Chapter 7: The Bell Will Ring
With hair of sun and gaze of sky
The bell will ring to let him by
So join the key and sound the bell
Descend into the flaming hell.
…..*…..
Merlin's sleep was deep and profound, but not exactly restful. He could sense the proximity of the grove, it called it sang it promised. It was like the first glimpse of home after a long day, when body and spirit alike were tired and sore and dusty, the rich scent of stew bubbling over his own fireside, the welcoming smile of his mother, the slight rippling of breeze over tent material, audible through the trees.
He woke early, and impatient. It was his right, he supposed, to wake the others and demand the continuation of their journey, but he was also the youngest – and as unfamiliar with dealing with strangers as he was with the position of command.
There were certain times in the day's rotation that were special, when the magic in the world ran a little higher for a few moments. Midnight, of course, was the most powerful time, that breath of between one day and the next, both and neither. Noon, then, the sun at its zenith, neither rising nor setting but again between, the daylight hours divided exactly in half. Sunset, and… sunrise.
Merlin didn't want to visit the grove by himself, even for that glorious moment when the sun took its first look at a fresh day – there would be difficulties if his absence was noticed. Luckily for him, there was another option, and a very close second choice, for him.
His cloak fastened at his throat, but out of the way behind his shoulders, Merlin chose a tree only a few paces away, the tallest and straightest, and began to climb.
He was thirty feet off the ground when the swaying warned him this was his limit. He put his back to the trunk, straddling one branch while his right foot remained firmly on another beneath. There was a few moments left before daybreak, and he looked down at the camp, mostly obscured below the myriad branches and leaves between him and the ground. All was yet still.
Merlin lifted his face to the east, where the sun would rise over the low shoulders of the range of hills ending at Dinas Emrys and the valley, and found himself repeating the prophecy silently, lips moving with the words.
At Dinas Emrys fiery core, the ancient magic sleeps no more. The mountain high, the giant deep – before the day was out, he'd look upon that giant. And perhaps learn the truth about his fathers?
The canopy overhead lightened, hinted at the blue of day. Hair of sun and gaze of sky… Arthur. The becoming prince who would set all aright. All aright – that was kind of a lot. Merlin felt a little guilty for misleading the older boy. Probably… probably Merlin would have wanted Arthur – even a young enemy scout, even if he'd had black hair and brown eyes and nothing to do with princehood – released from captivity in Vortigern's camp. But it was a moot point, after all. Arthur was the becoming prince, and Merlin had a strong suspicion that the older boy's presence was going to be necessary.
Join the key – was he himself the key, then? Lord's true key… The dragonlord's offspring needed to unlock the dragon's resting place, somehow. And sound the bell.
Then again, Arthur wasn't telling him everything either, was he? Agreeing to come along – it wasn't much of a choice, really, tied to a post in a hut or tramping the woods freely on a dragon-quest – didn't make them allies. First and foremost, Arthur was a Pendragon. He held Merlin's promise to do no unauthorized magic. He had allowed the healing yesterday, but of course that was highly self-serving, wasn't it? He accepted Uther's ideas about the druids and magic, and would fight to defeat Vortigern once and for all. Vortigern, the last leader with any power who'd promised anything to the druid clans.
Merlin looked down, shifted his position, curled his fingers around the trunk of his tree to lean far out first to one side, then the other.
Arthur was gone. His bedroll had been abandoned in its place, and Merlin could not see where he had gone.
His heart seized in his chest. Without Arthur, it might be impossible for him to get to the dragon. That meant Vortigern would kill either Ruadan – or Merlin, when he returned with no solution to the earth-tremors. Ye gods, Arthur, no! He clenched his teeth on a sob – even Iseldir's gentle encouragement for him to embrace the destiny of an impending sacrificial death had not felt so painful an abandonment. He wanted to scream out the other boy's name from his vantage point, beg him to return.
There. Merlin's eyes caught movement, a stone's toss distant from the camp where the two soldiers slept. It was Arthur, his fair hair visible even in the pre-dawn light. He was stalking something, it looked like, silently and intently. Or – looking for something. Trying to make his way from the camp undetected? Merlin had only to open his mouth and call, and Arthur would be recaptured, forced to continue with them… he kept his silence. If Arthur was trying to make an escape, he'd help him by not betraying him… no matter what it cost. The more fool he.
No. Arthur was circling to the north, away from the direction where any forces from Camelot might be expected to come. He wasn't leaving, he was… looking for Merlin, himself.
