"Merlin, come here a moment."

He raises his gaze from the chainmail he's fastidiously cleaning. It's one of the few tasks he actually does himself, finding the repetitive motion of it soothing, not to mention it gives him the chance to renew and strengthen the protective magic he's woven through every ring and rivet. Arthur's sitting at his desk with a spread of pages and letters out before him, and he recognises some of the seals stamped on the pages. "Oh, no," Merlin replies, shaking his head, and Arthur gives him a look that's half pleading, half exasperated. "I said no. I promised Will I would go to the Rising Sun with him tonight once I'm done with this, and I will not desert him simply because you, in all your perversity, find it so damnably arousing to hear me discuss matters of state."

"Oh, shut up and come here," Arthur laughs, not even bothering to argue Merlin's claim. He knows full well that every time they've discussed politics together before, the conversation has ended with them breathless and sated and not always in bed. "I want you to look at this, truly. Just…indulge me, would you?"

Merlin scoffs, setting aside the cleaning rag. "As if I don't do enough of that already," he mutters, then gets to feet and crosses to the desk, making sure to stay out of reach; Arthur rolls his eyes knowingly. "Very well, what is it?"

"A thrice-tangled knot that's going to give me a headache before daybreak, I'm certain." He gestures to the scattered mess on his desk and rakes a hand through his hair. "Father's passed it off to me, said that it will be an excellent test of my statesmanship."

"Which means he doesn't want to deal with the headache of it himself, and should it go awry later, he can blame you?"

"You have been paying attention."

"Indeed." Sighing defeat, Merlin walks around the desk and seats himself in Arthur's lap, leaning back into him, and the blond puts an arm around his waist, hand on his hip. "So, show me this tangled knot he's put upon you."

The prince reaches over and tugs a map out of the general clutter on his desk. It isn't just a map of Camelot, but of the other Five Kingdoms as well, displaying nearly half of Alba. "See this territory here?" He gestures to a small range of mountains that isn't in Camelot at all, but rather stretched between Nemeth, Essetir, and Kent, just where the borders of the kingdoms all meet. "These are the Feorre Mountains, and they are demanding sovereignty."

"Sovereignty?" Merlin repeats incredulously. "What…?"

Arthur nods understanding, resting his chin on Merlin's shoulder. "It's an oft-disputed territory. It's belonged to nearly every all of these kingdoms here, even Camelot at one point, not only because it sits on the borders, but because the passes through the mountains are vital."

"Control the mountains, control trade?"

"Precisely. And now they claim that they've never truly belonged to any of the kingdoms, they've merely been an unwilling vassal and that they are their own sovereign nation and should be treated as such."

Merlin frowns, tilting his head as he surveys the map. "But what's this to do with Camelot, then?" he asks, confused.

"Well, part of the territory they're claiming as their own is within our borders. Just here." He leans forward and traces one fingertip over the map just along the edge of Camelot's border, near the Forest of Balor.

"There's nothing there, though, isn't there?"

Arthur shakes his head, frowning in consternation. "No, nothing. No settlements, no pasturage or usable farmland, just a few acres of forest and rocky ground at the foot of the mountains, which is why my father doesn't really care one way or the other, but we're still receiving missives and envoys from them. The people who live there, they call themselves Feorrans, and are asking us to acknowledge their rights to their own land, whilst Nemeth and Essetir are asking us to stay out of it. Kent has less stake in it than we, so they're ignoring the entire situation." He scowls at the map, shaking his head. "I don't know why they're so damn insistent on it anyways. It wouldn't be much of a kingdom."

Merlin hums, reaching out to trace a fingertip over the mountains. "I do," he murmurs, and Arthur arches his brows at him. "It isn't so much about sovereignty as it is about belonging, belonging to themselves and no one else. They're tired of being passed around the common cold. And the way it is now, the mountains split between Nemeth and Essetir…just think. Should it ever come to war between the two, these people might well be fighting their own neighbours, even their own families."

"You sound as though you understand them."

"The desire to have one's own personal freedom? I'm familiar with the feeling."

Arthur doesn't reply, and Merlin internally winces at his own words, knowing that Arthur harbours his own wellspring of guilt, however faultless he is. At length, he speaks again. "What do you suppose I ought to do, then?"

He shrugs the shoulder Arthur isn't leaning on. "See if you can't act the mediator. You said yourself that Camelot has little stake in it anyways, so try to broker peace. Perhaps if Nemeth and Essetir won't acknowledge these…Feorrans' sovereignty, they can come to a peaceful alternative instead."

"Oh, I doubt it. The Feorrans are as stubborn as you. They've refused to give ground so far, and they can't be subdued through force of arms. If nothing else, they do know their own territory better than anyone else. They can spring an assault out of nowhere and vanish just as quickly. There's caverns and tunnels that've never been mapped entirely, not by us anyways, not to mention some of the passes through the hills are so narrow two men can't walk abreast on them, never mind horses or supply wagons, which means a siege is out of the question. It's like catching smoke."

Merlin hums. "I like the sound of them."

