A/N: My attempt at action. Let me know how I did.

Still looking for a beta (10/4/14)

Prompts: Beauty and the Beast, The Hunter's Heart, The Sorcerer's Shadow.

Science and Faith

Chapter 2

Arthur has never seen a dragon before.

Right now, he thinks he's thankful to have gone his whole life thus far without witnessing it. In fact, he could have lived happily for the rest of his life without the current image he has branding itself on the back of his eyelids.

It started, seconds that feel like centuries ago, with the brief shaking of the massive skyscraper he is surveying. At first he thought it might have been his right-fore thruster brushing too close to the crumbling brickwork. He chastised himself and rounded the corner, careful of his spacing now. He wasn't so much suspicious at that point, more alert and curious like he's supposed to be on hunts. And he didn't even notice the giant, whiteness on the tower above him – it's just dismissed as another sun dyed scar.

Then there's the sound: a low rumbling growl so deep and so loud it burns his eardrums. Like a thunder cloud exploding furiously, rattling his bones and throbbing through the whole ship, drowning out the Excalibur's kittenish purr.

It scrapes one of its hooked talons across the building, cascading brick and rubble everywhere. That's when Arthur finally sees it, his eyes are drawn to the slow, meaningful movement. Even as he knows he should be executing evasive manoeuvres to avoid the falling debris, he is glued motionless in his seat. Helpless. Committing the awful, slow-motion tableau to memory.

Its wings are furled at its back, cradling the rider nestled there obscenely gently when it could shred a human like a leaf or swallow them whole depending on its whim. Its scales are a pearly white only somewhat obscured by the layers and layers of crusty mud and an ugly substance Arthur thinks is ageing blood but doesn't really want to think too hard about.

Its head cranes around, long and deceptively slender but from the bunching and shifting with the movement Arthur knows it's all muscle and power, like a viper uncoiling to attack. It shrieks at him when he accidentally nudges the Excalibur closer in pure shock. The snout isn't as long as he always imagined but he is too busy staring in awe at the rows upon rows of sharp, sharp teeth – each of them a creamy-yellow shade that makes Arthur think of the wilderness – jammed into the maw of the thing. All gnashing and threatening in front of the blackness of its gullet. Arthur thinks he can see the embers of its fire smouldering there at the back of its throat.

Its hackles quiver and its back arches, creaking and popping over the sound of Arthur's engines like old wood ready to splinter, before leaping from the building, roar tearing his ears, making his teeth judder in his skull. Thick spines protrude from the scales along its back. Hoods of bone shield its pitch, lifeless eyes from the worst of the wind. They are absolute, eternal and entirely merciless.

That is when the first rocks raining from above start to hit. It snaps Arthur out of his horror. He swings into action. From the corner of his eye, he sees the dragon's wings snapping aggressively, catching and jagging on buildings as it searches for the right air currents. Rock and debris spew around him, a hail storm of broken architecture.

He slams the throttle. Hisses when his girl protests and whacks at the auto-course correct to shut it off. Punches at the gas again and is rewarded with a sweeping gush of speed that takes them down and out of danger. Collision alarms blare, red lights flashing. The wheel protests when he pushes his body's weight against it, it's already fully decompressed on the descent axis – she can't go down any faster.

His intercept screen looks more like a red ocean than a foreign object locator and he ignores it. Flicks on the additional viewers that pop on along the left side of his main view screen, they're too small to be much good but it's better than nothing.

He is so busy dodging a tonne of crap that could damage his hull or scrape the plating beyond repair or lodge itself in who only knows where, that he loses sight of the dragon. When he glances around for it again, it's nowhere to be seen. Sheer panic is immediate. Sets his pulse racing and his heart up into his throat as he barrel rolls under a concrete block.

Something pounds against the roof above the cockpit. He actually wishes it were debris but the squealing like the sound a cat makes when it's being strangled tells him otherwise. The whole ship lurches forward, nose dipping as the noise bullets over his head, much like the chill that shoots up his spine. One deadly claw rips through the space-faring, six inch thick titanium plating of the hull, piercing into the cockpit. There's no way for Arthur to distance himself any more, no safe place where he can detach himself.

