A/N: Unfortunately I haven't made the challenge in time. There's still 2 or 3 chapters to go. That's why this one is a little shorter, because I wanted to get these 3 prompts in before the end time. I'll keep posting this though. Thank you to everyone who has commented and is following:) It's really appreciated, but a I wouldn't turn down a little more feedback ;)
Prompts: The Drawing of the Dark, Sweet Dreams, The Nightmare Begins
Chapter 3
When Arthur stirs, it is to the feeling of the scorching sun blistering his face and the stench of old blood that has festered wafting over him. His first instinct is to roll and gag but his muscles are numb and unresponsive. He feels worryingly separate from his body.
Another rancid breath on his skin again. The shock of it punching into his lungs feels like poison stinging his innards. He purses his lips and steams the putrid air out. There is a rumbling growl in reply from above. The air shifts with movements and darkness blocks out the illuminated pink of his closed eyelids.
"I wouldn't aggravate her if I were you," says a cheerful voice off to his right. "She wasn't all that keen on saving you in the first place." Arthur hears wood crackling, sparks hissing, fat sizzling. The warm, moist smell of meat cooking is subtle under the dragon's breath but still there. He wets his cracked lips with his dry tongue, winces when that breaks the delicate skin.
He doesn't really want to peel his eyes open, remembers teeth that could slice him in half and cold eyes, but he's no coward. The sun blinds him anyway, makes him squint. A headache simmers at his temples. By the time his vision isn't pure, agonising brightness, the dragon has moved away. The purposeful flick of its spiny tail makes him cringe. His bones ache and his muscles itch but there's nothing like the razor pain of broken bones and internal organs imploding. He's surprised, godsmacked really, to be aware at all – takes a moment to appreciate the sky, ugly pus-yellow clouds and all.
"Who's aggravating who here?" He grits out through his clenched teeth, unnerved by how utterly alien his body feels. "Where are we anyway?"
"The mountains," Merlin replies, nonchalant. It hadn't occurred to Arthur that the mountainous scrub lands to the west of the city might actually be Merlin's homeland nowadays, since the riders were banished from Camelot. "Did you know the Lake of Avalon is the largest body of water on this entire continent? It's the reason Camelot was settled near here in the first place."
"Why, yes, Mer lin. As the crown prince of Camelot I did happen to know that," Arthur can't help but snipe back, trying to ignore the pins and needles doing uncomfortable acrobatics up his legs and closer to his groin. He's also trying to ignore the feeling of water, wet and heavy and thick - suffocating – pounding over him. He pauses, then says hesitantly because he already knows the answer, "The Excalibur?"
"Your ship?" Merlin asks and Arthur sees him glance up from his work by the fire. "Gone." His eyes linger for a moment, then turn away, giving Arthur his privacy. He grieves, the sadness is there deep in his gut, a pang, but he is intelligent enough to appreciate his own life over perfectly sculpted metal and artful mazes of wires. He'll miss her though, she has been his trusty companion and protector through many years.
It's obvious Merlin has healed him with magic, let it scuttle across his body like a wave of diseased locusts. Arthur should be disgusted, it is a plague he's been fighting – or more realistically, distancing himself from fighting – his whole life. But every instinct geared towards self-preservation is screaming at him to be grateful, to just say 'thank you' and be done with it. That would mean acknowledging the fact that Merlin the Rider has magic, that he is the enemy when Arthur is finding that he actually quite likes Merlin the Man, what little of he knows of him.
So instead he asks, "How many hours does it take to get back to Camelot from here?" Because it would take about ten minutes of smooth flying – he knows, he's done it – but he has to defer to Merlin's greater knowledge of the land here. He doesn't particularly want to end up dying of dehydration, alone and half-starved and ravaged by nightmares of tidal waves.
"Well, that depends," Merlin answers cryptically." About a week of rough trekking if the hunting's good."
"Or?" Arthur asks evenly, palms sweating into the dry dirt because he can't see or hear the dragon but he has an awfully bad feeling he knows where this is going.
"Or about ten minutes on the dragon express, fifteen if you want to take in some of the local sights," and good Lord there is that cheeky smile that's all adorable teeth and flushed happiness. "It'd cost you though," Merlin adds slyly, eyes slitting when he shoots him a look.
"Yeah? And how much would directions cost me?" Arthur counters immediately. There is no way he is getting on one of those things.
"Ohh, I don't know," Merlin says, like he's actually considering and doesn't already know. "Not sure you could afford that either. They're both pretty expensive."
"Let me guess; they'd both cost me a whole Favour," Arthur states.
"Well, to be honest, I'm not sure you can charge someone half a Favour. So, yeah, basically."
"Guess I'll just be heading east then," scowls and wills himself upright, stares down at where his legs are stretched up silently. His stomach gurgles angrily but he isn't sure it's protesting the movement or whether it has just caught scent of the food sizzling on Merlin's fire.
He could go south, head for the mines and hope he finds someone willing to take him back to the lower town and give up some of their precious food. But the lower towns people are a close net community, often suspicious of outsiders and they wouldn't necessarily recognise him as royalty. He might not encounter them at all, might not even get that far. He's safer heading directly for Camelot, try to pick a slightly northern heading so he'll arrive closer to the citadel.
"Before you bumble off into the wilderness like the right clotpole you are," Merlin huffs, interrupting his calculations concerning his chances of survival, "you might as well pilfer some of my rabbit too."
"It's not pilfering if you've offered it to me," Arthur bickers back.
"Semantics. You wouldn't say thanks for that either so it might as well be," Merlin snaps, looking scandalised and hurt. His wide, blue eyes are flecked with a bright, sunshine gold – just in case Arthur doesn't know what he's annoyed about.