"Oh, hush," Arthur laughs, nudging Merlin off his lap. "Off with you, then. Go finish my chainmail and visit your surly little friend."

"Will is hardly little." He doesn't bother arguing the surly remark. He's only just retaken his seat at the table and picked up the cleaning rag when the warning bells begin to ring. "Ah, no," he groans.

At his desk, the prince sighs. "There's that headache, I see."

It is indeed a headache, like unto being kicked in the head by a mule, only far worse. Arthur paces the length of his chambers yet again, probably having done so half a hundred times already, raking a hand back through his hair. "I thought your blood-father was dead. Did you not say he was dead?"

"I-I thought he was…."

"Then how is it he currently sits in the dungeons, Merlin?" he snaps.

"I don't know!"

The shout brings him sharply to a halt, whirling around to face the younger man. Immediately, Arthur regrets his anger, for Merlin is swaying slightly on his feet, having to brace himself against the wall to keep upright, face ashen and eyes wide.

"I thought he was dead. So did Mother. Gaius…" Merlin swallows hard, raising one trembling hand to his mouth. "Gaius told us he was. He believed it would be easier for us that way. I didn't know, Arthur. I didn't know."

"I believe you," he replies softly, then closes his eyes. The next words are leaden on his tongue, but he says them anyways, voice low. "Father's ordered him executed come daybreak."

"What?"

He flinches at the horrified gasp, shoving a hand through his hair yet again, tugging anxiously. "He broke into the vaults, Merlin! He used magic to do so, and whoever he was working with has escaped the city already with whatever they took. Father won't stand for it, any of it. There's nothing to be done about it."

"Arthur…please, I…" His voice breaks, and he sinks down to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. "I can't watch him be executed."

"Don't do that," Arthur says, aghast, and hastily strides over to kneel in front of Merlin, grasping his upper arms in a firm grip. "Don't ever do that. Not with me." It makes him feels sick down to the core of his being to see Merlin kneeling before him and begging. As though Arthur is his father.

"I can't watch him die," Merlin repeats.

He tugs Merlin forward into his arms, embracing him tightly, feeling the young man tremble against him, tears dampening his neck. "I know. I know you can't," Arthur murmurs, stroking Merlin's hair with one hand even as his mind scrambles. "Listen. Listen to me." He waits until teary blue eyes meet his own before continuing. "Go and be with your mother. She'll need you now. I…I'll think of something."

Swiping at his face with the edge of a sleeve, Merlin gets unsteadily to his feet and departs, shutting the door behind him. Arthur stays where he is, kneeling on the rushes in quiet despair.

What can he do? Father won't let an intrusion into the vaults go unanswered, especially since this Balinor's partner had absconded with whatever it is they had stolen in the first place. He'll see the man dead, and even Arthur can't sway him from that. But he cannot sit idle, either. To ask Merlin and Hunith both to simply stand aside and watch, to allow the execution, it'd be unthinkable. He could never do it, no more than he could stand to watch his father die when he might prevent it, nor would he let it go unavenged. In a single dizzying, terrible moment of clarity, he understands Mary Collins and all those who have come before her. The so-called evil of magic has nothing to do with it, only the fierce call of blood for blood, justice for the wrongfully slain.

If Balinor were to escape, then Father would surely send out a full party to recapture him. No doubt he'd ask Arthur to lead it. But there is more to it, he knows; he'd seen it in Father's eyes, that cold flicker of recognition and perhaps something like fear. He wouldn't send Arthur out alone. He'd send Kay, Bevidere, knights loyal to him, not Arthur. He wouldn't be able to lose Balinor's trail so easily with them accompanying him, and he doesn't know the man well enough to say he'd be able to escape a full hunting party on his trail.

Not unless there was more than one trail to follow.

When he goes down to the dungeons, he makes sure to keep his mask on; that's what Merlin calls the cool, distant face that he puts on for the court. The guards tense when they see him coming, straightening at their posts and giving him crisp nods as he passes. He doesn't acknowledge them, keeping himself apart. If they're to have any chance of achieving this mad scheme, he cannot afford to be seen as anything less than the Crown Prince of Camelot, interrogating the condemned prisoner for a final time before his execution.

It doesn't surprise Arthur in the slightest to see Merlin and Hunith standing at Balinor's cell, murmuring softly to him. He imagines that Merlin has learnt how to conceal their passing from unfriendly eyes, to make certain their voices go unheard. He clears his throat as he approaches.

Merlin's head comes up sharply, a brief, near-painful expression of hope crossing his face even as Balinor scowls thunderously. He gestures Arthur closer. A feathering warmth spreads across his skin as he approaches, the familiar caress of the young man's magic.

"Have you come to gloat, then, whelp?" Balinor grinds out.

"Father," Merlin hisses out just as Hunith simultaneously admonishes, "Balinor."

Arthur lets it pass, clasping one hands together before him. "No, I have come to help you escape," he replies candidly.

All three stare at him—Merlin with veiled adoration, Hunith with blessed relief, and Balinor with utter incredulity. "How?"

