"You are upset."

Merlin glanced only briefly at Kilgharrah, then continued throwing stones off the rock he was sitting on. He liked spending time at the cave with the dragons to calm his nerves, though he could do without an interrogation just now.

"I don't know what Father was thinking," Merlin muttered. "Can't he just keep that dragonslayer locked up until Uther sends word?"

"You don't like him," Kilgharrah observed.

"It's not like you to state the obvious, especially twice in a row," Merlin replied and threw another stone. "Besides, why should I? He's the enemy."

"You and he are bound by prophecy," the dragon replied. "It would only be natural to find yourself drawn to the young Pendragon."

"Don't call him that," Merlin told him off. "They don't deserve to carry that name."

"There was a time not too long ago when the dragonlords and their people bowed willingly to the King of Camelot," Kilgharrah reminded him. "The name still reflects that."

"Those times are long gone. They are not our kings anymore."

Kilgharrah chuckled and sounded very amused when he stated, "For a human so young as you, yes, twenty-one years might seem like a long time."

Merlin scowled.

"Bound by prophecy," he dubiously repeated Kilgharrah's earlier words. "He is mentioned once or twice, in passing. I wouldn't call that a bond by any stretch of the imagination."

"Two sons born. A birth to start a war, a birth to end a war," Kilgharrah rumbled, but Merlin cut him off.

"Yes, I know the words by heart, thank you very much."

There was a long pause in which Merlin ran out of stones to throw. He sighed. A flash of dragonfyre, and the pebbles were lifted back up from the bottom of the cave so he could throw them down again.

"Balinor cares deeply for you," Kilgharrah said eventually.

"He thinks me weak," Merlin replied. "He made a deal with the prince to keep him in check. Clearly, Father doesn't trust me to subdue a mighty warrior like Arthur without adding a safety measure of his own."

Yes, Balinor had made controlling the man easy. Too easy, and everyone knew it. Arthur might have been cocky and arrogant, but he was much less likely to rebel if he wanted his men to live. Yet another crutch to help Merlin live up to the destiny of the Great Dragon. At this rate, his father's men would never come to respect him.

Kilgharrah didn't reply, likely because he knew Merlin was right. Merlin stood and kicked the pile of stones back off the rock. This wasn't working. He was not relaxing.

"How is Mynur?" he thought to ask.

"Healing," Kilgharrah said.

Merlin couldn't look at him then.

"It was my fault he was hit," he admitted quietly. "I shouldn't have let him fly into the Gorge of Gedref. I should have seen it for the trap it was. I was stupid."

"Mynur can take care of himself," Kilgharrah tried to soothe him.

"You know as well as I do, he cannot refuse a direct order from a dragonlord." Another stretch of telling silence followed his statement. "I'm leaving, brother," Merlin told the dragon. "Keep an eye on Aithusa for me, please."

Merlin turned, exited the cave and stepped out onto the ledge overlooking Ealdor. The dragons' lair was high up above the tents, nestled into the side of the Ridge of Ascetir, offering a good view of the camp that was spread around the handful of farms. What had started as a refugee camp two decades ago had become a permanent fixture, the unofficial capital of the lands Balinor had seized from the Crown.

The sun was just starting to set and the tents were casting long shadows on the ground. Merlin sought out the shape of his own abode, then scowled when he remembered who would be waiting for him there.

Arthur, Prince of Camelot, servant to a dragonlord. The gods had a strange sense of humour.

The prince had managed to draw Merlin into using violence so quickly and so easily, it scared Merlin. For just a few seconds, Merlin had wanted to see Arthur suffer. Undoubtedly, Uther's son was not an innocent man. He had killed dragons, many of their warriors, and his troops had nearly taken out Mynur today, too. Besides, he really had been asking for it by purposely provoking Merlin.

Still, it had been wrong to attack him, Merlin knew that. Arthur had been defenceless and ignorant of Merlin's true powers. He had expected a fight, not dragonfyre. How could he have? Merlin was the only one who could wield it so freely. One of the few perks of his extraordinary destiny.