There is a dragon...sitting on his roof.

The Excalibur is spiralling out of control under the extra weight. And there's nothing he can do to save his own life. A dragon can fly ten times faster than one of the ejection pods and that is his only other option here, except plummeting to his death.

Another spiky claw smashes against the main view screen. Luckily the reinforced diamond-plated glass holds – his girl's still got some fight in her yet. Its tail end connects with a scraper and he's thrown from his chair. Bites his tongue on the way down. Maybe breaks a finger – can't tell with all the whirling adrenalin.

There is so much noise, it is disorientating. He loses his bearings, can't tell which way is up any more. There is another crash against the view screen, heavy and unforgiving. Arthur can smell smoke, thinks it is the thrusters straining, the engines preparing to give out under the load.

When the pressure disappears from the hull, the release of pressure on the smoking thrusters catapults them upwards. Arthur smacks into the sheet metal of the floor. Feels blood on his forehead, warm and wet.

He grasps for the struts of his chair, drags himself back to it. His muscles feel weak, like they have had the life leached from them. But he has been trained since childhood. Never give up. Pendragon. He climbs back to his feet wearily, sprawls in his chair then gets his spine under him again. Gets his senses under control. Ignores the dizziness. Breathes deeply.

The dragon is already ahead of him, sailing above what used to be AX2 Main. Arthur glares, glances at the comms unit, whacks the weapons system online instead and pursues.

But before he can acquire the target for the auto-comp to lock on and track they're veering hard right onto BV1 Main and into Sector B2 of the city. Arthur clings to his wheel so tightly his knuckles turn from an angry red to a thin white. He grits his teeth, determined. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, at his neck, everywhere. But he won't give this up, near death experience or not. He'll see this hunt through to the end, even if it is his body that gives out first.

There is no point contacting the rest of the squad he has been given him command over. He was the last member surveying Sector B3, where he thought Merlin might be by this morning. And B2 where he is now has definitely been swept and deserted again, perceived vacant. He's on his own.

He is gaining on them. The speed of flight is doing sickening things to his stomach, he feels ill, like he has spent all night with a bucket and there's nothing else to come up but bile. He glances at the tiny crack at the top of his main screen nervously, but his girl has never failed him before. She'll hold together until he's satisfied. He twists another inch of forward out of the wheel, feels the hydraulics creak and ache with the effort but give him that last bit of juice all the same.

His fingers crawl back towards the auto-comp of the weapons system. If he could just...

The hairpin left takes him by surprise. He follows reflexively, jerks the wheel. Nearly gets thrown from his chair again with the angle. Whips his left hand back to the leather and tenses when the Excalibur doesn't quite make it round sharply enough. Her right wing clips a two story window, he watches it shatter in the rear cam on the main screen.

Sweeping right. Dodge rubble. Right. Left. Right again. Speeding above the highway. Arthur's catching up. Closing the gap. Just a little faster. A little further.

He's close enough that when Merlin peaks under his elbow he sees the electric blue of his eyes, wide under the dark hair plastered across his face. His lips are red and cheeks flushed. They stare at each other.

He looks dark against the creature he is riding, but so graceful. It stands to reason that, as he has never seen a dragon before, Arthur has never seen a rider either. Certainly not in the act. He thought it would look odd, unnatural and down right uncomfortable. But for Merlin it looks natural. Like he has been doing it all of his life. Was born to it.

There is no saddle to speak of, only a ragged scrap of leather fitted snugly at the dragon's shoulders. There are two pits of twisted metal on either side, high up, where Merlin's toes take the burden of his weight. Merlin's legs are curled up tight so his knees brush his elbows where his arms are reaching forward, grasping a leather throng tied around the last spine on the dragon's pale neck. He is bent is two and he is in constant motion, perched atop the leather, not actually sitting on it. Arthur can see the beast's shoulder blades working its wings between the spread of Merlin's taut thighs. His knees are soft and he rises and falls with the motion of flight, the repetitive up down of the wings, leaning into the turns. He's graceful like he isn't on the ground, in his element. So different from the hideous creature he's flying with. A beauty atop the beast.