Unseen, Merlin beamed down on the blonde head. That was princely behavior. Becoming. Set all aright? Yes, he could see it.
In that moment, the first rays of morning light broke over the mountain, touched Merlin in his high perch. The magic swelled, his soul sang. Old and young beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call. Light of fire and light of sun, both become the chosen one.
Satisfied, he began to descend.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur stewed in anxiety, caught in a decision he couldn't make. If he was clever he'd run and never look back. But there were certain principles inherent in the code of knighthood, the code of honor – though he wasn't old enough yet to prove himself worthy of the title – that taught the right over the clever.
He had to wait. Had to give Merlin chance upon chance until all hope – and what was left was thinning mighty fast – was gone. He shivered, wondering if it would mean his death, if he'd end up regretting this inactivity bitterly.
"Morning, Arthur."
His head snapped up to meet the blue gaze of the druid boy, standing on the lowest, eye-level, branch of a tree barely two paces away, his grin mischievously good-natured.
Emotion surged through Arthur as the younger boy made ready to drop to the ground. First, overwhelming relief – he was here, he was safe, he hadn't run or betrayed or… Second, a towering rage. How could he? Sneak his way up a tree to hide and watch Arthur's fruitless search and laugh to himself? And third, a pervasive bitter embarrassment that Arthur had been tricked into lowering his guard, into caring, that he'd given this skinny sorcerer such power over his mood – his heart – in such a short time.
Arthur was unused to such a flood of strong and contradictory feelings in the space of a breath. Merlin leaped – he landed – he began to straighten. Arthur's hand rose with the swelling of vehement passion inside, and shoved the other boy before he had full control of his balance.
Merlin tumbled back on the ground, caught completely unaware by the violence of the motion. For a moment he lay there, staring at Arthur with his mouth dropped open in disbelief.
Another emotion took Arthur by surprise, in that moment. Shame. Red, hot shame – he was an ass and a bully. He should apologize, help the boy up, dust him off – he resisted, hating the feeling, hating the scrawny, big-eyed idiot for making him feel. A Pendragon is never wrong. A Pendragon doesn't apologize, he justifies.
"Next time, Merlin," he hissed, "Try telling someone where you're going before you disappear without warning."
So he wouldn't have to watch the parade of Merlin's own reactions move clearly across the boy's face, he turned and stomped away, back to the camp-circle. He wished for his own sword, and a straw practice dummy to take his frustration out on. He rolled his blanket with vicious efficiency, and tended to the nominal meal preparations with the waking soldiers.
Merlin crept after him soundlessly, sharing in the few chores, the few bites, wary and subdued. It was an awful change from the open, eager boyishness of the previous afternoon and evening, and Arthur knew it was his fault. He cursed himself, and wished this quest was already over.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin lay on the ground under the tree, momentarily stunned, and tried to catch his breath.
When Alvarr had done similar things, his face had shown nothing but animosity, a grim delight at causing Merlin pain. But from Arthur's expression, he could see that the shove had been reflexive temper, almost as surprising to the older boy as it had been to him. Consternation, embarrassment, even a flicker of concern, before he'd covered it all with a volatile irritation.
Merlin picked himself up slowly and followed. Through breakfast, he kept his distance and his silence, wary of provoking another outburst, not because of any pain or humiliation to himself, but because he'd identified Arthur's final feeling – regret, and he did not want to be the reason that the older boy would feel such again. Whatever had caused his mood that morning, Merlin thought he could still believe that such actions were unusual for the older boy, and whether he ever said he was sorry – not that he needed to – Merlin could see that he was, and forgive him.
And that had nothing to do with the continuation of their quest.
Merlin was the first of the four ready to leave. The soldiers, however, showed the same reluctance to proceed in the dawn light as they had in the twilight gloom.
"We're close," Merlin ventured to say, hoping to reassure them. "It's just down the valley, half a league, maybe."
"The door is in the grove?" Benley said, with a glance at his red-headed fellow. "And then the cave?" Merlin nodded, trying to control his impatience. "And you'll come back the same way?"
"I don't know," Merlin said honestly.
The red-haired soldier kicked the ground, crossed his arms over his chest and stared behind Merlin in the direction of the grove. "We're staying here," he said, bluntly and abruptly. "We'll wait til mid-afternoon. That'll get us back to camp by sunset. If you're not here…" He shrugged.
