The dragon calls.

It isn't calling Arthur. Not like last time.

And yet, Arthur can feel its insistence and intention like a whetstone scraping against the edge of his mind. Each stroke of magic pushes him back to consciousness from fitful sleep, only to fade away as though it had never been there in the first place. When he does sleep, he dreams like he had the night before: of fire and thunder, whispers of…names, words, spells in a language Arthur doesn't know—a language most ancient and powerful—echoing through the smoke and sparks.

Arthur drifts, sweating and shivering in spells.

The dragon gets impatient. It pushes and presses and presses and pushes and—

When an increased pang of pressure jolts Arthur wide awake with a full-body wince, he growls to himself and flings off the covers to his bed.

Enough is enough.

He doesn't want to see the dragon. Frankly, he'd die happy never having to see it again—what, with its infuriating riddles and arrogant laughter. Still, there are some things that cannot stand, and waking the prince of Camelot whenever it pleases is one such thing.

Arthur swings out of bed. He regrets it when his toes hit the cold stone. It was too warm over the course of the day to request a fire when he retired earlier, but the temperature has dropped. The chill is almost enough to make him wish he did indeed have a manservant living in his antechamber. He supposes one would be useful right about now.

Half-formed curses spill from his lips as he stumbles about his chambers in the dark, throwing on an old tunic and pulling woolen socks onto his feet. He goes without a cloak, too exhausted to put forth the mental energy to finding one, and does not quite succeed in lacing up his boots. He shoves the extra bootlace into the ankle of his socks, grabs his belt dagger, and stalks out into the hallway.

The guards at either end of his corridor snap to attention. He waves them off with an indistinguishable grunt. They do not question or dare to follow, and Arthur trusts they will make their own story about his activities tonight.

He walks the empty hallways inattentively and rubs the crusty remnants of sleep from his eyes. They are stiff and heavy with fatigue.

The dragon calls again. The pressure in Arthur's head fluctuates, becoming sharper, more acute, flaring like oil in a grease fire. He shudders and grits his teeth against the new discomfort. Damn dragon. It doesn't have so much as an ounce of courtesy. No, instead it pesters him with aggressive pokes and niggles, invading his dreams and tormenting his sleep, shouting its call into the dead of night as though it has acquaintances in abundance to respond to its summons.

Well, he's responding. And he's going to give it a piece of his—

He collides with another body turning the corner. Arthur flinches violently and withdraws on reflex, only just managing to keep his feet. His skin immediately erupts in a rush of tingles at every point of contact. A high clear note begins ringing in his innermost thoughts, in perfect tune with that of the dragon's magic as it thrums in its deep lower octave. Arthur is stunned stupid with the beauty of the magics' sudden symmetry, until he realizes his fellow insomniac has not fared nearly as well as he has at keeping his balance.

Merlin lies sprawled on the floor before Arthur, blinking up at him with a stupefied expression on his face. He props himself up onto his elbows and rubs the side of his head. "Ow."

"Merlin!" Arthur hisses. His mood is not improved after renewed contact with the sorcerer's magic. Every muscle and nerve in his body feels as though set aflame.

An echo of his embarrassment from the previous day simmers deep within, colored with lingering shame. It presents itself as it always does: in all the wrong ways.

Arthur scowls down at the younger man and crosses his arms, hurt pride rearing its ugly head. "What in the world do you think you're doing sneaking around at this time of night?" His tone implies every last modicum of arrogance owed to him by his station. Even he can hear it and acknowledge it for what it is. He's too irritated to care.

"What are you doing sneaking around at this time of night?" Merlin retorts, indignant.

Arthur splutters before realizing how ridiculous this entire situation is. "This is my castle! And I asked first."

Merlin glares up at him from the floor and rises slowly. "Good evening to you too, Sire."

He wields the title like a weapon, and Arthur narrows his eyes. "Is it?" he asks in a dry tone.

Raised voices ring from the dungeon entrance, not in alarm or discovery but in what sounds like victory. Bracing himself, Arthur snatches Merlin's sleeve and bodily drags him into a shadowed alcove where their voices aren't so likely to carry.

