Author's Note: I was playing around with an idea for my Magic-Sensitive!Arthur AU, but it wasn't going well, so I decided to write this instead. Not my best, and not my worst, but hopefully something worth reading regardless. Enjoy!
"I need your help."
There it is, Arthur thinks, with both relief and trepidation. Finally.
The moment Merlin entered his chambers to wake him for the day, Arthur knew something was off. He sensed it in the same way a dog can sense a storm coming; felt it chafe in the air between them, invisible yet persistent.
Merlin's contemplative silence was the first sign. His casual competence and nimble-fingered efficiency was another. All marks of a well-mannered and professionally trained servant. No other nobleman would think anything was out of the ordinary. But Arthur wasn't just any nobleman, and this wasn't just any manservant.
This was Merlin.
And like a poorly tailored suit of clothes, their lazy, idyllic morning, perfectly constructed and presentable to the outside eye, had done nothing but pinch and gape around Arthur in all the wrong places.
Arthur looks up, cocking a brow. Merlin stands at the head of Arthur's dining table, pieces of armor strewn across its surface. Arthur hardly notices: he's long since given up trying to correct that particular habit. He takes his breakfast at his desk most mornings anyway.
No, what stands out to him is the clean rag laying crumpled beside one of his gauntlets. The second rag in Merlin's hands is suspiciously unmarred by grease and grit, too. The chest plate thrown carelessly onto one of his chairs still bears a dent from a lucky hit Arthur had taken during training the day prior. Despite the resulting bruised chest, Arthur remains impressed. He'd had to call training early, due to the fact he'd been unable to draw a full breath after the mace blow landed.
Merlin had been in a foul temper about the entire thing, especially after hearing Arthur praise young Bors for the fine bout. Said he'd been lucky the overeager knight hadn't broken his fool ribs. Or his fool skull, for that matter.
In any case, the presence of the damaged plate is another anomaly. The armorer should be the one seeing to that, not Merlin. Arthur's uncertain why Merlin has hung on to it.
Arthur studies his manservant. I need your help, Merlin said. Arthur cannot recall the last time Merlin asked for such a thing, let alone the last time he felt he had to ask.
Something is wrong.
Merlin twists the rag in nervous fingers, drawing Arthur's attention.
Something serious, then, Arthur decides, lowering his quill. The paper before him is fresh, unmarked. It was just as much of a prop as Arthur's armor was for Merlin.
"My help?" Arthur prompts.
Merlin nods. He wrings the rag, twisting it thin and snapping it back open with a flick of his wrist, then repeating the process. Arthur watches, a little fascinated. He's long since thought Merlin was the bravest man he's ever met. It is unlike him, to be so afraid to speak his mind. It's equally unlike him to feel so uncomfortable here in the privacy of Arthur's rooms, where the two of them can strip away the shackles of rank and feel free of judgmental eyes.
Discomfort prickles down Arthur's spine. "What's wrong, Merlin?"
Merlin huffs a sigh. "Nothing. Yet. I just…don't know how to begin."
"Typically one begins at the beginning," Arthur jibes. Merlin shoots him a withering glare, and Arthur sobers, casting about for a possible explanation. "Is your mother well?"
From the way Merlin immediately blubbers a passionate response regarding Hunith's health, Arthur has missed the mark entirely. "Is this about Morgana?" he guesses again.
Merlin's face goes carefully blank. No, Arthur thinks, studying Merlin's posture, that's not it either. Despite how strange Merlin's behaved since Uther Pendragon's death and the discovery of Morgana's trick with the anti-healing amulet, whatever is going on here is unrelated to his sister entirely.
"It's…about a man I met last night," Merlin says cautiously. "An old pupil of Gaius'." He hesitates. "Well, I didn't so much meet him as overhear him, but—"
"Merlin." Arthur's tone cuts him off, and Merlin's mouth pops closed. Arthur watches him for a moment before asking, "What about this man?"
Abandoning his rag, Merlin sighs and paces from the dining chamber. He almost takes a chair from the table with him before deciding to leave it behind. He takes a seat on the edge of Arthur's bed instead. Without the rag to fiddle with, Merlin's nerves manifest in his jittery fingers.