"First tell me what it is you stole from the vaults and its purpose," Arthur says. With those words, the suspicion in Balinor's expression solidifies back into solid mistrust; though he doesn't shift his gaze away from Balinor, his next words aren't meant solely for the other man. "I will help you escape for the sake of those I care for, but I have a duty and obligation to protect Camelot as well."

Balinor stares at him inscrutably, hands flexing at his side. Merlin's voice is low yet firm, "Tell him or I will."

There's an agonising moment of silence, but then some of the tension drops from Balinor's shoulders, a silent acquiescence. "One third of a triskelion, a magically-forged key," he says quietly.

"A key to what?"

"The tomb of Ashkanar," he says, and Arthur can't quite help his twitch of surprise. Balinor eyes him and gives a rough, mirthless chuckle. "Know it, do you? Then you know what it contains?"

"I know the wealth and wisdom of Ashkanar were considered to be without equal," Arthur replies carefully, though he knows they are speaking of something else entirely. He knows full well what the tomb contains, having heard the furtive whispers from his father's war room as a child, ear pressed to the door to eavesdrop. He knows, too, who this man is, what he is, for him to desire the last dragon egg. "But I imagine that is not what you are after, is it, dragonlord?"

Merlin and Hunith both stare at him in shock, and he knows they hadn't expected him to know that. They haven't time to mince words, however. Father means for Balinor to die come dawn, and they have only hours.

"The King doesn't know what you are, or he has not told me if he does. Either way, I don't care," Arthur continues. He reaches down to touch the keys at his belt, and Balinor's eyes follow the movement. "I can unlock your cell and set you free, but first you must give me something. I want your word, your oath, that you will forswear vengeance against myself and Camelot."

Balinor's eyes go dark, moving back to his face. "And if I do not give it?"

"Then I can do nothing for you." The soft, pained sound Merlin makes twists in Arthur's chest keener than any dagger, but he forces his voice to remain steady and firm. "I cannot allow you to free a creature that you might well use to destroy us. I have read the accounts of dragonlords going to war, the destruction they were able to unleash upon their enemies. Entire armies consumed by flame, kingdoms losing every last grain to fire, land scorched so black nothing could take root for decades. I cannot bring such a thing upon Camelot."

The man shifts closer to the bars of his cell, reaching up to curl both hands around the bars. His eyes, dark and nothing at all like his son's, bore into Arthur, and he's reminded dizzily of Dara, looking through him into the darkest parts himself. "You don't know me, whelp. What makes you think I will keep to my word?" he poses.

"I expect not only your word, but your binding oath," Arthur replies. He remembers the words Merlin had spoken to him, every one, and he'd felt the stir of magic when they were spoken. "And if you are at all like your own kin—" His gaze flits to Merlin and Hunith. "—then you will keep to it. You will not be forsworn."

"That is all? Renounce vengeance against you and Camelot?" he repeats. Those dark eyes narrow. "What of the King?"

Arthur swallows hard, his stomach knotting over itself, but he forces the words out. "My father's sins are his own. He must answer for them himself."

"So be it, then. By stone and sea and sky and all they encompass, in the name of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, I do forswear vengeance against Arthur Pendragon and the kingdom of Camelot."

Again, there is that faint, silken stir of magic in the air, like a breeze blowing past, and with it comes the scent of wild places, of churned earth and fermented berries, but something else as well, something musky and reptilian and not quite human. Arthur represses a shiver and reaches for the keys on his belt. "Merlin, you will go with him to the tomb. Your brother has horses waiting for you outside the east gate," he says as he unlocks the cell, though he keeps one hand on the door, staring at Balinor through the bars. "And I am going to need your coat."

Of all the ways Merlin has imagined meeting his blood-father over the years, riding hell-for-leather after a thief intent on stealing a dragon egg which they are apparently responsible for as the last of a near-dead race of dragonlords is a scenario not even his feverish young imagination could have conjured. Of course, when has his life ever turned out the way he expected it to?

He looks up from the pheasant slowly roasting over the fire as Balinor returns. For such a large man, he's able to move with surprising grace and silence. "Same tracks. It's Borden, true enough," he confirms.

"Should we carry on after this?" Merlin asks, nodding towards their dinner.

Balinor tilts his head back to survey what little of the sky can be seen through the forest canopy. "No. It's too dark. Borden might be a liar and a thief, but he's not a fool. This is rough terrain, and he'll not risk his horse trying to ride at night," he replies, sitting down on a clearer patch of ground near the fire. Nearby, the Hellion and the bay gelding Arthur had given Balinor whicker and stamp softly, heads lowered. "We would have had him already if Uther's runt hadn't kept us. Arrogant little beast, demanding an oath from me…"

"Father," Merlin snaps, then stops, taking a breath. "Please. I have to ask you not to speak ill of Arthur."

"You and Hunith might be fond of the whelp, but he's still a Pendragon."

"You don't know him. No more than you know me," Merlin reminds him sharply, and this time, Balinor glances away, unable to hold his gaze. "He helped you escape. He knows who I am, what I am, and he has done nothing to give me harm. Will you hold him responsible for the sins of his father? Should I be held responsible for yours?"