"You didn't answer my question," Arthur whispers heatedly. He has to resist shaking out his hand. His fingers clench around empty air. "You're not in your little village any longer, Merlin! We may not be under curfew, but it certainly isn't appropriate—or necessarily safe—for you to be wandering the halls at this hour! Especially when we have guests in the castle!"

Instead of snapping off a quip, Merlin looks distinctly embarrassed. "I know that! I…" He trails off, some of the defensiveness fading from his tone. "I don't really know what I'm doing." He quirks his head, as though listening, eyes unfocused. "It's not like I really wanted to get out of bed at this ungodly hour, but…"

Merlin's true attention, Arthur notices, is in the direction of the dungeons. Toward…

Oh gods, no. Why. Why does this suddenly all make sense?

Arthur sighs heavily. "It's calling you, isn't it? It's been calling for you since you arrived."

When Merlin whirls back toward Arthur, he demands, "What? How could you possibly know that?"

Arthur gives him a humorless smile and interrupts him with a snappish, exasperated: "How else? Bloody lizard won't let me sleep."

Merlin's eyes grow wide, and his tone is one of hushed awe when he says, "You're telling me there is a dragon underneath the castle."

"Yes, Merlin, do keep up. I did say as much, didn't I?"

"I wasn't sure I believed it," Merlin mutters, frowning. "And he wants to speak to me?"

"It must, if it's being this adamant." Arthur rubs at his temples. "I don't think patience is one of its strong suits."

Merlin still looks positively dumbfounded. "But why?"

Arthur shrugs, which is not quite as bad a lie as opening his mouth to snap, "How should I know? "

Instead, he draws a slow breath and warns, "I'm not sure how much faith I'd put in what the dragon says, regardless."

A slow grin spreads across Merlin's face, his eyes dancing with boyish wonder. "You met him."

It isn't a question. "Once," admits Arthur cautiously. "Yet again: I did say as much."

"What did he tell you?"

To expect you, Arthur doesn't say. But not why I should. Nor why any of it matters. His scowl deepens. "Nothing but riddles."

Merlin hums speculatively. He doesn't catch Arthur's cagey half-truth. Again, he angles himself precisely toward the entrance to the dungeons, where, if he continued to descend past the Vaults, he'd find the dragon's cave. "My mother always told me that the promise of receiving a dragon's wisdom is worth its entire weight in gold," he murmurs.

"My father always told me that the only good dragon is a dead dragon."

Merlin gives him a flat look.

"Bloody lizard won't let me sleep," Arthur protests again in his defense.

"Amazing," Merlin deadpans. "The stories say dragons can foretell the future, you know."

"I have Morgana for that," Arthur says. "Though truth be told, her temper is probably just as, if not more, incendiary than a dragon's." He pauses, reconsidering. "Maybe I would do better with the dragon than Morgana after all."

Merlin snorts. "Well, I'm going to see what he wants."

Arthur follows like a shadow as Merlin steps back into the hallway. The younger man looks back at him, eyebrows raising.

"I'm awake already," Arthur grumbles in response to Merlin's unasked question. "The dragon may be calling for you, but I'm the one losing sleep by default. I want to know why."

"You could have just ignored it and gone back to bed."

"Like you could have?"

Merlin hesitates, as though he never once considered that as an option. His stride does not break. "Gaius told me the king must have locked him up as an example," he murmurs. "He told it like a child's fable."

"That is the story I've been told, too," Arthur says from a half-step behind. His lips twist into a bitter frown. "Might over magic, as the Pendragon saying goes."

Magic and might. The magic to your might, the dragon insisted all those nights ago, in regard to 'his warlock.'

A shiver of anticipation skips down Arthur's spine, remembering it. The difference a single word makes. To implies balance. To implies opposite ends of a spectrum that complement each other to such a degree that one cannot exist without the other.

Like two sides of the same coin.

Merlin is silent for a few heartbeats before he asks, in a voice far too small, "Did they ever tell you how your father did it? How they captured him?"