"I want you to swear to me," Merlin says quietly as he leans his elbows forward onto his knees, clasping his traitorous hands before him, "that you will listen to everything I tell you before you make a decision."
If Arthur had not been totally on guard before, now he feels fit to spring into battle at the very whisper of a sword drawn from its sheath. Something's not right. Not right at all.
"You know me, Merlin," Arthur attempts to joke. "Do I ever listen to you?"
"I know, I know." Merlin's own attempt at humor falls flat. His voice wavers, and he has to clear his throat. "But I'm serious, Arthur. If you won't help, if you can't agree with what I'm asking of you, I…I might have to go about this one alone. I'd rather not, not after everything, but it's too important."
This is more than important, Arthur thinks, studying his manservant. The younger man's eyes are hard as steel, unwavering and clear of guile. This is personal.
"You know you can ask almost anything of me, Merlin," Arthur says, lowering a few defenses in the face of Merlin's fierce sincerity. "I joke about giving you days off, but they are just jokes. I think you've earned more than a few boons from me."
Something fractures in Merlin's eyes, and Arthur is unable to look away from the sight of his brave friend's crumbling edge.
In that moment, Arthur has the odd sensation that—for all the years Merlin's been in his service; for all the time they've spent together—he doesn't think he knows a single inkling about the man standing before him now.
"I shouldn't have waited so long to tell you."
A crossbow bolt of fear spears Arthur through the chest. "Is Camelot in danger?" he asks fervently.
"I…" Merlin takes a second to consider the question before shaking his head. "I'd say no. No immediate danger."
"But there is some danger," Arthur presses, tone firm.
"Some," Merlin agrees with a weak, crooked smile. "But when isn't there?"
It's a valid point. Arthur crosses his arms, trying to bat down the fluttering anxiety lingering in his center. He takes a steadying breath. "Stop beating around the bush, Merlin. Tell me what's going on."
Merlin eyes him, and with the air of a man ripping off the final layer of a field bandage, he says, "The man who came to Gaius last night spoke of a key to the Tomb of Ashkanar."
Arthur nods slowly. "My father spoke of the Tomb once."
Merlin's eyebrows raise. "You know of it?"
"As a fairy story, nothing more. Legend has it there is a dragon egg hidden within," Arthur answers idly, shrugging. "But I don't see what—"
Merlin rises so swiftly to his feet, Arthur starts. The manservant's eyes flash with poorly restrained fury and hurt, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Arthur asks as Merlin begins to pace.
"Nothing," Merlin mutters, though it is an obvious lie. His knuckles are bone white, and his fingers begin to tremble again. "This man—Borden…He had two pieces of the key. The third piece of the Triskelion, he believed, was in Camelot's vaults."
Arthur's heart drops. So much for a fairy story. "I see," he says slowly. "Gaius confirmed the authenticity of the other pieces? He verified the truth of the tales?"
Merlin jerks a nod.
A vile curse slips from Arthur's mouth. "We have to intercept this man," he says, rising to his feet. "If the legends are true, I cannot imagine he has good intentions for that egg."
"Gaius remembers Borden as a thief and con artist," Merlin says, solidifying Arthur's decision to act. His tone takes on a dark, disgusted cast. "He would sell it to the highest bidder."
Several old scars and marks twinge on Arthur's arms and back. Like the echo of a bad dream, he hears the Great Dragon's vindictive, deep-throated laughter as it swooped down to lay fire amongst his people and their homes. He sees the fury of flames blazing hungrily along the walls of his city. And, as always, in the depths of his heart, he feels the screams of those who were too slow to find cover from the monster's rage.
Gods. Arthur closes his eyes, shuddering.
The amount of damage this man could do. A dragon egg, sold to Camelot's enemies? To anyone who bore Camelot ill will? Should they hatch the beast and train it, somehow contain and control its magic, and then decide to use all that power against them, all of Camelot would suffer.
And should its captor lose control, like Uther had all those years ago? All of Albion—not just Camelot—could potentially find itself under attack from the merciless creature.
No. Arthur will not accept that fate. Uther Pendragon's mistakes will not be his own.
"Arthur."
Arthur realizes he's about to reach for and draw his sword, as though the dragon whelp was already at their doorstep. He blinks at Merlin's staying hand on his arm.
"There's more," Merlin says softly.