With a sigh, Merlin turned to the left and swiftly climbed down the ladders and stairs to the bottom of the mountain, making his way back down to Ealdor.

He wondered how Arthur would react to his return. Had he been cowed? Taken down a notch, as Merlin had told his father? Would Arthur be scared of him, now that he had seen what Merlin was capable of?

Perhaps he shouldn't have worried. When he entered his tent, he found the prince sitting on the edge of the bed in spite of Merlin's earlier orders not to touch anything.

"Get off!" Merlin snapped.

Arthur wordlessly obeyed, adopting a defensive stance as he cast Merlin a wary look. Not cowed, but more apprehensive than before. Merlin looked Arthur over, then stepped up to his working table to retrieve his sickle from underneath a pile of dried herbs.

Arthur's eyes widened when Merlin approached him with the curved knife, but Merlin only shoved him until Arthur's back was turned towards him. Quickly and efficiently, Merlin cut his ropes and tossed them into the fireplace where they immediately started to smoulder.

Arthur slowly turned around again, rubbing at his wrists as he threw Merlin another wary look.

"I'm sure you're smart enough not to try anything. I have no qualms about making you behave if you do," Merlin warned him, carelessly tossing the sickle back onto the working table. "And keep your fingers off my stuff!"

"Of course," Arthur said.

He seemed subdued enough, but Merlin wasn't fooled by his demeanour. Arthur might want to protect his men, but if he saw an opportunity to flee or perhaps even kill Merlin, he would be a fool not to take it. They were at war.

"Now make yourself useful," Merlin said on a whim, making a wide gesture at their surroundings.

"Useful?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and made a show of looking around the room, clearly unimpressed by what he saw. "In here?" In that moment, he looked and sounded every bit a spoilt and arrogant prince who had grown up in a big castle, and Merlin bristled at his snide tone.

"You look pampered enough to me," Merlin replied derisively. "You must have some idea of the tasks of a servant. Surely you have someone wait on you at home, Your Highness?"

Arthur scowled at Merlin's mocking voice. "I thought you didn't want a servant."

Merlin smirked. "Looks like I've changed my mind."

"Fine," Arthur returned. "What would you like me to do? You said I shouldn't touch anything."

Fair point. Merlin studied him for a moment, then ordered, "Get some dinner."

Arthur stared at him. "How?"

"You can't go and figure that out yourself?"

"So I may leave the tent?" Arthur asked to confirm, and Merlin waved him off.

"Go on," he said. "The guards will follow you, though I doubt you'll run off. Your men will die a brutal death the moment you try."

Arthur nodded and left the tent in search of food. Finally, some peace and quiet.

Merlin found he disliked the prince, and not just because he was the son of Uther the Tyrant and a known dragonslayer. Arthur appeared to be arrogant and obstinate. His only redeeming feature seemed to be his genuine care for the welfare of his own men. It had touched something in Merlin to see Arthur beg for mercy before Balinor. He had felt no satisfaction at seeing the prince grovel, only a grudging sense of admiration for his loyalty.

Merlin could respect a man who would go to great lengths to protect his people. He could not respect an arrogant prince who thought himself something better for being born royalty.

Merlin shuddered when he thought back to his conversation with Kilgharrah. Had things been different, had there been no war, Merlin would have had to serve Arthur, a lord in his court. Merlin felt sick at the thought of having to bow and scrape before that man. If one good thing had ever come from this tiring and senseless war, it was preventing this.

He settled down at his work table and started to ground up herbs. He would whip up something for Mynur, to take the edge off that wound. Draconite cuts, no matter how shallow, tended to get infected and festered for days. The dragon's wound was Merlin's fault, he might as well offer his brother some form of relief.

Merlin startled when Arthur returned, carrying a tray of food and sporting a split, bloodied lip.

"What happened to you?" Merlin asked him. He looked Arthur over for more injuries, but saw none. Merlin realised at this moment that Arthur wasn't even wearing any shoes. He should ask the guards about his missing boots.