The dragon's spiny tail splinters the corner off another building as it swings another sharp left, Merlin folding himself into the turn. Arthur can see his face bright with the exertion in profile, eyes slitted to the wind, chin down and mouth set in a grim line – although his lips are so plush it looks more like a pout.

Arthur loses some ground in his distraction. They're heading into the sun now on S42 Sub, a street that is too narrow for both of them. Arthur doesn't dare take one hand off the wheel in favour of the auto-comp when a slight slip could send him crashing down as a heap of burning metal.

He's close enough that the tail will be a problem soon. It's swinging violently to and fro like a giant, spiked pendulum and one hit from that will break his compromised view screen for sure. He swoops down into their shadow, hopes he can pressure them into a mistake soon.

Arthur finds himself at an impasse. He doesn't want to injure Merlin, but he's not protected in any way. If the dragon goes down, Merlin's going with it. He needs to make them land. Or get them close at least. Shoot out a wing. Force the beast back onto its feet where its movements will be cumbersome and heavy.

He realises his tactical error at the same time as Merlin. Their eyes catch when Merlin stares down at him, view impaired half the time by wing beats. He could easily cause Arthur to crash now. Sink towards the ground with the Excalibur underneath the creature, stuck in its shadow. Until she's too low, brushing the ruptured tarmac. Arthur wouldn't be able to control an emergency landing at this speed. Merlin knows that too, if the stillness in his wide eyes is anything to go by.

But that doesn't happen. The dragon tilts its body and suddenly Arthur's following it vertical, vertical and up and up and then back. The dragon raises its chin, cants the front of its wings. Its long, serpentine form arcs back, swinging upside down in a huge circle. And Arthur can't do anything but follow, reflexively glancing at the green light on the ceiling of the cockpit that signals his artificial gravity is still working. Being upside down on Terra is terrifyingly disorientating compared to being upside down in space – namely because the concept doesn't exist out among the stars.

They are above the skyscrapers now, hurtling over them in a staggering arch. Until the dragon tucks its wings rigid and close to its body, starts to spin and agilely dives to the left, tail whipping out behind it. Arthur isn't anywhere near as graceful. In fact, he feels like he left his stomach behind on one turn and his heart at the top of his answering plummet. He feels more like a dead weight sinking in a lake than a highly advanced technological machine in a slipstream.

This high, Arthur can see the edge of the city through the gaps in the buildings. They are getting close. He dares to look at his rear screen again, sees the citadel in the distance, far behind them.

Then his concentration is stolen by the dragon's evasion again. Chasing it through dives, avoiding snatching claws when he ventures too close, rolling away from that punching tail.

The fact that Merlin's smiling now, his white teeth flashing in the sun, pisses him off. He can't believe the little idiot is enjoying this life or death tussle. It's not a joke! Merlin will go back to incarceration when Arthur captures him. When.

He has given up reaching for the weapons system though. Tells himself it's because all his attention is needed to keep up with the dragon's acrobatics.

It plunges down between the buildings again, bursts from the confines of the city dramatically seconds later. They're above the lower town now. He can see people far, far below them, specks on the dark ground. No weapons here either. Arthur pretends not to be relieved.

There is not much Arthur can do here other than continue his chase. So he follows, keeps a respectable distance. Rolls his eyes whenever the dragon suddenly changes direction like it thinks it can slip away out here in the open. Can't help the reluctant smile now that the pressure of death and injury is gone.

At some point it turns into a game. The dragon lets Arthur get comfortable, keeps the pace slow as they glide over the townspeople and their homes, circle around towards the citadel the long way, bypassing the rest of the city. They are currently heading for the mountains. And then when it thinks Arthur has relaxed – he totally hasn't – it will weave around him, roar and dive. He keeps up easily, they aren't even going that fast any more.