If they didn't return, with or without the dragon, Ruadan's life was forfeit. Merlin wondered how that would affect Vortigern's relations with the other elders – if they would hasten to appease him and renew the agreement, or whether they would retreat from contact.
"We want half the supplies, then," Arthur said.
The two exchanged a look, and Benley tossed a full water-skin to the older boy. "If you get hungry, hurry back," he said sarcastically.
So Merlin and Arthur set off, together and alone. The silence felt awkward at first, but as they approached the grove and the magic and the life thrummed very nearly audibly around him, he found the significance of that tension draining away.
"Slow down, will you?" Arthur spoke to him for the first time, mildly.
Instead of responding with a saucy, Keep up! Merlin threw a shy smile over his shoulder and said, "Sorry. We're so close. It – pulls at me. Do you feel it?"
Behind him, Arthur's footsteps halted, and Merlin turned. The older boy studied the land behind him, just as the two soldiers had done, hands on his hips, head cocked as if he was listening for something. "Not a pull, no," he said. "But I feel – something. Attention. Like we're being watched – it feels like how my weapons instructor watches my training…" Merlin waited, and Arthur's eyes returned to him. After a moment, the older boy gave him a rueful smile, and continued forward. "Let's go," he suggested only.
Arthur was taller than he by three inches, maybe, but the energy that throbbed from the heart of the grove fairly lifted Merlin, floated him on the breeze, so the older boy had a hard time keeping up. Merlin felt bad about that, but only for a moment before pressing on again.
When Merlin thought grove, he pictured an exact circle of oak trees and a clearing in the center. He sensed the exact moment when he entered the iris of this eye of magic – it was like the cleansing wash of magic and water that had been poured over his head prior to the intended sacrifice. He stopped in place and closed his eyes in bliss, letting the sensation trickle down his skin like snow shoved down his collar to melt. But looking around, he could see no visible indications of the placement of the sacred site.
There was, however, a roughly-round opening in the side of the bank to his right. A cave. An actual cave, leading, by its direction, back south toward the mount of Dinas Emrys. He shivered, the cooling sensation ominous on the back of his neck, now. This wasn't the treetop magic he loved, light and free and generous – this was the earth magic of the druids. Dark and secret and unpredictable. It called to him and sang to him, still, but not with the carefree voice of a playmate. There was an edge of authoritative demand that he didn't understand, and it frightened him.
"This is it then?" Arthur said behind him, and though there was apprehension in his voice as well, Merlin was inordinately glad of his presence. "You want to go on, alone?"
Merlin turned to look at the older boy. "The druids have a prophecy about Dinas Emrys," he said. "Have you heard it?"
"Not really." Arthur shrugged carelessly, but remained just outside the grove proper, though there was no delineating landmark. He glanced at the trees, the rocks – but his gaze wandered right over the entrance to the cave. A crooked grin threatened. "Something else you'll be in trouble for telling an outsider?"
But he wasn't an outsider. Not with a part to play, fulfilling prophecy.
Merlin spoke, repeating the verses, watching the older boy's expression go from polite interest to fascination to doubt – and then close off completely. After a moment of silence, Merlin said tentatively, "I – we – think you're him. The becoming prince. Hair of sun and gaze of sky…" He faltered. That gaze was downright chilly.
"The bell will ring to let him by?" Arthur said. "So when you claimed that you bargained with Vortigern for my freedom, if not my life, that was a lie. You knew you needed me to –" he flapped a hand to indicate the grove, and ended sarcastically, "ring the bell?"
Merlin felt wretched. The magic watched him, drew him, and he did not want to be alone, regardless of what the prophecy foretold. But at least his elders had been straight with him, telling him the truth, trusting him to make the right decision. Or – he thought of Iseldir – take magic's soul, the scope of your destiny… calling you there, to go – that is all I will say. Had he known, or suspected?
"The thing about prophecy, it's rarely understood until after its fulfillment." Merlin added miserably, "I should have told you, but I thought… you might not come."
Arthur stepped forward into the grove, came so close that Merlin could hear him breathing. "You might have given me the chance to agree," he said impassively. "So where's this bell?"
"I don't know if it's an actual bell," Merlin hedged, and Arthur's eyes flashed. He hastened to add, gesturing to the cave, "But I'd guess it's in there."
"In where, Merlin?"
"The – cave," Merlin said in confusion. "Right there."
"There is no cave." Arthur amended obstinately, "I don't see a cave."