"Your people happened," Arthur replied drily.

"Did you provoke them?" It wouldn't have surprised Merlin after the prince's earlier behaviour.

Arthur huffed. "Merely by existing, I think."

Merlin frowned at that pronouncement, but said nothing.

"Where do you want this?" Arthur added, gesturing with the laden tray.

"It's for you," Merlin informed him. "I'm not hungry."

Arthur stared at him again, clearly surprised by this turn of events.

"You can sit on the floor," Merlin added helpfully, then turned back to his work.

A rustle of clothes and the clatter of dishes told him Arthur was doing as told, and Merlin soon lost himself in his work. He focused on grinding and mixing ingredients until he had made a fresh, green paste. He would have to boil this down over night for it to be effective.

When he got up, he nearly tripped over Arthur still sitting on the floor. The remnants of his meal were laid out on the tray in front of him. Merlin had almost forgotten he was there. He really shouldn't let his guard down like that. He wouldn't put it past Arthur to try and stab him with a fork.

"Why don't you bring that back?" Merlin told him. Really, did he have to spell everything out for this man?

"I'd rather not," Arthur admitted.

"Well, you've got no choice. Move it!"

Arthur scowled, but obediently got up, picked up the tray and left the tent again.

Merlin added the herb paste, some fat and a swig of water to a small pot by the fireplace, stirred it until the liquid had emulsified, then hung it as high as possible over the flames so it wouldn't burn overnight as it thickened. A pleasant, earthy smell wafted through the tent.

After a few more minutes, Merlin frowned and glanced at the tent flap. Returning a tray shouldn't take this long. What was Arthur up to?

Merlin left the tent and could immediately hear the sounds of a commotion nearby. He hurried up and turned a corner, only to be presented with the sight of three men assaulting Arthur. The guards who had followed Arthur were standing by, looking onto the scene impassively.

The prince was holding his own, fists raised defensively in front of his face as he kicked at one of his opponents. But unlike him, they were wearing leather armour and boots, and they outnumbered him, too. Before Merlin had reached them, Arthur was on the floor, retching into a bush at the edge of the path. An elbow had hit him right into the pit of his stomach and it looked like he was losing his whole dinner.

"What is the meaning of this?" Merlin said, aiming for that tone of authority that never seemed to come as naturally to him as he would have liked.

The men turned at his voice. Merlin recognised them as some of his father's most loyal fighters. Trusted commanders, all of them. Three faces hardened by the unspeakable sacrifices of two decades of war. Merlin hated to confront them over Arthur of all people, but this would not do.

The one on the left, Baldor, threw him a disapproving look. He tended to be openly dismissive with Merlin whenever he thought he could get away with it. "We were teaching him a lesson," he said curtly, as if this wasn't any of Merlin's business.

"And what lesson might that be, Commander?" Merlin asked him. "That one man with a tray can't win a fight against three seasoned warriors?"

"The dragonslayer scum needs to know his place." This was Godric, spitting venom as usual. "He was strutting about, looking at us like he owned us, but our kind no longer bows to the likes of him."

"I think he is well aware of that," Merlin replied drily and glanced at the prince.

By then, Arthur had stopped vomiting and was wiping his mouth with his sleeve, though he remained on his knees for now, cautiously watching Merlin and the warriors from his spot by the bushes.

"Don't harm him again," Merlin told them firmly. "That's an order!"

He could tell from their faces what they thought of his command even before the third of them, Forwin, spoke up: "We answer to Lord Balinor."

Of course they wouldn't back down so easily. All they saw before them was a boy, not a dragonlord, and certainly not the Great Dragon. Perhaps they needed a reminder. Merlin took a swift step forward and drew up some dragonfyre, lighting up his eyes threateningly.

"My father isn't here," he growled. "Now leave."

The men bowed their heads, if barely and rather reluctantly. "Yes, my lord," Forwin muttered, spitting out the title like an insult, and they all marched off.