The question strikes a discordant chord within Arthur, drawing him from his reverie. Because he doesn't know. He hadn't even thought to ask.

It bothers him in a way he cannot explain.

He doesn't get the chance to respond. Several flickering torchlights ahead reveal the indistinct shape of two patrolling guards. Their leather boots scuff lightly at the stone as they descend the iron-wrought staircase toward the entrances to the dungeons. Based on the hour, they're there to relieve the men down below.

Arthur hangs back, but Merlin exercises no such caution. Before Arthur can stop him, he surges forward and begins to weave like a wraith between arcs of torchlight.

As he passes, the torches flare…

And go dark.

It is such a simple thing, in theory—there is light, and then there is none—but the way Merlin works his magic is far from simple.

It's… unparalleled. And he can't even see it.

But gods above does he feel it.

Wonder capsizes all logic. Arthur's gut sweeps with the gentle brush and breeze of Merlin's magic against the flames, his feet stuck fast to the ground as he struggles not to succumb to the increasing rush of exhilarating vertigo with each and every torch Merlin extinguishes. He tries to say something, to tell Merlin to stop, but his tongue cements itself to the roof of his mouth. He's caught up in the atmosphere of the high skies; in the sensation of wind-burnt cheeks and the first full lungful of crisp winter air after a night spent close to the hearth; in the peace of midnight on the road between cities, when the blanket of stars above is a traveler's only company.

His heartbeat flickers in his chest like candle flame, fickle and playful and—

One gentle touch, one breath, away from extinguishing.

His fingers grasp at the corner of a wall, blunt nails digging into the stone. He feels like he's dissipating into smoke, swallowed up entirely by the cool and calm darkness Merlin's created in his wake.

He isn't so sure he'd mind if he did, if this is the magic that did it.

Arthur nearly pitches forward when there's a sudden twist in the air, a new magic that presents as a trackable manipulation to the space near him. The knowledge of its exact shape drives straight into Arthur's consciousness like an arrow shot from a bow. He lands heavily in the awareness of his own body once again, gasping at the density and weight of his limbs, at the mechanical way his chest rises and falls with each breath he takes.

Dice scatter below, and Arthur watches in his mind's eye as they roll away, directed by invisible tethers. He hears the guards' uneasy mutters grow into alarmed cries as though through a veil of gauze and wool.

The dice fling themselves further down the corridor. The guards follow.

And again. And again. And again. And—

"...Arthur?"

Merlin's voice comes to him from a distance, sharp in its concern. Arthur blinks away the dots in his vision and releases his death grip on the wall. Merlin is right beside him in the dark, and though Arthur can barely see him, he knows him, from his magic alone. And he knows Merlin is looking directly at him.

"Arthur?" Merlin repeats, this time more insistently. His voice is no longer so muffled and distant. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Arthur barks gruffly.

"I'd forgotten," Merlin whispers, face drawn and pale. The horror in his voice is unmistakable. He looks as though he's just been force-fed hog swill and found the entire experience traumatic. "It's—I didn't…even think about it."

He just…without words? Without spells? Without thinking?

Hearing Merlin say as much about his magic is one thing. Being in the same room as him while he casts?

Extraordinary.

Arthur twitches in place, adjusting to the very human and tangible movement of his own body through the space he inhabits. It feels like a disturbingly—fascinatingly—novel experience for him. Far too aware of Merlin's attention, Arthur finally pushes from the wall. He pushes against Merlin's magic, too, unwilling to be (and uncertain if he should be, for the sake of his sanity) taken by surprise again. His head pounds with the effort. "Better make use of your distraction, idiot."

"I'm sorry," Merlin says miserably.

Arthur doesn't acknowledge the apology. He doesn't think he needs one, necessarily, despite Merlin's inability to follow the one simple request Arthur made of him—to withhold the use of his magic for the time being.

After what just happened, he doesn't…he doesn't think he wants an apology either.

Not for the first time, Arthur thinks it is a sin Merlin must keep such devastatingly beautiful magic hidden.