For a long moment, Balinor is silent, turning to stare at him with dark eyes. Merlin can see himself reflected in them twice over, knowing he's overstepped somewhere. Perhaps for the first time, he is very much aware of the fact that he is scarcely two-and-twenty, that he was still a babe in arms during the bloodiest years of the Purge, that he's never witnessed the full extent of it.

"Uther pursued me," Balinor says at last, voice low and gravelly. "He hunted me…like a beast. He asked me to use my power to bring the last dragon to Camelot. He said he wanted to make peace with him, but he did not. He lied to me, he betrayed me, and Kilgharrah died because of it, as did the rest of my—our—people. My blood. My kin. All gone. Because of my folly." He shakes his head once, sharply, a muscle flexing in his jaw. "I'll never be free of it. Betimes it is easier to put that blame onto others than it is to bear it myself."

"I know. And I'm sorry. But you're wrong. They're not gone," Merlin whispers. "Not anymore. I'm here, Father."

Balinor raises his gaze to him, and the corners of his eyes crease slightly in the hint of a smile. "Aye. That you are. And I hope to be a worthy father to you. Very well, I'll speak no more of the Pendragon boy. Now, do you suppose that I am worthy of that pheasant burning itself black on the fire? Shall we eat it now, or when it is entirely ruined?"

Merlin swears aloud as he scrabbles to rescue it, near burning his fingers. For the first time, he hears Balinor laugh, rumbling low in his chest. He separates their meagre supper into portions and sits cross-legged on his blanket to eat. "Why did you trust Borden?" he poses as he picks apart the meat, trying not to burn his fingers. "Surely you must've known he would betray you."

"Aye, I did," Balinor agrees. "I did not trust him at all, and yet…I had few choices. He found me some months ago, told me of the tomb and what lay within it. He had discovered who I was through some means, I could not say how. He showed me the other pieces of the triskelion, told me where the last one lay and should I help him, I would be entitled to my share of what lay within the tomb. As it should rightfully be."

"Why you, though? Surely he could've found anyone to help him."

The snapping of the fire doesn't quite cover Balinor's soft sigh. "Because he knew who I was, what I had been. The last of the dragons, slain on my account…. I see now that he meant to play my guilt against me, and he succeeded at that. But how could I refuse? If there is even the smallest hope that the dragons might be reborn, it is my solemn duty to do what I can to kindle it. A dragonlord alone in the world is a terrible thing."

Merlin offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile even as his throat tightens. "Not alone now."

"Indeed. And speaking of being alone, I heard that…prince…mention a brother. Hunith married, then?" Balinor asks. He says the word 'prince' with utmost distaste, but it's a sight better than the names he had used before.

"No, no, Mother's never married. Leon is my brother, but we aren't blood-kin," Merlin replies. At Balinor's puzzled glance, he explains the ruse, how Mother had left him with the de Galises to keep him safely away from Uther and Cenred alike, how Lionel had claimed him as a natural son, raised him in Silverpine with Leon. Balinor seems deeply amused by it, nodding along. "Will…will you tell me about them?" Merlin asks once he finishes. "The dragonlords?"

"Aye, I shall. Ah, my son, there's a great deal we have to discuss." Balinor shifts to put his back against a tree, leaning against it and stretching his legs towards the fire. "I hope the dragonet will be a female," he says quietly.

"Why?"

The man chuckles softly. "A female dragon will lay eggs, of course. Their future will be ensured." At Merlin's look of puzzlement, he continues on in a surprisingly patient voice, "She will not need a mate in order to do so."

"As a hen does even without a rooster?"

The look of utter mortification on the man's face would've been hilarious in any other situation, and even as it is, Merlin has to bite his lip on a giggle as Balinor replies with utmost indignity, "Dragons are not poultry!"

"Arthur."

He lifts his head in surprise at the sound of Morgana's voice, but sure enough, she is standing in the doorway of his chamber. "Morgana," he says, a touch warily. She never visits him without cause. "New gown? Colour suits you."

"Yes, thank you. May we speak?"

"Of course." He gestures towards the chair set on the opposite side of his desk; Merlin likes to sit there and chatter on whilst Arthur sorts paperwork. He watches her as she crosses the room, taking the chair.

She looks weary, he realises. There are purple smudges beneath her eyes, grey-green gaze listless, and her thumbnails have been bitten down to the quick on both hands. She's broken herself of the habit over the years, but she still bites her thumbnails. Morgana doesn't speak for a long moment, staring into the middle distance as her fingers tap a discordant rhythm on the arm of the chair; Arthur holds his tongue. "Where is Merlin?" she asks at last.

"On an errand. He'll be back."

Her gaze cuts to him sharply, a spark of temper rising. "Don't play this game with me, Arthur," she warns. "I will win, and you will regret it. Where is he?"

Sighing deeply, he rests his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together beneath his chin. "He is with his father," Arthur replies at last, inwardly cursing his own folly for not telling her. When Morgana arches an eyebrow at him, he amends, "His blood-father. They departed from Camelot three days ago."