Merlin looked at the opening again, and could make out a faint blurry shimmer around its mouth – hidden to those without magic, he assumed. He supposed it would make sense that each would need the other – join the key – but something about that bothered him, some question that hadn't occurred to him to ask, yet. He turned and stepped to the mouth of the cave, reaching one arm into it to show its placement, and turned to see that Arthur had followed him, catching the incredulous aversion of the older boy. It probably looked to him as though Merlin had put his arm through solid rock.
Merlin suggested awkwardly, "Perhaps you would feel better closing your eyes?" He'd feel better closing his eyes. "I'll lead you…"
Arthur's gaze was dark and expressionless on him for several moments, and he realized what reliance he was asking from the Pendragon's son, to complete a task set by the Pendragon's enemy. To show a trust he did not feel.
"The tower," Merlin said haltingly, "and the fighting – your father and the general – I want to stop it. I don't want a war, people getting hurt. I don't know how I can help, what I'm supposed to do, but I know I was brought to Dinas Emrys for a reason. For this. For freeing the dragon. And then afterward –"
"We decide what to do about all else," Arthur said, and Merlin was flooded with warmth, not only at the understanding and acceptance shown by the older boy – the prince - in that moment, but at his word we. The blue eyes slid shut, and one hand pushed forward. Merlin flinched, but Arthur made only an impatient flick of his fingers. Merlin's face flushed as he recalled his own suggestion, and he took the proffered hand, beginning to lead him forward into the cave's entrance.
He ducked, then glanced back to warn his companion about the low clearance of the cave's mouth – and Arthur entered the cave without so much as brushing his sun-colored hair on the roof of it. Merlin said nothing and walked on, slowly. In spite of the enchantment at the opening, plenty of sunlight filtered into the passage, and he was glad for that. The air was cool, but he had his cloak, and he was glad for that. He was glad for the pressure of Arthur's fingers –
"If you ever, Merlin," Arthur said, "tell anyone, that we held hands, I will –" his imagination for a sufficient threat seemed to fail him – "I will –"
"I won't," Merlin said, glad also that the atmosphere could be relieved with humor. The farther in they went, the more reluctant he felt to continue – even as the magic and the knowledge of the waiting dragon demanded his compliance. It was a battle between head and heart – knowing what was to be done, and feeling like he'd rather be anywhere but here.
They shuffled forward slowly. There were totems, symbols and runes displayed in stick and string figures, hung against the curved walls and dangling from the ceiling. Merlin was careful not to touch them – glancing back, he saw that Arthur avoided them also, blindly, unknowingly. He tried not to look at them, but they snatched his attention. Trespass not, you do not belong. The enchantment on the outside of the cave was meant to divert those without magic – the interior was layered with more warnings to discourage those with magic, who could see and chose to enter.
There were other objects on the gritty floor. A short-handled shovel, discarded. A carved wooden spear. An axe. Moldering fabric – bones, maybe – he looked away resolutely.
Where the tunnel began to widen, Merlin stopped, sensing a cavern ahead.
"What is it?" Arthur said, the tension in his voice not of fear, but of courage readied. "Shall I open my eyes yet?"
"Ssh," Merlin said, his ears straining.
"Do you hear the bell ringing?" Arthur was probably trying to lighten their spirits with a joke, but the heightened awareness of the situation sobered the question.
"I hear – water," Merlin answered. He dropped the older boy's hand and stepped forward carefully. In the middle of the cavern was a depression, he knelt beside it as a droplet fell from above, disturbing the dark surface briefly. He looked up; there was an elaborate totem, gleaming faintly with amethyst light – crystals and feathers and glass prisms of the length and width of a man's finger – suspended from the ceiling of the cave. Moisture dripped from the crystals down to the pool. He looked around – the chamber appeared to have no other outlet but the tunnel where they had entered.
And the pool. He reached his hand down –
Arthur hissed out a curse. "Hells, Merlin, what is it with you and sticking your hand into –" Merlin looked up as Arthur stepped forward, his eyes open.
The air stirred in the cavern. Not like a wind or breeze, flowing from one place to another, but – like a breath. Over Merlin's head, the totem swung, spun gently – and the crystals and prisms chimed together, the tones melodious, hanging in the air. There was almost a tune… and the lower, metallic note of a clapper striking the rounded hollow of a bell. Merlin looked, and above the totem he saw the golden skirt of a bell, a gleaming ring. He hardly dared breathe.
Against his fingertips, the water swirled in the depression, gurgling faintly like a stream. Arthur knelt at his side in a rush, snatching his hand away as the water sucked at the sides of the pool, dropping away like a filled funnel unstopped.