The long stretch of air between them and the mountains closes with little event. Just flashes of Merlin's smile and Arthur forcing himself to glare.

They are directly over the mountain range when it happens. The dragon plummets again, nothing new, and Arthur follows. But it doesn't stop. Speeds up. Wings tucked tight. God, Merlin's arse looks perfect like that, hovering above the leather, thighs spread, bent low, practically in two. It's very distracting.

Arthur starts to feel uncomfortable when they hit the speed where some of Merlin's ragged coat tears off. And they're still racing straight down, the sparse woodland rising up to greet them. Still the dragon doesn't turn, shows no interest in stopping.

Arthur breaks first, wrenching the wheel backwards so hard it quivers and tugs in his fingers. It's too late though, the turning is too sharp and he is going too fast. He knows it's a lost cause even as he bites his lip, tastes the copper of blood, and strains his muscles warring with the wheel. He feels something snap under his hands, there is a give that should not be there. Like his girl is giving up, has run out of steam and attitude.

White flashes across his vision as the dragon's sleek form twists out of the way, its serpentine body navigating the acute bend with an ease the Excalibur can't. The main screen shatters abruptly, spraying Arthur. He feels pinpricks of pain across his face but is too busy staring, aghast, at the small body of water waiting for him to care.

Smoke is drifting poisonously from beneath his feet, the engines are whirring with panic and alarms deafen him. Everything is white. White noise and the imprint of white scales on the back of his eyelids. He closes them now, breathes in the fumes deeply once. Lets them whistle back out through his pursed lips. Tries to keep calm while death opens her arms to welcome him and his heart beats through his ribs.

It's only the sheer speed they're falling and his solid grip on the wheel that prevent him from flying through the empty screen. But his clutch is sweaty and slippery, loosening by the millisecond. And the Excalibur is tilting, the engines tottering before finally giving out. Their course destabilises. Arthur vaguely realises they are slanting upside down again now he is familiar with the sensation.

Without the artificial gravity his thighs come free from his chair. He can't breath, he is convinced his lungs are blocking his throat. Everything is too tight, he's suffocating. His fingers slide on the wheel as the ship turns onto her back. He is lifting. Disorientated. Lost. Free falling. Loses his connection with the Excalibur. His back slams against the ceiling. He thinks he whines but everything is too loud, he isn't sure. Glass rains on him, gentle like crystals before they are swept up in a storm around the cockpit.

He can't see the water any more. He closes his eyes again. Tries to ignore his rattling teeth and the fact that his skull feels empty. Brain already asleep and resigned.

When she hits to water it's like no pain he's ever felt before. He thinks of the city, of every building collapsing on his prone body at once. Thinks of a spaceship smashing him into the ground, landing on him. He feels the crack, distantly is aware it is his own head on the metal ceiling. There's more white. White, hot, scalding pain everywhere. So much of it he can't breathe. Daggers stabbing his lungs and chest from the inside.

Then the water starts rushing in, stabbing at him like a thousand knives at once. He doesn't want to breathe now. Even if he could expand his lungs inside the smashed remains of his ribcage. Even if his heart wasn't rabbiting twice as big as it should be, edging up past his clavicle. Even if he could move, twitch a finger or a toe.

Even though they've been shut, there is glass stinging in his eyes. The freezing water sloshes into the cabin, burrows its way under his skin. He still can't move. He has enough mental power left to feel his fear level ratchet up higher. People say drowning is a horrible way to go – he doesn't know who says it though. Either way he thinks, absently, that he would have preferred the fall had killed him. A crash in a spaceship is more royal, fitting for an accomplished pilot too. Drowning is like his body betraying him, admitting he can't do something. But even Pendragon's can't breathe water, no matter how violently his father might wish it.

He chokes on the first splash on his face. Then he is being sucked through the hole left by the glass and diamond, powerless. Weak. He remembers the strength of the water tugging at his limbs, pulling them in opposite directions. The scrape of the Excalibur on his back as he slips free from her embrace. It is their farewell.

He doesn't remember much after that. Just more white.