"I've heard enough, I think," Arthur says, turning from Merlin and picking up his sword belt. "We can discuss the rest after Borden is in custody and the other pieces of the Triskelion are in our possession."
"It's already done!"
Arthur freezes in place and spins toward Merlin. "Excuse me?"
Merlin fidgets but meets his king's eye. "I've taken care of it."
Arthur stares. There are quite a few things both unnerving and totally incomprehensible about that statement. For one, Arthur rather thinks Merlin should have led with such an important detail. For another, Merlin has no authority upon which to arrest another individual. And, perhaps most importantly, Merlin was the one who incapacitated the theif and reclaimed the artifacts? Merlin?!
"Excuse me?" Arthur asks again, tone flat enough to merely hint at the disapproval raging beneath the surface.
Merlin lifts his chin, eyes defiant and earnest, and Arthur doesn't have to ask again. Somehow, someway, Merlin has done exactly as he's said.
"You had no authority to do such a thing," Arthur says firmly, choosing to address the most pressing complication first. "You do realize the position your actions put me in?"
In comparison to other successions in Camelot's history, Arthur's was as smooth as a newborn babe's bottom. However, months after the coronation, friction has started to fray at the core of Uther's old court. Several dissenting factions have risen, and Arthur continues to suffer them, despite all attempts to cut them down at the knees. His wayward manservant choosing to play city guard-cum-spymaster without authorization from Arthur himself is not going to do him any favors. The old court already dislikes how much influence the Round Table has in Camelot. Very few of them have ever understood Merlin's continued presence in his household, as it is.
"It was too important to wait," Merlin says simply, unrepentant. "I couldn't wait. I'll accept whatever punishment you deem fit for acting as I did, but for now…I had the opportunity, so I took it."
I couldn't wait, he said. I. Somehow, that emphasis stands out to Arthur. The king takes another deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Where is he? The dungeons, I presume?"
Merlin cocks his head. "You ask about the thief first," he muses, just barely loud enough for Arthur to hear. He sounds weirdly awed, and he looks at Arthur as though he's done something incredible.
"What else would I ask?" Arthur demands, discomfited. "He's our largest concern, is he not?"
"Not anymore."
Arthur gapes, feeling as though the world is tilting beneath his feet. "Is…he dead?"
Merlin's eyes widen. "Gods, Arthur, no. Of course he's not dead! He is in the dungeons!"
Gods above, Merlin. "What did you expect me to think?" Arthur asks, temper flaring. His cheeks flush with mild embarrassment. "You ask for help, imply you've apprehended a dangerous man by yourself, and you've have given me few details about what exactly happened, choosing instead to speak as obliquely as you can. Forgive me for trying to fill in the blanks myself and assuming the worst."
Merlin looks suitably sheepish, and Arthur sighs, softening his tone only marginally. The bite of his dissatisfaction cuts into his tone, sharp and unyielding. "Will you tell me what happened? So I don't look even more of a fool before this man when I go to question him?"
"I will," Merlin promises.
"Everything , Merlin."
"Yes, Sire. But first…" From his jacket pocket, Merlin withdraws two curling pieces of bronze. The light streaming in from the open windows glitters off the metal, highlighting runic marks stamped onto its curves. Arthur watches as Merlin places the pieces gently on the desk.
For a moment, both men stare at the pieces, and then Merlin raises his gaze back to Arthur. "What will you do with them?"
Arthur hesitates at Merlin's tone, meeting his friend's eyes. There's a challenge there. A test. Arthur is accustomed to such things from Merlin, but he doesn't understand why he's posing one now, of all times.
There are only two options here, as far as Arthur is concerned. He can destroy the pieces of the key now and be done with it. In doing so, he can prevent anyone from discovering the Tomb of Ashkanar and finding the legendary egg. It's the easiest way. The Tomb and its rumored traps can live on in fairy stories, remaining a cautionary tale to today's adventurers and tomorrow's dreamers. Without the key, the egg and all the Tomb's other treasures will remain untouched and unseen by man.
That, however, may not stop people from hunting. In fact, his actions, should they be discovered and interpreted as part of the Tomb's legend, may very well inspire a fair number of ill-advised quests.
So therein lay Arthur's more prudent, if more dangerous, choice: he can pull the third piece of the Triskelion from the vaults. He can open the Tomb himself. He can ensure no one finds that egg. He can ensure it never hatches at all, by chance or by human hand.