She blinks at him, lips parting, but then her expression cools into understanding. "The thief who broke into the vaults, the man Uther ordered executed," she says, then shakes her head, despair creeping into her eyes; his nape prickles uneasily. "Damn it, Arthur. Tell me what happened."

Merlin doesn't recall the ride back to Camelot.

It all seems a haze, details sliding in and out of focus. One moment he's riding through the Darkling Wood to the standing stones, the next he's dismounting the Hellion in the square, and then he's halfway up a staircase with a warm hand on his arm and Lancelot's gentle voice breaking through the roaring silence, though he doesn't hear a word the man says. "Is Arthur in his chambers?" he asks; his own voice sounds strange to him, hoarse and quiet. Wordlessly, Lancelot nods and releases his arm, letting him pass. He continues up the stairs, following the way he's walked a thousand times already, stepping into Arthur's chamber and shutting the door behind him. The world comes back into sharp-edged clarity.

Arthur's there, standing before his wardrobe and putting on his jacket against the evening chill. The sunstone pin is affixed to its collar, matching the pendant dangling from a cord around his wrist, matching the colour of his hair. At the sound of the door, he turns. His gaze searches Merlin's face, haggard and pale, and he inhales sharply in understanding, not a word spoken.

Merlin crosses the room towards him. His legs give way beneath him, all the strength going out of him, and he sinks down to his knees, wrapping both arms around Arthur's waist, pressing his face against him. Arthur's strong arms curl around him, holding hard and tight, one hand cupping the back of his head. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity. Distantly, Merlin hears voices, raised and agitated, from the corridor, coming closer. He doesn't care.

"I'm sorry." Arthur's voice, rough and thick. "I'm so very sorry."

Merlin closes his eyes, tightening his grip.

The voices outside grow louder, nearer—familiar ones. The door of Arthur's chambers swings open without anyone knocking, and an irate Leon strides in with a harried-looking Lancelot trailing after him. "Gods' mercy, one would think—" He stops in his tracks, staring at the scene before him. His face goes blank with shock. And then understanding dawns. "Absolutely not."

Arthur lowers his arms. "Leon…"

"No," he repeats flatly, as if saying the word enough will make it so. "Oh, no."

Merlin releases Arthur's waist and gets to his feet. "I would speak to you about this," he says hoarsely, turning to look at his brother.

"No." An angry flush rises in Leon's face, staring at Arthur. One hand moves to the hilt of his sword in an unconscious gesture, breathing harshly.

For his part, Arthur doesn't react to the subtle threat beyond an expression of guilt and sorrow. Lancelot edges closer to Leon as if ready to restrain him. Merlin sidesteps between prince and knight, arms spread slightly in a warding gesture. "Don't," he pleads. "Leon, please, I beg of you, don't. I cannot bear it now, please."

Leon stares at him for an endless moment, hand flexing around the hilt of his sword, but then he turns on heel and stalks out of the chamber. "I'll stay with him," Lancelot says in a low voice, then turns and hastens after Leon, shutting the door of the chamber behind him.

Merlin presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees white stars behind his lids, a sob hitching in his throat. "Oh, goddess help me, I can't…" he moans.

Arthur's hands curl over his shoulders. "Don't think on it now, Merlin," he murmurs softly, turning him around and guiding him towards the bed. "Come here. Lay down, and I'll fetch your mother."

Merlin lets himself be led over and sits down on the bed, aware of Arthur stroking his hair, murmuring softly to him. He lets himself curl up on the bed, pressing his face into a pillow, breathing the scent of Arthur and the lavender oil from his bath. He doesn't hear Arthur leave, nor does he hear anyone return, but when a callused hand touches his hair, he raises his head to see Mother there, her eyes full of tears. Merlin releases the pillow and crawls over to her, laying his head in her lap as though he is a boy again, pressing his face into her skirts to muffle his sobs.

"Oh, Merlin mine," Mother whispers, and he feels dampness drip into his hair as her tears fall.

When he wakes, it is still dark, not yet dawn, he is still in Arthur's bed, though Arthur isn't in it with him. He sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. He feels strangely hollowed out; his grief is still there, but it's sunken deep down into him, scraping out its own place in him and settling there. "Arthur?" he calls; his voice is hoarse, raw from weeping. He remembers sitting with Mother, mourning, falling asleep with his head in her lap, stirring faintly when she left.

"I'm here." Merlin turns towards the sound of his voice to see the prince approaching the bed in his nightclothes. He makes a face as he rolls his left shoulder, stretching his arm above his head. Something snaps faintly in his shoulder. "Oh, much better," Arthur sighs in relief. "You are never sleeping on that bed again. I've slept better camping in the forest on patrol." He drops his arm back down to his side and gazes at Merlin with endless sympathy in his gaze. "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," he replies softly. "I think I will be, eventually. You slept in the antechamber?"

Arthur glances downwards, shrugging one shoulder. "I didn't know if you would want to be alone."

"No. No, I don't. Please." He draws back the bedcovers.