"Chin up," Arthur says, as casually as he can. He turns his face, to hide the belated burn of mortification rising up his cheeks. "I didn't pass out this time."

"But—"

Arthur shoves Merlin forward. "Go."

"Yes," Merlin says, scrambling away from Arthur. "Yes, of course."

The two of them make their way quickly and carefully down the stairs toward the dungeons.

Merlin takes one of the few still-lit torches in hand as Arthur frowns at the small vacated guard post. In their haste to investigate the dice, they spilled a small carafe of water across the tabletop. Several hands of playing cards lie drenched in abandoned puddles, and water drips steadily off the edge of the wood, collecting at the foot of an upended stool.

It shouldn't have been that easy to distract the guards. Arthur wants to judge them harshly. As prince, he should judge them harshly. The trick Merlin pulled on them was far too simple to justify abandonment of their posts. Surely they had been trained better. Surely their common sense was not so pitiful.

But… how often have any of them seen evidence of magic so benign?

And how can they train to ignore or spot something they have no reason to believe exists in the first place?

Uther's prosecution of magic truly has seeped to every last infinitesimal minutiae of their daily lives. Familiar discouragement overpowers Arthur's initial disapproval. Even this small reminder of his father's influence is as stark as it is bleak.

"They'll be coming back soon," Arthur says quietly, shaking himself.

Merlin nods. He surprises Arthur with his stealth as they head further into the depths of the castle. He moves with dogged determination, attention solely on where he places his feet. Arthur finds it easier than ever to ignore his proximity to the singing Vaults, mostly because the dragon must sense their approach. The whetstone of its call increases friction against his mind.

This time, he can hear it clearly, as though the dragon is whispering in his ear. "Merlin… " comes the rich, reverberant tones of the dragon's voice in Arthur's mind. Thunder and fire rumbles through his chest. "Merlin."

As they step into the dragon's cavern, the pressure against Arthur's mental barriers disappears with jarring abruptness. He almost staggers against the lack of resistance and is at once overcome.

The dragon's ancient magic envelops him, embracing him in a way it had not before. Even as it welcomes him, it skips about and quests for something he cannot name, existing in a place he cannot describe, digging, digging, digging with fiery fingers.

Merlin's magic rises to meet it, calling its attention. His is a wild magic, too, organic and strong, but it is not nearly so chaotic, nor so carelessly invasive. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief at its fortifying, refreshing touch, only to flinch in astonishment as something deep within Merlin—something not of earth or sky or sea—reaches ethereal harmony with the dragon's magic again.

Unbidden tears gather in Arthur's eyes. No mortal instrument nor musician could achieve or replicate such perfection.

With a jolt, the captivating note ringing in his mind slips, suddenly off-key. Whatever it is within Merlin that calls back to the dragon, as subtle and hidden as it is—it growls in protective defiance and something beyond what human language can ever express, standing straight and proud and indomitable in the knowledge of its unrealized power.

Kin, Arthur's instincts supply, though he doesn't know how that can be. It doesn't make any sort of sense. Merlin looks gangly and awkward before the hungry mouth of the cavern, peering into its depths with squinted eyes. He is so far from a dragon, and so far from its might and size and sheer power, it is laughable.

"Where are you?" Merlin shouts, voice echoing in the open space.

Arthur starts at the volume. Well, if there is one thing Merlin is not, it is a coward.

The dragon's rich laughter rebounds against the cavern walls, and with a great gust of wind, it swoops gracefully from a hidden cave far above their heads. Its bronze-gold scales shimmer in Merlin's torchlight, scattering small prisms about the massive crag in the center of the cave. It lands before them, in as stunning and magnificent a manner as it had on Arthur's first visit. Its intelligent gold eyes, brimming with its inner fire and magic, gleam like coins as its lips curve into a toothy grin.

"I am here," it says, lowering its head to Merlin. Its scales ripple with its sinuous movement. "How small you are, for such a great destiny."

