinks much about it: "You can't tell anyone else."
Merlin, who has already moved to follow after his father, doesn't stop. But, then, that's Merlin—always disobeying—and this is Merlin's father, so of course Merlin will follow him single-mindedly, even if it leads him straight to the pyre.
Which is exactly what Arthur is afraid of.
Before Merlin can get much further, Arthur gets a grip on his elbow, curling his fingers into the fabric covering it hard enough that he knows Merlin has to feel it. "I mean it, Merlin," he says, even as they keep walking after Balinor. "You cannot tell anyone who he is to you. No one. Not a word."
"Gaius told me as much. Of course, you were on that list of 'anyone'."
That answer is exactly as comforting as Merlin meant for it to be—that is, not at all. "This isn't a suggestion, Merlin."
"You can't very well make it more. What will you do? You're father will execute me if he finds out. You can't kill me twice."
Infuriating. There is no other word. "I'm not letting you die even once," he snarls as they begin climbing the steps. The few people in the courtyard have to have noticed the interaction, but no has been obvious enough about it to draw Arthur's attention, which is more than a little lucky, because at this point, he's about ready to snap at any convenient source. "Balinor will kill the dragon, and then he'll leave Camelot—"
The words weren't meant to be so sharp, but Merlin's caught off guard by them to the point where he nearly meets the ground with his face when he tries to ascend the last step. Arthur supposes it's a good thing that he's holding Merlin's elbow so tightly after all, because not much else keeps him standing. "You'd turn him out just like that?"
"Don't be daft, Merlin. I'll see that he's well cared for. But we both know how foolish it would be for him to stay here. My father will allow him to live for the service he's doing Camelot, but I can't believe that you think his goodwill can possibly be expected to extend further than that."
Twisting his neck, Merlin looks at him blankly. "Arthur—"
"Not a word about it, Merlin. That's an order."
Merlin drops his gaze away again, back toward the ground, the lines of his neck so tense that the tendons stand highlighted in the glare of the afternoon sun. "I wasn't going to tell anyone anyway," he mumbles just as they head through the doors into the castle.
The rest of the walk up to the throne room is enough to make Arthur swear that winter has come early. The castle is only this icy in the dead of winter… or, apparently, when Merlin is well and truly irritated. At this point, frost wouldn't be much of a surprise. It really wouldn't even be shocking to find that Merlin had cast a spell to effect the climate, though Arthur is rather inclined to dismiss that possibility: the swirl of irritation and fear and… other things Arthur can't define that is coming off of Merlin is enough to chill any building all on its own.
Of course, Merlin needn't have bothered: Uther could have done that all for him, at the moment with just a look. Or, more specifically, with the look he gives Balinor when, on a word from Arthur, the doors to the throne room are drawn back and the dragon lord is admitted into the room.
Immediately, Uther's shoulders tense, and he draws up straighter, wrapping himself in his power as visibly as he would a physical cloak. Balinor hardly seems effected: he makes his way up the aisle with steady, even clomps that sound louder inside than they did in the forest. He could be walking to his execution for all he knows, and yet his hands remain at his side, his aura calm.
Uther should be bothered to take lessons: he is, currently, showing his thoughts in a manner so blatantly obvious that Arthur knows if he were the one doing it, Uther would lecture him for hours on not showing the enemy what's on his mind and in his heart. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a problem if Uther's thoughts weren't so clearly malevolent.
We are at this man's mercy. There is nothing to be gained by showing your hatred, Father.
It's also possible there is little to be gained from even harboring that hatred to begin with, for all the good it's done them these many years after they first lit that bonfire of ill-will and human bodies. Literal, metaphorical—in this case, it may all by the same. Hatred lit a fire in Uther, and Uther lit a fire in Camelot. People burned.
This man escaped.
Merlin was conceived.
And Uther is still burning.
"You asked me here," Balinor says evenly, surprising Arthur by being the first to speak, "and yet you look as though you believe I'm poisoning the very ground I walk on."
It's very likely Uther believes exactly that: at the very least, those words dig at him to the point where the lines of his throat strain, broken only by a sharp swallow, when he tilts his chin back higher, looking down his nose at the man in front of him. "Your kind poisons everything you touch. And, yet, I find myself with no other recourse. Your aid is necessary."
"I don't come back for you. There are still good people in Camelot—people who don't deserve to die because of your hate."