Without a word, Arthur gets in beside him and slides in close. One arm settles over his waist, hand spread across his belly, and soft breath stirs the short curls at the nape of his neck, warm and humid. "I should've told Morgana. I was remiss not to," Arthur murmurs. "She came to me after you left with him, said that she had a dream that she couldn't make sense of, that you were in it. She didn't know what it meant, something about crossways."

"A crossway is a single point many futures can unfold from. She wouldn't have been able to know which would happen until it had already begun," he replies softly. "What did she see?"

"You. Kneeling alone in a ruin of stone and weeping."

The words strike him surely as a blow, and he tightens his hold on Arthur's hand until he feels the small bones shift, knowing he must surely be causing pain. Slowly, he relaxes his grip again, and as he does, Merlin begins to speak, haltingly at first but then growing steadier.

He tells Arthur of how he and Father had tracked Julius Borden to the tomb of Ashkanar. How they'd caught him up as he tried to enter the tower, unaware that it was rigged with hidden traps, and left him there to venture inside on their own. How they'd found the dragon egg, still whole and unharmed and alive as the day it had been sealed in four hundred years ago. How Borden, waking from his drugged sleep, had followed them in and fired his crossbow at Merlin's back, only to have Balinor come between them, taking the bolts in his chest. How Merlin had killed Borden with his magic and, upon Balinor's dying insistence, taken the dragon egg and escaped the tower as it collapsed on itself, becoming an eternal cairn for the thief and the dragonlord alike.

When he finally runs out of words to say, Arthur doesn't say anything, doesn't offer useless words, merely tightens his grip and gives no mention of the tears dampening the pillow. For a stretch of time, they lay in silence, holding and being held, and Merlin feels a little more of his grief ease away. "I have to speak to Leon," he says at last, finding his voice once more.

"Not now," Arthur insists, arm tightening over Merlin's waist. "I have a training session this morning. I'll pair up with him, let him vent his temper first."

"No sharp edges. And have Lancelot there."

There's a moment's silence. "You told Lancelot." It isn't a question, but Merlin nods anyways, and Arthur lets out a soft exhale, breath skimming warmly over his skin. "I suppose I cannot hold you at fault for that. I spoke to Dara." He presses his lips to the nape of Merlin's neck. "Alright. I'll keep Lancelot near. It wouldn't suit for the prince to be killed by his own First Knight, after all."

It's meant in jest, he knows, but Merlin shivers at the thought of them killing each other nonetheless. Arthur's arm tightens around him a little more in silent comfort and apology, realising his stumble. He interlaces their fingers and squeezes tight, eyes drifting closed. He doesn't sleep again—he doesn't think he can, not yet—but he lets himself relax into the solid, steadfast warmth of Arthur, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, matching the even depth of his breathing. Behind his closed lids, he's aware of the room growing lighter, and he hears the soft sound of birdsong outside the window.

Arthur lets out a sigh against his neck. "I have to…"

"I know," Merlin murmurs. "Go on."

With gentle, careful motions, Arthur disentangles himself and climbs out of the bed, dressing on his own.

Once the door of the chamber whispers shut, he lays there for a time, feeling the sheets grow cool beside him. They should've consulted Morgana. He should've thought of it, not Arthur. What might have happened if he had? A crossway had many futures spreading from it, like branching forks in a road. Was there one in which his father lived, had they done something differently? Might Balinor have been able to one day return to Camelot, wed Mother as he'd wanted to? Hatch the dragon egg that he's hidden amid the standing stones in the Darkling Wood, brought about a new age for the dragonlords?

Merlin turns over onto his back and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until the world swims in black-white-red-grey streamers behind his lids. It doesn't matter. What is done cannot be undone, and he cannot lay here and wallow in his own misery, wondering what might have been. Madness lies that way.

Pushing back the blankets, he sits up slowly and strips off his clothing, inspecting the myriad of bruises and small scrapes he'd acquired. The tower had begun collapsing from the moment he'd moved the egg from its pedestal, another of Ashkanar's traps, and he'd shielded the delicate egg and the life in it with his own body in fleeing. Nothing's broken that he can tell, nor are any of his wounds severe enough to warrant visiting Gaius—not that he'd want to, at any rate. Knowing that Gaius had lied to him, to Mother, for all these years leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, a spark of anger nestled in his chest. It shan't be extinguished for some time.

Quietly resolving to bear the pain on his own as penance, Merlin climbs out of the bed and goes into the antechamber, putting on fresh attire. The narrow bed is unmade, rumpled where Arthur had no doubt shifted half a hundred times trying to be comfortable; the thought makes him smile. His quarterstaff is propped in the corner, and his knives are all laid out on a cloth atop the table, each one clean and newly sharpened, the leather sheathes oiled and mended. The familiarity of arming himself is soothing in its way, the repetition of something unchanged, and he feels more himself with them once more in place beneath his clothes, quarterstaff settled across his back.

It's well into the morning when he finally brings himself to leave Arthur's chambers. Having been ignored thus far, his stomach is griping noisily, and he makes in the direction of the kitchens, wondering if there'll be any leftover breakfast for him to filch from Cook, or if she'll have already started on lunch. Perhaps he'll bring some to Mother as well. She did as he did in times like this, neglecting oneself in grief. Perhaps he'll be able to stand telling her what Father had said of her, wanting to wed her, make a life for themselves as they might've had all those years ago. It hurts to think of it now, but it might become comfort later.