And then they found themselves gazing down an empty shaft, the sides gleaming black and wet – like a monstrous throat. Merlin shivered and tore his eyes away, looking up – the totem was clear crystal, no amethyst glow of waiting magic, no gleaming bell-base circle.
Arthur put his hands on the edge of the rim and leaned forward, peering into the depths. "The bell will ring," he said, with sardonic incredulity. "We're supposed to go down there? This is the door?"
Merlin cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm afraid so," he said.
"We don't even know how deep this is," Arthur said. "Or what we might be climbing down into." He raised his eyes to Merlin's. After a moment, he quirked one eyebrow expectantly. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Merlin was trying not to panic at the idea of sinking farther into the earth – swallowed up, he thought, and immediately wished he hadn't.
"Make yourself useful," Arthur instructed him. "A torch, or a ladder, or –" Merlin held out his cupped hand, concentrated on his mage-light. The blue sphere appeared, an inch above his palm, illuminating their faces and the descending shaft. Arthur said cryptically, "A weird mage-light down a dark tunnel." He sounded unhappily resigned.
Merlin understood; it was how he felt as well. But if there was one thing the druids had taught him well, it was that destiny could not be thwarted, only accepted. He focused on the shaft - intending to try to see the bottom, he tipped his hand to let the mage-light sink through the air.
The older boy exclaimed and made as if to catch it, then snatched his hand back like he was afraid he would be burned.
The spark of amusement both reactions generated settled Merlin. "I'm not going to drop it," he said, calling the light momentarily up to his palm to demonstrate his control. "And it won't hurt you; it's not hot."
Arthur reached tentatively, glanced at Merlin as if for permission to bring his hand closer and prove the words true. Merlin nodded – and before he could voice any further explanation or instruction, the older boy had thrust his fingers straight through Merlin's magic.
He gasped. It felt as though Arthur had reached into his chest to stroke his beating heart. Tears blurred his eyes – now he knew why his instructors had made that rule so clear to their druid pupils – to never touch another's mage-light. He blinked, and saw that Arthur was staring fascinated at the residual blue-white glimmer on the skin of his hand. Merlin thought vaguely that he might now be able to draw the design of lines and ridges of that hand – but he was no artist.
"I'm sorry, did that hurt you?" Arthur's voice seemed to come from a long way away, whispering right into his ear at the same time.
"No," Merlin managed. His hand was shaking beneath the oblivious mage-light, and he tilted it off once more, to disguise the tremor.
This time they both leaned over the edge to watch its descent, light and shadow playing on the rough-hewn curves, until the reflection shone from three sides and the floor. The darkness of their indicated path led deeper into the mount; there was only the remaining sheen of water to prove the pool had ever been full, no indication where it had drained to.
"That's about twenty feet down," Arthur said. "How are you at climbing?"
Merlin couldn't help smiling. "Well, it's no tree," he said. "But I'll manage."
He dropped his cloak into the hole, where it passed through the mage-light unhindered. Then he seated himself on the edge, swinging his legs across it, then scooted into the shaft, bracing himself arms and legs. This sort of climbing was much easier to do going up, but he reached the bottom and let himself drop the five feet to the floor, elbows and tailbone sore, a scrape or two on his back under the dampness of his shirt. Nothing to worry about. He moved out of the vertical into the horizontal tunnel to be out of Arthur's way, as the older boy dropped the water-skin to prepare for his descent.
The tunnel wasn't straight, but it was definitely man- or magic-made. Roughly five feet from floor to ceiling, and three across, it appeared to wind to the right and left, as well as slanting up and down. Merlin did not know much of the magic or engineering that would be required for such a feat, whether the tunnel followed natural weaknesses in the earth and rock, or whether it bored through the strongest sections to provide greater stability for the hollow space.
Arthur dropped beside him and rested in his crouch, studying the tunnel ahead of them as Merlin did. "I have a question," the older boy said, his voice whispering and echoing oddly. He gestured first up the shaft, then forward down the tunnel. "How does a dragon get through here in the first place?"
The back of his shirt felt clammy on Merlin's skin, and he picked his cloak up again, draping the material over one shoulder but not adjusting it properly. Mage-light in hand, and ducking his head against the low ceiling, he began to walk forward. Arthur followed him, and immediately a thunderous gurgling sound filled the tunnel. He whirled back toward the shaft, Arthur between it and him doing the same, tensing in preparation for action.