Merlin gapes beside him, too overcome to speak. To Arthur, the dragon again bows his crown of spikes. "Well met, young King."

"Still not king, dragon," Arthur responds stiffly.

The dragon merely lowers itself further, resting its head on its forelegs and humming so deeply it sounds like a pur. Something like a smile twists at its lips in acknowledgement of Arthur's statement, but its full attention is dedicated to Merlin.

"What…?" Merlin's voice comes out in a croak, and his gaze darts to Arthur and back. He clears his throat. "Why have you called us here?"

The dragon rises, neck arched. "Emrys himself. And the King once and future. Standing before me now." It pauses, regarding them. "I did not expect this day to come," it admits, in a voice far less resplendent and full. "Not for many, many more years."

Something about the dragon's tone translates several full lifetimes' worth of heartbreak and weariness and hope. It is such a far deviation from its mischievously cryptic, prophetic words prior to Merlin's arrival that Arthur almost wonders if this is, in fact, the same dragon he spoke to before.

"Destiny surely smiles upon us all, to have spun Her will in such a way," the dragon muses, almost to itself. It snakes its head back down, so it can look them both in the eye, close enough, too, that Arthur can feel its hot breath against his face.

Will it not speak plainly? If it is trying to intimidate, Arthur will not flinch. He stares back, unblinking, into eyes of fathomless gold.

"...What do you mean?" Merlin whispers.

The dragon finally blinks and considers them in eerie silence before rearing its head back abruptly with a snort, exuding a burst of smoke from its nostrils. It shakes itself like a bridled horse. Slivers of stone shear off under sharp claws as they dig into the crag.

"No."

It is not an answer to the question Merlin posed, but nonetheless, its announcement rings with finality.

"No?" Arthur demands, incredulous. "You call us here to, what, stare at us like menagerie animals and then refuse to tell us why? After everything you said before?"

"What did he say before?" Merlin hisses under his breath. He jabs at Arthur's side with a bony elbow. "What didn't you tell me?"

The dragon ignores Merlin, as does Arthur. It no longer looks at them, instead staring somewhere, somewhen, far beyond them. "I needed to see for myself," it says.

"See what?" Merlin asks. "What are we to you?"

"You are what you were always meant to be," the dragon says. "And more—to each other, to your people, and to Albion. More than any of us could have ever suspected."

Who is this 'us?' Arthur wants to ask.

"And this…Emrys? And Once and Future King?" Merlin asks shrewdly, before Arthur can say so much as a word. "Who are they to you?"

The dragon's gaze snaps to Merlin, suddenly clear as glass. "What you are is not always the same as who you are. Perhaps, however, in this instance…you may one day find you are both."

What the bloody hell?

"I don't understand," Merlin admits, far more patient than Arthur could ever hope to be. "What are you trying to tell us?"

It hesitates. "It is not often," it says slowly, "that I nearly make such a grievous mistake."

Arthur's gut plummets and twists. The small, fragile bud of hope Arthur had hardly dared acknowledge wilts in his chest. He…he didn't buy into what the dragon said before Merlin arrived. Though its babble proved true regarding Merlin's power, part of him thought, and still thinks, the creature mad. Arthur hardly believes the circles it's talking around them now. But to have been promised a certain future—one that sounded somewhat auspicious and grand—and then have it taken away? Now that it all appears to be in jeopardy, Arthur hopes he misunderstands.

And he hates it. He hates that he secretly aches for validation. He hates that some part of him had, indeed, clung to the hope that, maybe, all of his hopes and dreams for Camelot will come to pass. That it will all be worth it.

And that, maybe, most importantly, he won't have to do it all alone.

In that moment, he vehemently wishes he never spoke to the dragon in the first place.

"A mistake?" Arthur asks, throat dry and rasping. Self-contempt shrivels his insides. How pathetic he must sound.

And yet...he draws himself up. He will not cower from his weaknesses, no matter how abhorrent.

The dragon can prophesy all it likes about the kind of ruler I will be, Arthur tells himself, as though the words alone can shield him from disappointment and humiliation. I already know the kind of ruler I will be.