Because there is truly no better way than to see a task completed than by completing it oneself.
Looking into Merlin's eyes, though, Arthur suspects neither is the correct answer.
He asked for help, Arthur reminds himself.
Arthur places his sword and sword belt back onto his desk. "You said there is more," he says deliberately.
"Yes," Merlin whispers, looking back down at the Triskelion pieces. There is a fine tremor in his voice. "I…have the third piece."
At this point, Arthur isn't certain how to respond to this additional admission. He supposes he should be asking how Merlin got into the vaults without Arthur's key. He supposes he should also be double-checking that Merlin didn't steal the key. He probably should be a lot more angry about the situation, considering Merlin has now admitted to multiple misdemeanors, all of which are grounds for immediate termination from any other lord's household staff.
Arthur isn't angry any longer. He isn't all that surprised either, honestly, and that is equally as odd as his lack of anger.
He is, however, confused, and that, more than anything, frustrates him.
'I couldn't wait,' Merlin said, as though waiting for someone else to apprehend Borden would have been even more of a disaster than unleashing another dragon upon the land.
"I don't understand," Arthur admits, trying to hunt for clues in Merlin's expression. "Why?"
"Why?" Merlin repeats with a hoarse bark of laughter. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes suddenly wild with dark irony, and spins in a half-circle to face the window. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, and suddenly, Arthur isn't sure if Merlin is stifling laughter or something else.
Yes, 'why? ' Arthur wants to shoot back, baffled by his friend's behavior. Why did Merlin feel obligated to intervene here, with this Borden, when he could have brought the information to those trained to deal with these situations? Why wouldn't he ask for help tackling the threat Borden posed before now? Why would he choose to do so well after the fact, and in the privacy of Arthur's chambers?
Why couldn't he wait?
Why laugh? Why cry?
Why is he so afraid?
"I'm sure you see two paths before you," Merlin says softly, still looking out the window. "You can take the Triskelion and destroy the key itself. Or you can go out to the Tomb yourself and destroy the egg."
Arthur doesn't need to respond. Merlin knows Arthur's mind better than Arthur himself does some days. He waits for the point to arrive.
Merlin's eyes flutter closed, and with a voice just barely above a whisper, he asks, "What if I told you there is a third option?"
"What other option is there?"
"Hearing me out. Right now."
"I am listening, Merlin," Arthur bites in exasperation. "What is it?"
Merlin turns back to face Arthur, his expression unreadable. "I…need to go to the Tomb. Me, specifically."
"You?" Arthur repeats incredulously. "Merlin, you seriously can't expect me to believe you have a sudden and overpowering aspiration to become a treasure hunter. And you can't seriously expect I would let you go alone, regardless of what reason you think you have."
Merlin shuffles, an odd hesitance screaming through his posture. "Ah, see…I would very much like to not go alone. That's why I asked for help. There are apparently quite a few nasty traps there, so I've heard, and the Tomb's location is—"
"I still don't understand," Arthur interrupts. His eyes narrow at the Triskelion pieces. "You did not bring the third piece."
"I—no," Merlin says, stuttering at the abrupt change in topic. "No, I did not."
He draws himself up, as though preparing to face down an opponent larger than him, and for a moment, Arthur is thrown back in time, to the moment a scrawny peasant from Essetir, fresh from the road, stood his ground and told off an arrogant bully of a prince.
He doesn't trust me. Not with this.
The truth hits Arthur far harder than Bors' mace could ever dream to. After everything they've been through, after all the trials they've faced? After all the monsters, the assassins and revenge-driven sorcerers? After the Great Dragon? And multiple immortal armies? Merlin does not trust him?
Why ? The question haunts him. Why doesn't he trust Arthur with the third piece? Merlin is an idiot, but he would never willingly put the kingdom in danger. And this dragon egg very well could put his kingdom in real danger. Arthur isn't seeing the big picture. He mustn't be.
There are too many pieces that don't make sense. Too many avenues to navigate. He thinks he would not be able to walk them even if pointed in the right direction.
Perhaps…Despite logic telling him otherwise, suspicion niggles at Arthur's mind, hazy and indistinct in a mist of ludicrous assumption. It makes no sense, and yet somehow, the pieces begin to angle toward one possible conclusion.
