If there was one facial expression Arthur could recognize from a mile away, it was contempt. That look on people's faces when they considered themselves a cut above the crowd. He didn't see it on the Mundanes' faces. Maybe once upon a time, but not in his memory.
He never thought he'd see it on something not human.
The dragon gave a dry chuckle deep in its throat as it leaned forward, resting its head contemplatively on its paws. "Yes, young Pendragon. I speak, just as you do. Did you think I was mute?"
"No," Arthur stammered out immediately. He wasn't really sure what he had thought, frankly. He'd known dragons could communicate with dragonlords, of course – everyone knew that. But he'd thought that there was some sort of mental connection, or another language… Something like that. "I just didn't know you spoke English," he explained.
"I assure you, I speak more languages than you do."
"You mean Kilgharrah is prouder than a peacock," Merlin had said.
"I'm sure you do. I'm sorry," Arthur said, figuring that it was better not to anger the thing that could eat him while he was unarmed. And it knew who he was. It occurred to him belatedly that he should have insisted the dragon was mistaken, that he was actually someone else. Too late. "I should have known," he said.
The dragon eyed him, looked him up and down, making a noise almost like a purr. "How small you are, Pendragon. You are young even by your own standards, are you not?"
Arthur shrugged. "I'm… grown. How do you know my name?"
The dragon stepped closer. Arthur wanted to fall over and crawl backwards, but that would hardly be impressive. Still. It was hard to be impressive when there was a dragon… a giant, freaky dragon, oh, wait, had he already mentioned that?
"Many know your name," the dragon replied.
"Yes," Arthur said at once, "but not people that I've never told."
"That I know your name as well as your identity is due to my intellect being greater than that of most humans. I think you shall find that many people know of you who don't know your name, young Pendragon."
Arthur was alarmed. "They shouldn't," he replied slowly, his hand slipping to his side where his knife was hidden as he looked around, waiting for an attack. "How could they?"
"What a great destiny you had," the dragon replied cryptically, and Arthur – not liking the sound of those words in the least – drew his knife. If someone attacked, he would be ready. Was the dragon distracting him? Why would it do that if it could just eat him?
"Had?"
"I am surprised," the dragon admitted, its eyes following him, "to see one of your kind in Camelot. What are you doing here?"
"Picking feverfew," Arthur replied. He looked around once more. "What are you doing here?"
"I am waiting for my dragonlord," the dragon replied, "and I am speaking with you."
"Is he near here?" Arthur asked, looking around. He didn't need Balinor overhearing this conversation. He wanted to stay out of Balinor's way for the time being. He didn't want to cross the man, not while he had a dragon standing there—he really couldn't get over the gargantuan dragon.
The dragon clawed at the ground, eyeing him again. "Yes," he said, "very small. You are very small. And very rare. One without a destiny is very rare."
Arthur looked at him, trying not to get distracted. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply. "Without a destiny? What destiny?"
"I am speaking of prophecies, young Pendragon. You are not a learned scholar, or a Druid. You would not have heard of most of them. But I am a dragon—"
"I noticed," Arthur said under his breath, suddenly noticing the feverfew growing near his feet, and he put his knife away in order to gather it. Yes, he was mid-conversation with a reptile, but he couldn't very well return without the feverfew anyway. He would multi-task.
"And I know of them," the dragon continued, making a noise almost like a sniff. "Many people have their destinies, though prophecies of them are obscure and uncommon, but you—you were the subject of a great prophecy. King Arthur Pendragon and his warlock, Emrys—you were to rule the land and unite Albion."
Arthur swallowed heavily, forgetting the feverfew. He was to what? "But not anymore?" he said with confusion. "What am I going to do now?"
Arthur was quite convinced the dragon was going to reply "Die!" and then lunge at him, but it did not.
"I do not know," the dragon admitted, and that almost scared the young rebel worse than any threat. A large, prideful dragon saying there was something it didn't know? "When Balinor decided to overthrow Uther Pendragon, I warned him that such an action, while perhaps necessary, would skew the prophecy of the Once and Future King. Prophecies very rarely go astray, but I warned him, and he knew the implications. He chose to forfeit destiny and take action."
"Wait," Arthur said, holding his hand up for silence, completely bewildered and a little awed. He had been a Once and Future King, destined to rule… to unite? Him? If his father held power, he would be…? "But what about now?" he asked. "That's no longer my destiny? Then what?"
"You do not have one," the dragon replied, and its eyes were almost soft with some… was that sympathy?
"I'm going to die?" Arthur asked. He'd faced death before, but he felt slightly dizzy—he'd never faced certain death, just the threat of it, which could usually be escaped with a few well-aimed punches.
"I do not know," the dragon said. "You simply have no destiny. You, Arthur Pendragon, are a star falling from the heavens, escaping from the rotation. No one, not even the Druids, know what you will do, or how it will affect Albion."
Arthur gawked, but quickly hid his expression. He wished he could sit down; this was too much to swallow all at once. He'd never even thought that everyone might have a destiny, a divine tablet written somewhere predicting their actions before actions were made. Keeping everyone neatly in order. Except for him.
"It is rarely heard of," the dragon said, able to see his alarm past his schooled expression. "There is only one other person alive with whom it is the case?"
"Who?" Arthur asked, wondering who else shared his condition.
"The young Prince Merlin," the dragon replied.
Arthur let that sink in. "You mean," he said. "I can do… whatever I want?"
"Many people can," the dragon replied, obnoxiously back in his riddle mode, apparently. "But not many do. Do you know what it is you want?"