The dragon's tail flicks in agitation, but it softens its tone. "Rest easy, Pendragon. I do not tell you any falsehoods. Dragons merely do not often meddle in the affairs of men," it explains. "For all our magic; for all our knowledge, wisdom, and long memory; for all that we try to interpret prophecy and observe the will of the Triple Goddess, dragons are meant to advise, not lead. Men have the right to choose, to discover their own paths. Our interference can cause far more harm than it ever does good."

Its eyes burn, and the look it gives them banishes all of Arthur's chagrin, instead igniting a well of cavernous awe within him. He senses something shift, a pinnacle of inexplicable heights reached, and he finds himself reflexively bowing his head in respect and recognition.

He's seen this look in many new knights pledging themselves to a cause they believe in with all they are, knowing that one day they may have to die to protect their homes and the prince who oversees all they hold dear.

Loyalty.

Arthur doesn't...He doesn't understand.

"I will not tamper here, young king," the dragon vows. "For fear that I will disturb the path you both already tread of your own volition. I trust in what you will forge, together. Before today, I was not so sure I would."

Merlin barks a stunned laugh. "In what we will forge?" he asks. "Arthur's the prince."

"Not that you care to treat me as such," Arthur mutters.

"He can forge what he wills," Merlin continues, pretending not to hear Arthur's comment. "I'm a nobody."

"A nobody?" the dragon repeats, as though offended on Merlin's behalf. "Is not everybody a somebody?"

Arthur chokes on a laugh as Merlin flounders. "Er…I'm certainly no prince?" he offers. When the dragon cocks its head, Merlin defends himself with: "Well, I'm certainly nobody that can do any…" He hunts for the correct word and lamely finishes, "Path forging."

The dragon grins at Merlin with all its teeth and bursts into uproarious laughter. "Ah, blood of mine, how wrong you are. You and your magic are far from middling. Do not doubt that."

Merlin goes pink at the ears, and the dragon adds, "You both have all that you need to begin your journey. I have said enough."

Its magnificent wings flex, and it shifts on its perch, chains rattling. It is a clear dismissal, and though Arthur didn't expect much after hearing the dragon's definitive no, he isn't sure he's satisfied in the least by what little it's told them.

Merlin certainly isn't.

"You cannot tell us more?" he calls before it can crouch to take off. There's a new quaver in his voice. "About why we're like this, at least?"

The dragon halts. "Young warlock," it says, and its voice is indescribably tender. "It is not for me to say. Your gifts, as are the young king's, are for you to discover; for you to hone; for you to use in pursuit of your destiny."

Merlin's throat bobs, and the dragon says, no less gently, "Should either of you have need of me, I am here. To teach. To advise. And until Avalon calls me home, I will remain yours."

As the dragon's muscles bunch beneath rich scales and its wings extend, Merlin steps forward again. "Wait!"

If a dragon could look exasperated, this one certainly does. It sighs with its whole body and looks as though it already begins to regret all the promises it's made. Arthur sympathizes, in some respect—of course Merlin would get under its skin just after it essentially pledges its knowledge and allegiance for the rest of its natural life—and is shocked when Merlin doesn't press for more information.

"You seem to know us better than we do ourselves," Merlin says instead, raising his chin toward the dragon, "and yet we do not know you. If you say we can depend on your friendship…I would like to return the favor. What shall we call you?"

The dragon blinks, and Arthur swears it is taken aback. For all its powers of prediction and great banks of wisdom, Merlin has just surprised it.

And why not? Arthur cannot imagine the dragon has seen much kindness in this place, much less remembered that human beings were capable of such a thing, and its reaction to such a simple, thoughtful question shames Arthur to his core.

With a renewed perspective, Arthur follows the line of the dragon's heavy chains. To its scratched perch. To the endless darkness above, where no sun nor stars shine.

It has been trapped for over twenty years, forgotten, alone, and no doubt full of bitterness and regret.

Just another of his father's sins to atone for.