'If you won't help, if you can't agree with what I'm asking of you, I…I might have to go about this one alone.'
But, no, Merlin can't be so foolish, can he?
Yes, Arthur thinks, meeting Merlin's determined eyes, I think he is indeed that foolish.
"You don't want me to destroy the egg," Arthur realizes aloud. It sounds so ridiculous, it can't be true.
But it is true. It must be. Merlin doesn't flinch. The confirmation is written across his face.
"Why, Merlin?" Arthur asks, a weird pitch in his tone. He can't even summon the appropriate amount of rage at the mere suggestion. He knows Merlin's always had a soft heart—and an even softer spot—for animals. But this…this has to be something else, surely. Merlin wouldn't put the safety of a dragon's egg over that of Camelot. "Have you gone completely mad?"
Merlin swallows visibly, and the courageous warrior in Merlin, the one Arthur always admired, shelters himself away, once again leaving behind someone Arthur isn't sure he recognizes.
"Two years ago," Merlin says, "the Great Dragon attacked. We went in search for a man to help. Do you remember?"
"Yes, Merlin, I remember," Arthur snaps. "Balinor. The Last Dragonlord."
"Not the last." Merlin's voice is just barely above a whisper.
Arthur hesitates, frustration with his manservant gusting away like dandelion fluff on stormwinds. His mind reels, cataloging Merlin's fidgets, the quake in his voice, and how…
How he looks at Arthur as though he's standing before the pyre.
"...What do you mean?" Arthur asks gently.
Merlin releases a shaky breath. "Dragonlord abilities…they are inherited. They pass through the bloodline, from father to son, upon the death of the father."
Arthur stares.
He remembers Balinor. He was a strong man, with a bold nose and callused fingers, a gentle voice and kind, sad eyes. Despite where they found him—and how he was living—he had an air of quiet pride about him, and a streak of stubbornness leagues wide. Arthur respected him on sight, no matter the poorly restrained spite and blatant apathy the older man directed toward Camelot and its people.
Arthur doesn't quite remember arriving at Balinor's cave. He'd been wounded. He does remember waking up and finding Merlin at the edge of a pond outside. He remembers sharp disappointment in Merlin's eyes, just as he does the biting, shaming words Merlin directed toward the Dragonlord as they left without him.
It was Merlin who'd convinced Balinor to come to Camelot, in the end. Arthur knows this. Merlin had a way of digging into the core of a man, needling at his flaws and biases until he recognized them as such, and inspiring something better of him. He'd used this ability to its fullest effect that day.
Arthur remembers the trip back, after Balinor rejoined them. The way Balinor gravitated toward Merlin. Of whispers at the campfire, of the gentle scrape of whittled wood lulling him to sleep.
And then the following morning's attack. Blood coating the leaves. Merlin's head bowed over the dead Dragonlord as he tried to stifle sobs.
No man is worth your tears, he'd told Merlin later.
"You told me you never knew your father," Arthur says dumbly, mind reeling.
"I didn't. I never even knew my father's name, you know. Not…not until we left to find him. Gaius told me. My mother—" He huffs and grimaces.
"She never told you," Arthur finishes for Merlin, unable to fully wrap his mind around the concept. Pity floods him. He always figured Merlin and his mother had a good relationship. He cannot imagine Hunith hiding anything from her son, or vise versa, let alone something like this.
Merlin's wry expression doesn't hide the nervousness in his eyes. "Can you blame her?"
My father hunted the Dragonlords, Arthur realizes, cold and numb. He persecuted them as fervently as he did sorcerers. Their abilities bordered on magic. Hell, perhaps they are a form of magic.
The idea is discomforting, so Arthur skirts around it, too intimidated by its depth and shape. Instead, he follows the line of cause-and-effect like a raindrop soaking down the branching roots of a plant.
Uther Pendragon was the reason Merlin had grown up without a father.
Uther Pendragon…was also the reason Merlin was born at all.
And the reason Merlin ever became such a permanent fixture in Arthur's life in the first place.
(Uther would have killed Merlin in the womb, had he known).
"Will you say something?" Merlin blurts.
"What do you want me to say?" Arthur asks, more on reflex than anything. He doesn't know what to say. What can he say?