Yes, his son. Gaius. If not for them, Camelot would fall. That truth is there for all to see in the stiff set of Balinor's jaw—in the way he looks at Uther like nothing more than a snake. And the worst part? Arthur cannot say if he is wrong. Never more than now, he is acutely aware that he doesn't know the full story. Oh, he's sure it's true that Balinor fled in the purges… but there's more. There has to be. There's Merlin and Hunith; and the reason Balinor ended up in a cave instead of with his family; and maybe even the explanation behind the way he looks at Merlin like he's found something he never even knew he lost, but that he's half afraid to reclaim.
Is Uther responsible for all of that?
Arthur stands up a bit straighter as he comes to a stop beyond Balinor, to the right of the throne. From here he can easily see Balinor's face, and, just behind him, grouped amongst the knights also standing there, Merlin.
In terms of composure, Balinor far outweighs his son. Merlin—in all honesty, he looks as though he expects disaster at any moment (not to say that's an entirely misplaced fear), at least if the frenetic clenching of his jaw is anything to go by. Balinor, in contrast, stands before Uther with hard eyes, hands tucked peaceably in front of him. He fills the space in a way Merlin hasn't yet learned to. Dirty and haggard and poorly dressed, he commands the attention of the room. Even Uther's focus is fully on him, and if there were an eye not already looking to the fabled dragon lord, that focus from the high king would suck all emphasis to that one point—to Balinor.
"I care very little for your reasons," Uther answers dismissively. "I ask only that you kill the dragon and then leave immediately."
Balinor's gaze hardens further. "So little gratitude."
"You do not even deserve your life. The fact that you are still alive is gratitude enough."
Uther is a good king—Arthur truly believes it. But in this, he is blind. Terribly, terribly blind: this man is Camelot's only hope, and yet Uther hardly tolerates his presence. Whether out of broken pride over having to ask for Balinor's help or hate for what he is, it hardly matters—Uther is putting his kingdom at risk because of personal feelings.
Foolish—but it is not Arthur's place to say so. He swallows down his words.
At the same time, Balinor seems to toss his own down like a gauntlet. "Not for lack of trying. You pursued me past your borders. I had left, and yet it was not enough. You had no business in Ealdor."
Ealdor.
Somewhere in Arthur's chest, something cold and heavy, almost slimy, churns over. Ealdor. Balinor sought refuge in Ealdor. There are many answers in that if he wants to find them. Though, after what has happened between him and Merlin, he can't quite dismiss the lingering feeling that whispers that those answers are Merlin's to give when he's ready.
And can't he at least let Merlin have that?
For a few tedious moments, it seems that Uther will counter Balinor's reproach… and, if he does, Arthur is almost certain he will be tipping over into area that will break whatever unspoken, glass-fragile truce he and Balinor have tediously struck. Thankfully, though, Uther seems to realize that as well, and rather than risking his kingdom, he lets the comment slip by with nothing more than a scowl.
"My knights will accompany you to the dragon," he says instead, one hand going to rest lightly on his throne. His knuckles are just a faction too white to make the grip appear casual—to refute the sense that he wishes the throne were Balinor's throat.
Balinor's gaze jumps to Uther's hand, then back to his face. And God help him, Arthur liked the previous blankness better than he likes the small, cold smile that Balinor gives Uther. "I have no need of their protection."
"Then you need not make use of them. But they will accompany you nonetheless."
Something in Balinor's eyes shifts, and his hands clench, right before he moves them carefully behind his back and tucks them there, out of Arthur's view. "I imagine they will," he says quietly, with a tint in his tone that is very like understanding.
Though, Arthur cannot imagine what it is that he's discerned. Whatever it is, it's not obvious.
There's a small comfort to be found—very small, because he does mock Merlin near daily for his incompetence—in how Merlin, judging by the smear of his lips into a position that screams confusion, has also been unable to guess the reason. Though, perhaps he should give Merlin a bit more credit: no one else seems to have even noticed the subtle shift at all.
Finally, Balinor nods. "I will seek the dragon within the hour."
Stiff-necked to the end, Uther just barely manages to inclines his own head in return: even then, it might as well be an insult as an affirmation. "See that you do." No other dismissal is needed—those words are curt enough.
Arthur has been raised in the court since birth. When other children were told fantastical tales, Arthur was put to bed on stories of intrigue and politics. He learned early that court life—at least among the royals—thrives on the unspoken, feeding itself with gestures and implications not fully said, but only teased at. All of that—everything he has been raised in the midst of—screams at him that something has passed here, something very significant.
But despite a lifetime of experience, he cannot say what it is.
Across the room, he meets Merlin's gaze. Somehow, it seems to have deepened, going a darker blue, very like the sky before a storm. There is no warning there—only undiluted worry—though it isn't needed, truthfully.
Arthur feels it keenly enough himself that Merlin need not tell him.
Something is about to unravel.