Whatever inklings of doubt Merlin had felt before had become full-blown suspicion.
Arthur had simply disappeared for five days. Gwen didn't seem concerned, and yet she couldn't give Merlin a definite answer about where he'd gone. One day she said it was a routine patrol (You know how knights are!). The next it was diplomatic mission. She seemed skittish around him, and he got the impression on the third or fourth day that she was avoiding him altogether. What really piqued Merlin's concern was the fact that Arthur seemed to have gone alone. All of the knights were accounted for, and George was holed up in the armory, polishing suits that didn't need polishing. He wanted to talk to Gaius about it, but the physician was getting worse, and it didn't seem right to bother him about it when he was awake for so few hours at a time.
Around noon on the fifth day, Merlin was leading a training session when word broke that the king had returned. Leaving the sorcerers-to-be to their exercises, he sped towards the castle. He wasn't far behind Arthur; a page was leading his horse to its stable, and Merlin caught sight of a dark bag, heavy and bulging, slung over his shoulder. It gave him a strange feeling, but he brushed it aside and continued into the Great Hall.
Arthur was there, handing his cloak to the ever-obsequious George. He was speaking in low, anxious tones to someone just out of Merlin's line of sight, and Merlin drew closer. The minute he got into clear view of the stranger, shock belted up and down his spine in a painful bolt. He didn't know the face, but somehow, he did.
"Ah! Sir Merlin!" The man caught sight of him and smiled, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in his smile but it turned Merlin's blood ice-cold. "I've been so looking forward to meeting you." He extended a hand, revealing the Druid triskele on his forearm. The marking was blurred and broken in many places, as if burned.
"Merlin?" Arthur was frowning at the sorcerer, who was staring at the outstretched hand as if it was something poisonous.
"I…" Merlin looked up, and his face was pale. "Excuse me, I've got to…" he gestured vaguely at the corridor before walking away, his gait slightly quicker than usual.
Likmus was still smiling as the sorcerer left, but turned to the king with a sad expression. "He's revered among the Druids, you know. I had so hoped our first meeting would be better."
"He knows," Arthur said quietly, and he buried his hands in his hair. "Damn it. Damn it."
"He doesn't know, my lord," Likmus soothed. "He would have spoken out if he knew, surely."
Alone in a hallway far from the Great Hall, Merlin sagged against the wall, his breathing coming in quick, terrified pants for reasons he didn't understand. Images were flooding his mind—flickering, foreign, but accompanied by senses and emotions so real he forgot where he was.
"I know you can hear me, Krysa," the man called. It wasn't his name. It was his name once, but not anymore. "You're a traitor to your own kind. Disgusting."
He was sitting in a clearing, facing the trees were Kilgharrah hid.
"Becoming one of them was bad enough, but you didn't stop there, did you? You couldn't."
His name was Arbos then, not Likmus, but the face was the same. He was the same.
"Did you know that dragons mate only once, for life, Krysa? Did you know that before that scaly bitch changed you?" The man grinned widely. "They mate once, and they conceive once. One egg. You left it with her, tried to lure me away." He laughed and reached into a bag sitting next to him, pulling out a teardrop-shaped object. Kilgharrah's heart hammered in his chest.
"Only she was so easy to kill, Krysa. And all the better, because she had something I needed." Arbos held the egg aloft for a moment, two, and then brought it crashing down onto the ground. Kilgharrah roared with pain and grief and bounded into the clearing as the man gripped the baby's wings and tore them from its soft back. There was a gurgling cry, and it was silenced as Arbos dragged the head from the torso. His hands were coated in blood and he dragged them across his face, his mouth open and his tongue darting out to taste the only family Kilgharrah had left in the world.
Frenzied with sorrow and rage, Kilgharrah doused Arbos with flames, heedless to the spell the man had begun to chant. He was consumed with fire, but even as the scent of his flesh filled the clearing, he laughed.