You will not languish here forever, Arthur promises silently. Should your word prove true, I will see to it.

When the dragon finally responds, his voice is gravely. "You and yours may call me Kilgharrah."

~...~

Seeing a thing, Merlin realizes redundantly, is quite a different beast than hearing about it secondhand.

Arthur leads them out of the Kilgharrah's cave and through the dungeons without incident. No guards need duping, no other nighttime wanderers see them or stop to question them, and therefore, his magic is not required.

Thank the gods.

Instead of dwelling on Kilgharrah's words, Merlin pours his full attention into their surroundings and watches Arthur like a hawk. He keeps several paces between them out of an abundance of caution. Should the need for a quick illusion or trick of magic arise, Merlin wants to be able to decrease his proximity to the prince as fast as he can.

He shudders, gut roiling with suppressed nausea. He doesn't think he'll ever fully recover from seeing Arthur slump against the wall like that, limp as a ragdoll, eyes vacant and glassy.

For more than a few seconds, he genuinely thought he'd slain the bloody prince of Camelot.

Arthur had been unresponsive, addled. Even after he blinked back awake and started to see the world before him again, he moved jerkily, like a child's shadow puppet. Even after the prince found his balance again, Merlin isn't so sure he'd have trusted Arthur with a dinner knife, let alone a sword, not after seeing those first few wobbling steps away from the wall.

Merlin…doesn't know what to do with the undeniable confirmation that, because of him, because of his magic, Arthur is ridden utterly defenseless. So defenseless that he cannot move, cannot speak, cannot see.

Dread claws at his chest, where responsibility settles its massive weight and threatens to crush him flat. If anything were to happen—if Arthur were rendered helpless and unable to protect himself—it would be Merlin's fault. And all because he couldn't help but do a bit of magic.

His entire being recoils at the prospect. This is the last thing he wants. It is the absolute furthest thing from what he knows, in his heart, his magic is meant for.

No wonder Arthur kept things from me, Merlin thinks bitterly. He can hardly trust me to keep my magic from unintentionally debilitating him.

Still, the question slips into the silent space between them, uncomfortable and prickly as thistle thorns.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

In front of him, the tight line of Arthur's shoulders eases. He'd expected Merlin to speak for some time now, it seems.

"What was there to say?" the prince asks, not unkindly. "I thought he was mad the first time I met him."

"And now?"

Arthur finally turns back to look at Merlin. "I don't know."

Any other time, Merlin may have rolled his eyes and pressed for a substantial, straight-forward answer, his curiosity insatiable, but he stops himself. He senses a vulnerability and confusion in Arthur's voice that reflects Merlin's own.

Kilgharrah left them both with more questions than they had when they arrived. And the questions themselves entertain such a sense of gravity that Merlin fears giving them too much consideration. The dragon's promise to advise them, should they need him, does not mitigate that in the least.

And yet…Merlin can't help but wonder. Why should a dragon feel the need to interfere in their lives in the first place? Why would seeing him and Arthur together change anything? Who is Emrys? And why does he refer to Arthur as the King once and future?

"When I first went down there, Kilgharrah told me…" Arthur trails off, fidgeting with the hilt of his belt knife. He sighs, eyes on the floor, and starts again. "He implied a warlock would come. That I'd know him—" He looks up with guarded blue eyes. "—you—immediately."

"Okay?" Merlin says, uncertain how else he should respond. This much, Arthur revealed already. Their meeting must be something of importance if a dragon anticipated it. And it was eventful—quite literally one of the most eventful encounters of Merlin's life—but hardly anything worthy of such attention, surely? Arthur was not a prince who locked himself in the castle. He was often seen in the Lower Town, and Merlin himself had seen him greet and welcome people of all vocations when he arrived in Camelot. And if not out in town, Merlin would have likely met Arthur any other time. It was inevitable, living with Gaius. "That is exactly what happened, isn't it?"

"He also implied," Arthur continues, "that you and I are…bound, somehow."

...that's…it?

The tension broken, Merlin almost wants to laugh, to tease and make light of it all. Bound? He imagines himself crowing sarcastically. Bound how? In holy matrimony?