"Something that makes me believe you aren't upset I'm a Dragonlord. Or that I hid it from you."
Arthur inhales a sharp breath. There it is. In the open and said in a way that encourages no doubt. Merlin is the last Dragonlord.
And he has lied to Arthur.
It stings, just as, if not more, than the revelation that Merlin does not trust him.
Arthur almost scowls at himself. What a silly, immature response. Arthur casts the ache away like a crumpled piece of parchment. This is Merlin, and what does it matter that Merlin didn't reveal his heritage? It is Merlin's to share, and what matters is that he's doing so now. Now that his father is dead, it is safe to do so. Safer, anyway. Whatever connection Merlin's heritage has to sorcery itself, whatever lies Merlin told to keep himself from scrutiny, Arthur decides he doesn't care. The truth of the matter is, he would never willingly hurt Merlin. Not for this. Never for this.
"You were so worried about my reaction?" Arthur muses.
Merlin's lips twitch into something resembling a smile. "I don't like lying to you. Or to myself. I'm…I'm proud of who I am. What I've done."
What he's done. "It was you, wasn't it?" Arthur asks abruptly, the truth slapping him upside the head. "You stopped the Great Dragon."
Merlin nods once. "I didn't…I didn't even know the ability would be mine, once Balinor was…" He offers another weak, wary smile. "It doesn't always pass. Sons… don't always know if they've inherited. Not until they've faced their first dragon."
Arthur pauses, absorbing the information. "You didn't know?" he demands finally. "And you went anyway? "
You moron. You brave, idiotic fool.
"I told you I wasn't about to let you go without me!" Merlin exclaims, eyes flashing. "Besides, it was worth the risk. You are worth that risk. Every time."
The reflexive and rather uncomplimentary comment on the tip Arthur's tongue dies immediately at Merlin's vehemence. His friend's eyes are still wild with something Arthur cannot define, a desperation and keenness he does not understand.
The loyalty, though. The protectiveness and stubborn willfulness. Arthur's seen this before in Merlin. These, he knows. These, he recognizes.
"I banished him," Merlin continues. "He will not come within Camelot's borders unless I order him to."
Arthur withholds a shudder, struck by the amount of confidence and power in Merlin's assertion. A small, horrifying part of him considers the tactical advantage of having the Great Dragon at his beck and call. Warfare would be changed forever. Their military might would be unparalleled.
Again, he ponders how easily a dragon could destroy a kingdom.
If Arthur were a paranoid, untrusting man, he'd have Merlin strung up, commanded he summon the dragon, and executed both without delay. No man should possess that much power. If he were a cruel, ambitious man, he'd have seized control of Merlin's ability, and Merlin himself…
Gods. He shakes his head, disgusted with himself. Even thinking such things…and after what the Great Dragon did all those years ago? He was no better than the late King Cenred, who was rumored to have bound and enslaved sorcerers to him with the darkest of blood magic, all in the name of bolstering his armies.
No. No, he'd never do such a thing. He knows this. But his thoughts here do not make him any better than Uther Pendragon, if not Cenred, and that, Arthur decides, is its own shame.
Arthur takes a deep breath to stabilize himself. He will not become his father today, nor any day. He's gone too far and done too much to let Uther's shadow drag him under now. He's his own man, and even if he's still finding his footing as king, he knows this is not the type of king he wants to be.
That does not mean he is very pleased with what Merlin just said.
"It lives, then." His voice is far too cold, even to his own ears.
"His name is Kilgharrah," Merlin says, with a hint of reproach in his voice.
Once again, Arthur struggles not to retort with something he will immediately regret. He promised Merlin he would listen. He will keep his promise. Even so, he cannot help himself from saying, "Monsters do not deserve the courtesy of a name."
"I will never excuse his actions," Merlin says immediately, tone dark. "But he was also trapped beneath the castle for two decades, brought to Camelot under false pretenses. Balinor hought Uther wanted peace. He would never have summoned Kilgharrah if he'd known Uther's true intentions. You can see why he made the choice he did." Merlin pauses, then ventures. "I think—I think his terrible mistake makes him less a monster and more like us than he'd ever care to admit."