Merlin looked after them. They had stepped down only because they knew he could blast them off their feet if he had to, not because they respected him. His father would surely hear about this confrontation.

He threw a heated look at the guards who had idly stood by, though Merlin knew he could not really expect lowly watchmen to stand up to his father's hardened warriors over Uther's son. When Merlin glanced back at Arthur, the prince had stood. He still looked a bit green, but seemed steady enough on his feet.

"Come," Merlin ordered and they returned to the tent, drawing looks from every person passing by.

He allowed Arthur to sit on the edge of the bed, then grabbed a vial off his table and went to fetch a washcloth from a basket. He settled down next to Arthur and started dabbing the cloth at the oozing cut on his forehead, then the bloodied bruise on his cheek and his split lip. Arthur watched him with a guarded expression, but stayed still and silent as he received his treatment.

Merlin uncorked the vial and spread some salve on the cut and bruise. Arthur wrinkled his nose unattractively at the pungent smell and Merlin suppressed an urge to roll his eyes as he told Arthur to lift his shirt. More bruises, but there was nothing he could do about those.

"You'll live," Merlin told him and went to tuck everything away.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur asked him.

Merlin studied him from across the tent. The prince was still resting on Merlin's bed, looking tense and rather suspicious. Barefoot and beaten up, he suddenly seemed vulnerable and appeared younger than before. He couldn't be much older than Merlin.

"Nobody deserves to be treated like that," Merlin told him.

"Not even a dragonslayer?" Arthur retorted with just a hint of attitude.

Merlin shrugged, entirely unwilling to discuss this further. He had done what was right, nothing more.

When the prince didn't move, he gave Arthur a very pointed look. Arthur finally took the hint and quickly removed himself from Merlin's bed. For a moment, he simply watched Merlin wash his hands in a bowl of water, though it looked like he was about to speak up any moment.

"Can I ask you something?" Arthur finally said.

"I don't recall you asking permission before," Merlin shot back and reached for a towel.

"What does your father want with me? Why not kill Uther's heir on sight?"

Merlin studied him. The questions sounded earnest enough, but Merlin didn't know the prince well enough to be able to decipher whether he was playing games. Did he really not know?

"You're a bargaining chip," he finally said. He leaned back against his working table and crossed his arms.

"Bargaining chip for what?" Arthur prodded. "My father won't back down simply because you have captured me. I can assure you, he'd rather see me die at your hands than make any kind of concession where the war is concerned."

"Uther has got something we need," Merlin elaborated carefully. "Something my father wants back in exchange for you."

Arthur frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Merlin hesitated, curious about how much Arthur might or might not know, but unwilling to reveal too much and give out valuable information. "An artifact."

Finally, something seemed to dawn on Arthur, though he looked surprised and his voice sounded incredulous as he exclaimed, "Oh, you can't mean – that glowing rock?"

Merlin scowled. "Show some respect!" he snapped. Glowing rock? This man deserved a slap around the head!

"Right." Arthur sounded confused rather than chastised. "What's so special about it?"

"Like I said, it's an important artifact," Merlin said tightly. "Your father took it some years ago and we need it back."

Arthur nodded, but stayed silent. Merlin decided he had had enough of the prince for one day.

"Guards!" he called out. A moment later, one of the men stuck his head in. "Take the prisoner to his cell. I have no further need of his services tonight."

Arthur threw him a last, contemplative look, but willingly followed the guards out of the tent. Merlin sighed, then decided to turn in for the night as well. He had a feeling Arthur would be a handful.


Merlin dreamt of flying that night. He was on Aithusa, who was carrying him high above the Ridge of Ascetir, where the icy air froze your breath. It was a thrilling ride, wild and dangerous. Suddenly, there was a flash of movement, a blood-curdling howl. A moment later, they were tumbling helplessly towards the mountains, Aithusa's white wing pierced by a shimmering harpoon and dripping blood. Merlin screamed in rage and pain, tried to call upon his magic, but somehow, it was blocked. He could not draw a single wisp of dragonfyre. They were smashed to pieces between the mountains.