But Arthur's face reads like stone, and Merlin's forcibly reminded of what Morgana said earlier, about the weight the prince carries on his shoulders—for the plans he wishes to see come to fruition and the tangled net of issues he wants to tackle when he ascends the throne, if not earlier. Morgana merely hinted at the expansive scope of things Arthur hopes to change in the future, and truth be told, considering even a fraction of Uther's bloody legacy and what Arthur stands against is enough to make Merlin's knees buckle.

The prince may be a prat, and Merlin may be terrified of Uther's hand over this land, but Arthur doesn't deserve to shoulder these burdens alone.

He doesn't deserve to think he deserves to shoulder these burdens alone.

(Having a dragon—even a potentially mad one—suggest otherwise must have been a balm to a very old, deep wound).

Morgana, too, seemed to think Merlin could do something to lighten that load, if only by being a sorcerer in Camelot who would rather choke on his own blood than see magic misused.

But is that enough? Merlin wonders, dissatisfied. He realizes at that very moment he wouldn't mind doing more. Being more.

That is, after all, what friends are for.

It's really that simple.

"What does it matter?" Merlin asks, genuinely curious. "If we are 'bound somehow?'"

Arthur's nose crinkles in distaste. "Are we not our own men? I don't suppose you want to be beholden to anyone but yourself."

"Well, sure," Merlin says easily, not quite comprehending, because it seems to him that Arthur still does not understand the nature of friendship much at all. "But that's not exactly what I think when I hear a dragon of myth and legend implied we're 'bound somehow.'"

"Myth and legend," Arthur scoffs under his breath. "That sentiment is exactly the problem."

Before Merlin can tell him he's definitely misinterpreted the point he was trying to make, Arthur says, at a more normal volume, "Merit is all that matters. To me, my men, and my people. That's why I didn't tell you. I must work to be the future king my people need me to be. I must work to get people of magic to trust in Camelot again. I won't have anyone believe they owe me fealty solely because of some obscure riddles and prophecy, no matter how nice and comforting they are to hear."

And I suppose that right there, Merlin muses, is exactly the reason Kilgharrah stopped himself from telling us more.

But he can hardly say as much. It'd go straight to Arthur's head.

"Me? Give you fealty?" Merlin jokes aloud, unable to help himself. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Arthur's lips quirk into a half-smile, and Merlin thinks he may have gotten through to him. Finally. "In any case," the prince continues, "we'v established we're going to be in each others' lives one way or another—if only due to our individual relationships with Gaius—and that's dangerous enough as it is, considering my sensitivity to your magic, but I would not have a half-mad dragon influencing me or you with the sweet, addictive nothings all men wish to hear."

Merlin frowns. "And what's that?"

"That they are more important and, thus, more deserving than their fellows," Arthur says, disdain in his voice. "That's not how I wish to rule. It's enabling and unproductive." The moment the words are out of his mouth, he colors and grimaces to himself, turning abruptly on his heel and continuing on.

Merlin stares after the prince, a new appreciation and respect blossoming in his chest. He jogs to catch up and says, "I'm sorry I put you in a poor position with your guests the other day."

Arthur flicks a look over his shoulder, smirking as he drawls, "And, as entertaining as it was, I suppose I'm sorry I couldn't avoid putting you in the stocks."

Merlin grins, sensing a true apology behind the words. "You should have stepped in well before I thought to intervene," he reiterates, just to get under Arthur's skin by rehashing their previous argument.

"I should have," Arthur agrees, but when he catches Merlin preening, smug and content, he snaps, "If only to get you to shut up about it! Honestly, Merlin!"

The prince stalks off, affronted. But it was too late. Merlin knows now, and no matter what happens, no matter how loudly Arthur shouts or arrogantly he behaves or angrily he tries to save face, Merlin won't ever forget it.

His first impression of Arthur Pendragon wasn't wrong after all.


A/N: this took foreverrrrr, I'm sorry! Apologies for any shoddy editing!