Arthur isn't moved. Not immediately. But something about the situation reminds him of his own failures. Of the Druid camp he'd seen slaughtered under his command. Of the retribution sorcerers sought against Camelot in the years after Uther's Purge. Each and every tragedy Arthur can recall in his lifetime, he can track back to several causing factors: poor choices built on a foundation of fear, mistrust, and a drive for survival; weak leadership fueled by paranoia; and compounding biases driven by arrogance and ignorance alike.
Arthur is not too proud to admit his fear of the dragon is informing a lot of his biases right now.
"Why did you spare him?" Arthur finds himself asking, straining to understand.
"He was the last," Merlin responds quietly. "Just like me."
Such a simple, yet powerful thing. It humbles Arthur to the core, to realize what Merlin had done in choosing to send the dragon away. He'd chosen a remarkably peaceful resolution, and he'd saved the dragons from true extinction, preserving the memory of something that, once upon a time, had been beautiful and grand and marvelous.
And in doing so, he'd also saved Camelot.
Arthur would never have had the strength or resolve to choose that course of action.
"The last," Arthur murmurs, "until now."
"Until now." Merlin hesitates and then asks, almost shyly, "Do you understand why I must go to the Tomb?"
Arthur regards Merlin, studying his friend. He recalls the flash of anger and pain in Merlin's eyes when Arthur said he'd always known of the Tomb's legendary dragon egg. He considers the way Merlin asked for help, how his voice trembled when finally relinquishing the secret he'd held so tightly for the last two years.
He didn't expect to get this far with me, Arthur realizes, and his gut curdles. He was prepared for the worst.
"You wish to reclaim your heritage," Arthur says slowly. "Understand it. Keep it alive."
"More than that," Merlin says. "It's my duty to see this egg safely hatched."
Arthur rubs at his eyes. He thinks he's handled a lot of this conversation with a fair amount of grace, but this…this may be the thing that overwhelms him entirely. Of course Merlin doesn't just want to keep the dragon egg safe and out of unappreciative hands. He wants to hatch the thing. Naturally. "What in the name of the Lord would you do with a baby dragon, Merlin?"
Merlin cocks his head, as though confused by the question. "Do with it?" he repeats. "I'd do nothing. It is its own lord and master."
"Says the Dragonlord," Arthur mutters without thinking. He almost laughs immediately afterwards, alarmed at how easily he's accepted Merlin's truth and given it voice.
Merlin, however, does not laugh. He blinks in surprise, throwing his hands out placatingly. "I would never use a dragon like that!" he says. "Never! I would ensure it doesn't think it is alright to harm humans, of course, but it deserves to be free. To live and grow and learn, and maybe…"
Arthur raises an eyebrow as Merlin trails off. "Maybe…?" he prompts, curious.
"Maybe we can learn something in return," Merlin says. "Or, perhaps, begin to restore dragons to the reputation they had in tales of old."
The sentiment would be painfully naive, if it were any other man who spoke doesn't seem to realize that. He stands straight-backed and proud, unashamed of the impossibility he seemed so sure he could make possible. Now that he sees Arthur is listening, he's returned to himself. The passion in his voice and earnest light in his eyes is not unlike that of a newly oathed knight, kneeling to accept the responsibility and honor of his new title.
Arthur thinks that Merlin might just do exactly as he says. With or without anyone's help.
But with Arthur's help…His blood sings with unbidden inspiration. He doesn't see how, or why, but he catches Merlin's enthusiasm. It clings to him and creeps like ivy into his heart. Hope for the future glimmers in his mind's eye, and it calls to him like a siren's song, intoxicating in its promise. It isn't a song of glory. Or of renown. It's something else. Something more.
All logic preaches caution. All of his unanswered questions demand further discussion. All previous experience tells him he ought to take the time to think on this further.
Instinct tells him something else. Merlin gave Arthur his trust today. Arthur must return the courtesy. Besides, after what Merlin's done for Camelot, after the nobility and loyalty he's shown in wielding his power as a Dragonlord…Arthur thinks it is only right.
Without further explanation or embellishment, Arthur picks up his sword and tosses it with a graceful twist into the air. The hilt smacks satisfyingly into his palm as he catches it. "When do we leave?"
Arthur's rewarded with a blinding, ear-to-ear smile.
Marking as complete for now, but I may write more in the future. :)