Arthur knew what he wanted. He wanted to be safe. He wanted Gwen and his other friends to live without fear. He wanted his father to not be one of the most wanted men in the kingdom. But he didn't know what he wanted to do about it.
"I think you do know what you want," the dragon said, curiously. "You still stay with your father, do you not? Unlike the witch—she chose to leave your people. She has no prophecy, and her destiny is volatile. It continues to change."
Arthur was on alert again. "I don't know where Uther is," he said without thinking. "I don't know where he can be found."
"I do not ask you to tell me," the dragon said. "I simply say that you must rethink the mistaken tenets he has embedded into your head. That is not what you want, but what he wants."
Arthur felt angry prickles up his spine. "I want prejudice against people without magic to stop," he said clearly, not caring at the moment if the dragon was not on his side, if telling the truth was dangerous. "I want the choice to practice the Old or the New Religion to be just that—a choice. I want the death and pain to stop. My father didn't have to tell me that."
The dragon clicked its claws against the ground, showing its teeth, gold eyes glowing. "Look at what prosperity magic has brought to the kingdom, young Pendragon. Look at the happiness Balinor has brought as king."
Arthur brushed his hair out of his face. "You're looking at the wrong side of the kingdom, then," he remarked, and all he could see in his mind's eye was a young, dark, fatherless girl sobbing, holding together the pieces of her ripped dress.
The dragon reeled its head back, and Arthur was brought back to reality with a sickening crunch, remembering exactly what he'd just said, and to whom he had just said it. Now he was really going to die.
"Balinor approaches," the dragon commented.
Arthur's throat was dry. "Are you going to tell him my name?" he asked.
The dragon eyed him. "I have nothing against you, young Pendragon. I wish to see how a life lacking destiny plays out. If Balinor does not ask, I shall not tell him."
Arthur nodded and grabbed his feverfew. "Thank you," he said, bobbing his head, and then he ran for the trees, ducking into them just as he heard footsteps from the other side of the clearing.
Arthur ducked behind a tree, feverfew at his feet, pressing his back against it and straining his ears to catch the dragon's rumbling voice.
"Kilgharrah," Balinor's voice rang out. "I'm sorry I took a while, it takes longer for a horse."
"You did not come after you called me," the dragon said without emotion.
"My wife stopped me; she wanted to speak to me."
"I did not mind waiting," the dragon replied. "You did not need to rush. I see you are breathing with some difficulty."
"Not so hard," Balinor argued.
"I have ears," the dragon said. "I can hear you humans breathing from a mile off."
Arthur froze up. He meant for me to hear that. He wants me to know he knows I'm here. Does he want me to leave? Well, too bad.
"We're under attack, Kilgharrah," the king said to the dragon, his voice frigid. "A band of mere Mundanes, from the look of things, and they are giving us a merry chase."
"You wished to take the kingdom, Balinor," replied the dragon. "Where you would be responsible for the peace, where every action and word might be overheard."
That was definitely a warning.
"There will be troubles," the dragon continued. "You must find the best solution to them within your wisdom…"
"Kilgharrah, no riddles today," Balinor said. "People are dying. I have been too lenient. I need to find the men responsible, and they must be punished."
"Indeed," the dragon replied neutrally.
"The non-magical population supports their efforts," Balinor snarled. "They always want to be on the winning side, don't they? I must remind them who is in charge. The laws are not strict enough," Balinor said, growling. "But first, I must find the rebels who are attacking the towns."
There was a pause.
Balinor let out a low curse, and if Arthur had to guess, he would say he had started pacing. "I will have to ask you to help where you can, Kilgharrah," he said.
"Are times so desperate, my kin?"
"It's my job to keep them from getting desperate," Balinor replied. "Will you just keep your eyes open, report any disturbances, so that at the next attack, we will have the army there to defeat them? I need the speed you can offer…"
"Balinor," the dragon interrupted, and Arthur leaned back against the bark of the tree, straining his ears through the darkness. "I believe that I heard a noise in the trees."
Arthur was running almost before Kilgharrah finished saying it. Obviously the dragon had tired of his eavesdropping. He grabbed the feverfew and stumbled away from the trees—he would head back to Camelot, get in and back to Gaius. In the dark, Balinor couldn't chase him. He prayed so, anyway, while his heart pounded in his chest.
He didn't hear anyone following him.
Not yet.
Perhaps the dragon had called Balinor back, having made his point.
Arthur ran anyway, careful of the trees he was unfamiliar with, careful not to trip and give himself away. His head was reeling in panic that had nothing to do with his near-discovery.
Balinor was going to make the laws stricter? No, no, his people could barely survive as it was! They couldn't afford to be made to know "who was in charge" any further. He'd have to get the news to his father as soon as possible, he thought, his breathing causing his chest to jerk up and down.
Curse Camelot and its laws, he thought, nearly groaning. How was a destiny-less man supposed to fix things, anyway?
He quickly made it back to Camelot, feverfew in the basket, sweat dripping from his rough clothing. The gates were still open—naturally, the king was outside, talking to a giant dragon. He slipped past the guards (control your expression, control your breathing, don't look so panicked) and down the cobblestone street of nighttime Camelot.
He reached the physician's chambers and threw the door open, going in and dropping the feverfew basket on a table. He was glad to find that Gaius had already gone home; he didn't want to talk to anyone right now.
"Well," he said, looking with disgust at the feverfew. "Next time, I'll put the meal on my rent."
And then he climbed the stairs to collapse into his bed and get lost in his nightmares.
A/N: The chances of getting a chapter next week are slim to nil. Finals. I'm going to be deadly busy. Sorry, I'll do what I can. Please review!