To Merlin's surprise, however, as he descends the stairs, he hears Lancelot and Arthur's voices intermingled, coming closer. When he hastens his step, rounding the corner, he sees Lancelot steering Arthur in the direction of the physicians' chamber. He has to guide him, seeing that Arthur has one hand pressed over the left side of his face, blood spattered on the front of his gambeson and sticking darkly in his hair, the right eye squinting for pain.

"I am fine, it's only a scratch," Arthur insists even as blood runs between his fingers, threading bright red down his wrist. "Nothing bleeds like a head wound, that's all. It'll stop in a moment."

"It was an unfair blow, and you know it," Lancelot replies sharply. "And if you call this a scratch, then I am afraid to see what you call a real wound."

"So am I," Merlin adds pointedly as he approaches. Arthur stops firm in his tracks, forcing Lancelot to halt as well, suddenly appearing far more uneasy than he had a moment ago. "Let me see."

"Merlin, it's merely a scratch—"

"Arthur."

Caught between Merlin and Lancelot's combined resolve, Arthur sighs and lifts his hand away from his brow, wincing as his palm sticks with the tackiness of blood. Merlin hisses through his teeth and yanks off his neckerchief, pressing it into Arthur's hand. "That is going to need stitches. Lancelot, get him to Mother, and tell me, where is my brother?"

"He should be in the armoury still," Lancelot replies. "I told him to stay there until he could control his temper."

"Good. I believe I'll assist him in that," Merlin says, taking his quarterstaff in hand and making towards the armoury.

Anger makes for a satisfying alternative to sorrow, he finds.

Gaius washes the gash on his forehead with something that smells acrid and herbal. It stings like seven hells. Then Hunith, with her steadier hands, takes a strand of wax thread and puts three stitches in. Which also stings like seven hells. It's not like to scar, thankfully, but he feels it ache in time with his heartbeat. Arthur fights a wince as he carefully holds his goblet against his temple, the cool metal helping to soothe the ache.

Once he finishes turning down the bedcovers and snuffing most of the candles, leaving only the hearth to light the chamber, Merlin approaches his chair, clearing away the remnants of supper. "What did the King say about this?" He reaches out to run a fingertip feather-light over Arthur's brow, ruffling his hair but not touching the wound.

"Not much. I told him it was merely an accident and largely my fault." Arthur catches Merlin's hand in his, stopping him from retreating with the tray. "And you? I understand you and Leon had a…discussion in the armoury." That's putting it politely. Whilst he'd been getting his stitches, a nervous Sir Bors had come to inform him that there was an unholy shouting match going on in the armoury and that perhaps it was not wise to let the brothers remain in a room full of weaponry. However, they'd both emerged alive, if not wholly unharmed. Leon will have those bruises for a good while.

Merlin snorts, setting down the tray and leaning his hip against the side of the chair, arms folded across his chest. "The word 'discussion' implies that we had equal parts in the conversation," he replies wryly. Which they hadn't. All in all, Leon had probably managed to get in three sentences, and he likely regrets them as well, considering Merlin's reaction to what he'd chosen to say. "He questioned my taste in suitors," he says at last when Arthur continues to gaze at him curiously. "And I told him in no few words that my taste in suitors is absolutely none of his concern."

The prince hums. "I have a creeping suspicion that you are putting it very kindly."

"I am, but it means the same. Brother or not, he has no right to dictate my life to me, nor does he get to decide who I can and cannot take to my bed." He opens his mouth as if to continue, then closes it again, pressing his lips together. His ears redden. Arthur nudges him in silent question. "I, ah…I told him that I could very well hire myself to the Pavilion and make a month of his wages in a night on my back, and he could not stop me if I did."

"Merlin!"

"I was making a point on personal freedom, nothing more! I wouldn't ever actually…" He brandishes one hand in obscure reference to his threatened actions. "Besides, Dara would never let me. I'm far too adept at dissembling. He'd send me to spy for him."

Arthur folds his arms on the table and lowers his head to them, shoulders trembling as he fights down laughter, biting his sleeve to muffle his giggles. When he is in control of himself once more, he sits upright. Merlin is still leaning against the side of his chair, arms folded and pointedly pretending not to notice Arthur's obvious glee. "Well, then, I imagine your point has been sufficiently made." A mental image of what Leon's face must've looked like at those words surfaces, and he has to take a deep breath to restrain himself once more. "I take it I needn't worry about him braining me with a practice sword at our next training session?"

"Not if he values his life," Merlin replies, but then his tone grows more solemn. "It's true, though. I belong to myself and myself alone."

Arthur blinks up at him, surprised at the faint note of warning. "I know. I know that." He's fully aware of the fact he can be an arrogant prat, but he's never been so conceited as to think that Merlin actually belongs to him. The young man might play the servant well enough, but in his heart of hearts, he's never suffered himself to be tamed and never would.