"I didn't ask you to save me!" He yells, rocketing to his feet with the adrenalin that surges into his blood.
"What kind of arsehole wouldn't have!" Merlin shouts back like he truly still believes in human kindness for nothing.
"A sorcerer at war with the kingdom?" Arthur asks sarcastically, because what kind of stupid question is that?
"Maybe I want to use you as a hostage. Hah! Didn't think of that, did you?" Merlin crows, bouncing on his toes excitedly.
"You just offered me a ride home," Arthur replies bluntly.
"Oh my God, you have to win everything, don't you." Merlin flings his arms into the air melodramatically and turns back to his fire. "You're one of those people."
Arthur coughs, outraged, but decides glaring around to see where he is will do him more good than glaring at Merlin's unresponsive back. He throws a dirty look his way for the sake of it anyway. It makes him feel monumentally better.
The mountains are a wasteland of hilltops and oxygen starved peaks. He will have to navigate through the lower paths or he won't survive. The nights will be below freezing and the days will be furnace hot. Food will be scarce and water even scarcer and he is liable to go insane sheerly from hearing only his own voice. And all the while he is walking through the labyrinth of rock and dust, the smoke of Camelot's hearths close enough to touch but unreachable. He wishes Merlin and his beast had left him to die in the water. This way is likely to be harsher and more painful. Long and drawn out.
There are scrubby little bushes dotted around on the stale soil, a dark, dank green that look mostly dead. This area used to be forest and fresh, rolling hills over the mines, covered in greenery. Now the tree limbs that still stand are black and lifeless, stabbing from the ground.
Arthur refuses to talk to his companion through the meal when Merlin finally gestures him over by waving an enticing piece of meat his way. The smell tempts him in despite his bad temper. The dragon is still noticeably absent, Arthur wonders if Merlin sent it away because of his obvious discomfort.
And when they are done? He nods, just once shortly and when Merlin's back is half turned so he isn't sure if he sees, and heads west, makes sure he glances back once more to take in Merlin's profile like a man starving. The sun is starting to descend so it's easy to navigate and he soon finds a valley he can see straight through, heads straight for miles. It's not protected from the sun but it keeps him on course.
He hopes there aren't any dragons down here. Not that he's feeling particularly optimistic about surviving this anyway.
He contemplates returning to the lake, looking for any parts of the Excalibur he might be able to use. But the likelihood of stumbling across her comms system on the shore is slim to none, there isn't enough luck left on Terra for something like that.
He hikes for hours, ignores how all the landscape is the same depressing dryness. His thick flight jacket ends up tied by the sleeves around his waist – it's too bulky for it but he forces the knot to tie, and wrinkles his nose at the overpowering smell his body has been busy producing underneath. Ship boots are thankfully thick and suitable for long distance walks – they have to withstand accidents in engine rooms.
He barely notices the drawing of the dark until the cold settles into his bones. He decides shelter is in order for the night when his breath clouds into his eyes and freezes his eyelashes together. There a small caves all along the valley and, when he can bare the swift chill that has fallen no longer, he slides into one and pulls his jacket securely over himself.
It has been a trying day. He doesn't know how many hours he has been walking or how long he was unconscious while Merlin tended him but the stress of near death should earn an early night, right? The cold is close but dry, makes his little cave feel claustrophobic. But he is sinking into dreams as soon as he shuts his eyes. Down, down.
Down and into the redness of Mars' deserts, where there is no water to drown in, only the endless, comforting sand. Gwaine is there, searching for him but never seeing him. At first Arthur thinks of it as a fun game but then the loneliness sets in, the abandonment of being looked straight through. All the while with Uther's cold, heavy eyes staring down from the stars. And dragon spines shooting from the soil, puncturing at his toes. And then he is falling into the blackness of space but it is thick and warm and there is seaweed sliding its slippery fingers across his skin. He can't breath. There's panic rising in his chest. Constricting. Strangling. He struggles. Gasps. Smacks at his balmy skin. Kicks out at an invisible offender.
And then Merlin is there, hushing him like a defenceless newborn, quietly and with gentle but passionate affection.
"Arthur. Arthur," he is murmuring, trying to draw him from his nightmare. Fingers are clasped at his wrists, holding them firmly to the floor. There is a red bruise blossoming on Merlin's cheek. "Shh, Arthur, you're just dreaming. It was only a nightmare. You're safe!" And Merlin's eyes are so real and earnest that Arthur can't not believe him.
Once he has settled they stare uncomfortably at one another until Arthur has enough wits about him to ask, "What are you doing here?" Disgruntled and shamed.
"I followed you," Merlin states.
"You followed me?"
"Well, I couldn't leave you wandering about not knowing where you were going. But you've been heading in the right direction so far so I left you to it." He searches the cave, peeks at Arthur as well. Notices the sweat clinging to his clothes and the fresh damp shine of his hair and face. "Still don't want to cash in that Favour I take it?"
"You're kidding. That's way too valuable to spend on a lift home. No thanks, Merlin, but I'll take my chances with the mountains."
"Budge over then."
Arthur sends an uncomprehending stare his way, frowns at the implication. "You're not coming with me."
"Yes I am. You obviously can't take care of yourself so I'm going to have to."
"No you're...okay, whatever, we can talk about this in the morning."
"Fine, sure, so move over."
"No! Find your own cave!" Arthur finds himself being shunted over anyway. He pretends not to feel himself relax when the tempting heat of Merlin's warmth plasters itself along his back. It's bloody cold.
"Sweet dreams, Arthur," he vaguely remembers hearing before Merlin's calm breathing lulls him back to a more peaceful sleep.