Merlin had once seen a waterspout created by a visiting druid elder, a whirl of wind sucking up a stream to form a spinning rising column of air and water. The rushing noise quieted, and the end of the tunnel showed the liquid ripple of a pool's surface. It gave him the odd sense that his equilibrium was skewed, that he should be looking down at water, not across…
"Let's go," Arthur whispered. He sounded unnerved as well, and prodded Merlin to turn and continue down the tunnel. He did not ask if their retreat was now blocked, and Merlin did not speculate on an answer.
They walked for the better part of an hour, by Merlin's estimation, though it was hard to tell in the tunnel. He felt like he'd been walking all his life – like the bruises from Alvarr's fists and feet that Ruadan had washed away without comment were once again painted on his body. He'd spent a day walking to Dinas Emrys from the druid camp – up the mount prepared to die a loyal druid – down the mount a newborn dragonlord. Now he was walking beneath Dinas Emrys.
He was thankful that the insistence of the magic had subsided to a faint presence only – though he suspected it might flare again in his consciousness if he were to turn tail and flee back toward the shaft and the bell-cave. His hand trembled constantly now under the blue mage-light, the constant expenditure from his reserves of latent magic. Even an elder might be hard-pressed to sustain such magic this long – however powerful he was, he was young yet and unpracticed.
"Have some water," Arthur offered, over the echoing sound of their boots on the tunnel floor. "Do you want to rest?"
Merlin reached back for the water-skin and took a mouthful before answering. "No, I just want to get to the end."
"So, in your prophecy…" Arthur's words were faintly mocking; Merlin understood that the older boy, training in physical combat, was dealing with the same sort of shock Merlin had experienced, struggling to accept that his part of history and destiny might be foretold, inevitable, the only way he knew how – sarcastic humor. "I'm a prince. Don't you think you should say, my lord, then, or sire. Your Highness."
"Becoming prince," Merlin retorted. "Not yet, but almost certainly soon."
"Mm hm. So who are you, then? What part of the prophecy – the soul of magic? The lord's key?"
Both, maybe. Merlin twisted his shoulders, not looking back.
"Cenred said, you can't be a dragonlord," Arthur said, in the same sardonic tone.
A smile twisting his lips, Merlin answered, "Cenred has no imagination."
"It's true, then." Arthur's voice was now expressionless; Merlin was coming to recognize that meant not the lack of emotion, but the suppression of it. He stopped and turned, allowing the light to float for a moment. He reached into the neck of the borrowed shirt to bring out the pendant. Arthur said, "Your charm?" He stepped closer to take the piece and examine it.
"My mother gave it to me, before I left," Merlin said, letting his trembling hands drop to his sides. "It was my father's."
"Who was your father?" Arthur said, his eyes on the small silver dragon balanced on his fingertips.
Merlin hesitated. He'd only known the name, the story of his father for two days, a light bandage only over a wound long unacknowledged. The additional discovery of the dragonlord heritage, responsibility – the danger it might place him in, young as he was. The fear and revulsion of a druid, and of him especially even inside that community, could only be expected to increase. This son of Pendragon was so far outside the circle of people who might be expected to comprehend such a thing, to appreciate and support…
"Balinor was my father," he said. "And, so I'm told, Aurelian was his."
"A dragonlord?" Arthur let the ornament fall against Merlin's collarbone, and he reached instinctively to tuck it back in his shirt.
"Known to the dragon," he said. And to the druid elders, evidently. He turned to keep walking, but at a much slower pace.
"You said was. What happened?"
Merlin twitched his shoulders again. He found his mouth was dry and his heart pounded. He let the mage-light soar on its own again momentarily, to wipe his hands on his shirtfront. "Not really sure. My mother said it was several strangers – he was killed the week before they said their vows… right in front of her."
"Huh." The scorn in Arthur's tone was residual, but present, as though Merlin had taken the conversation too seriously, too quickly. But the casual cruelty in his next question stopped Merlin's heart, and feet. "You're a bastard, then?"
The drain on his magic had shortened his temper, and his spirit had run an emotional gauntlet for far too long. Bastard, said Alvarr's voice. And that was what Arthur had gotten from Merlin's intimate confidence. He clenched his fingers around the material of his cloak, squeezed the fingers of the other hand into a fist. He turned.
The ghost of a smirk crossed the older boy's face. "What about your mother, what's she like?"
Merlin snapped. Dropping his cloak, he launched himself at the older boy.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review, and I have not taken the time to PM! You are all appreciated!