"Good."

Leaning over in the chair, he tilts his head slightly to rest the unhurt side of his face against Merlin's waist and hums happily when the young man rakes gentle fingers through his hair in response. "What's that?" he asks when he notices Merlin's other hand is absently plucking at a cord around his neck, one which hadn't been there before.

"Hm? Oh." Swallowing hard, he tugs it free of his tunic and neckerchief, leaning down so Arthur can see. Dangling from the cord is a signet ring; Father has one just like it, engraved with the Pendragon crest. This one, however, bears a different crest: a triskele, like unto what the Druids mark themselves with, except it is formed of three dragon heads rather than coiled spirals. "The sigil of the dragonlords," Merlin murmurs softly. "It's Father's. Though I suppose it's mine now. I…I can't wear it yet." He tucks the ring back under his tunic, adjusting his neckerchief over it.

Arthur knows it has nothing to do with the risk of being discovered. "You will. So, where exactly do you plan on keeping the rest of your…inheritance?" he asks, not daring to actually say the words aloud.

"Here in your chambers."

He blinks. "Beg pardon?"

"That's what I forgot to tell you this morning. When Cornelius Sigan constructed the castle, he didn't just create what you see. There's more to the citadel," Merlin explains, a small smile playing at his lips. "Hidden passages, secret chambers. I found the sketches he made in his books, the plans for them. Some had notes. The first prince of Camelot, he had a lover that the King forbade him, so he asked Sigan to create a hidden room between their chambers and passageways connecting them so that he could still visit his paramour without the King knowing. It'll still be here. All we have to do is open the door."

"Merlin, I have lived in these chambers my entire life. There is no other door."

"None which you can open. It has to be opened by magic. The first prince?" Merlin grins widely. "His lover was a sorceress."

Arthur laughs aloud at that. Oh, how history does repeat itself. "Very well, then. Go on, show me."

Stepping away from the chair, Merlin approaches the far wall—a perfectly blank stretch of unbroken stone—and reaches up to run his hands over it, brow furrowed as he traces lines over the surface of the wall, slowly moving from one side to the other. Near the left corner, he stops, tapping his fingers against the stone. A smile crosses his face. "Here. It's here." Pressing a palm flat to the wall, he says in a clear voice, "Onhlídan."

There's a grinding of stone and a small eruption of dust that sends them both stepping backwards, coughing and sneezing. When it settles again, Arthur gives a surprised, pleased laugh. A section of stone has slid back and into the wall, revealing a narrow passageway. "Well, I'll be damned. How did you do that?"

"There's a marker etched in the stone. It isn't visible, but you can feel it. Come on." Merlin takes Arthur's hand in his own and holds the other out before him; a small blue flame appears above his open palm, illuminating the passageway ahead of them. It is a narrow corridor, tight enough that Arthur has to walk behind Merlin rather than beside him, his shoulders almost touching the walls. Five-and-twenty paces into the darkness, and suddenly the closeness disappears, and Arthur knows that he's standing in an open space, though he can't see anything other than blackness, even with the bluebell flame.

"Byrne," the young man murmurs softly. There's a brief smell of burning dust as a dozen ancient candles flicker to life, illuminating a small but luxuriously furnished room, fit for a royal's paramour.

"Well, would you look at this?" Arthur remarks, turning to survey the chamber. "Is there another entrance anywhere?"

"Yes, that door there. It would've led to Sephare's chamber." Merlin points to the small door tucked in the opposite corner of the room. "She would've come in through there, then opened the other doorway for Aleyne."

Arthur raises his eyebrows in amusement. "Sephare and Aleyne? Precisely how much have you been reading about this?"

Merlin grins right back. "They're both mentioned in Sigan's journal a number of times. They were all good friends, apparently. Before he went mad, of course."

"Of course." Stepping forward into the chamber, Arthur reaches out and runs a hand over the coverlet. Though old, with the chamber sealed from all sides, there's no rot, no damp or evidence of moths and vermin, only a coating of dust. He wonders how many times this Aleyne had walked through the darkness to be with his lover, if Sephare had a protective and martially-inclined brother he had to contend with. "You'll keep it in here, then? Will it be alright?" he asks.

"Yes, of course." Merlin's voice thickens slightly. "Father said it can live for more than a thousand years."

"Ah, Merlin." He steps forward and rests his hands on the younger man's shoulders, gently stroking the curve of Merlin's neck with his thumb. "I give you my word that you'll see it hatched. I swear it."

"I believe you." Merlin hastily swipes a sleeve over his face, brushing away tears. "I hope it'll be a female. He hoped it would be."

"Why?"

"If it is, then she'll lay eggs. There'll be a chance for their kind."

Arthur frowns. He might not have ever seen a dragon for himself, nor would he claim to know much of anything about them, but he does know how procreation works and the necessities for it. "Wouldn't there have to be a male as well?"

"I thought the same, but no. A female dragon will lay eggs even without a mate."

"Like a hen?"

It seems a perfectly logical comparison to him. He doesn't understand why Merlin laughs so uproariously.