AN: Hello! It's Vero, back from the dead, previously known as lunarvampyr and lunarladyofthelake on ao3, returning to my origins on ffnet. This is a reupload of a BBC Merlin fic that I had on there! This one was very far from complete, but my profile would be incomplete without it, so here we go. Once I run out of prewritten content, this may not update for a very, very long time, so be warned. Thank you for reading!

I . TO LOSE HIMSELF

For Merlin, known to the world at large as Emrys, to find himself in the dungeon's of Camelot's castle, it was both an immense privilege and the most annoying thing he'd ever experienced.

The dungeons in Camelot were not a place sorcerers usually found themselves. The reason for this was simple: Uther, the tyrant-King, simply brought them directly from wherever he or his guard captured them to either a readily-erected pyre in the center of the pavilion before the palace, or to the gallows in the town square. The dungeons meant privilege because the dungeons meant there was a chance for escape.

Merlin was surprised he hadn't been fettered with silver when he was thrown in. He was simply left alone, which was an out-of-this-realm thought, so he decided to take stock. Of course, the first thing Merlin tried to do when Uther and his lackeys turned the corner to go back to the castle proper was magic, but the bars wouldn't budge, and the stones wouldn't overturn nor even crack.

With a sigh, he placed a hand on the bars, and felt deep. Settled into the depths of the metal was a ward, essentially freezing the bars in place. It must have been mixed in the water that tempered the flame when the bars were moulded. He wouldn't be able to manipulate them, and the stones below and on the walls must have had-yes, there it was; he'd put his hands on one to feel it-a blocking rune. Not one he could erase, either; the runes were placed on the sides that weren't facing up or out.

The second thing Merlin tried to do was ascertain the reason why he was still alive.

Naturally, he guessed that being one of-if not the -most powerful sorcerers alive would account for something. It seemingly bought him time; how much time, though, he didn't know. Perhaps Uther had some nefarious plan that he wanted to exploit Merlin for? Perhaps he wanted to use him as a weapon.

This thought made Merlin snort. As if Uther of all people could exploit him.

The last person Merlin found himself being exploited by was a dragon, and it hadn't ended well for the dragon.

He was Emrys the Dragon-Slayer for a reason, after all.

(No one knew he was the last living Dragonlord. No one knew that Kilgarrah's death tore his insides apart, that it made him unable to wield magic for days. It went so against the core of his being, but he couldn't help but feel justified by the choruses of other dragons saying, He deserved it, he disobeyed, upon the wind.)

It did not take very long for Uther to return, bearing his demand.

"You, sorcerer. If you want to ever be free, you will return my wife, Ygraine, from the land of the dead. Alive and well. "

Merlin debated not giving Uther a response, but, well…the prospect of crushing the man's dreams outweighed the desire to stay mysterious.

"Oh, Uther…" Merlin said lowly, his voice smooth and deep, "That, I believe, is far above my abilities. It honors me that you think so highly of me."

Of course, this made Uther mad with rage. The man yelled, hit the bars, threatened. But Merlin knew he could and would do nothing, as the man truly believed that Merlin was the sole one who could bring his wife back from the dead. At Merlin's continued silence, Uther stalked off, promising to return-which he worded much more as a threat than a promise.

A week since his initial capture now saw Merlin sat against the back wall of the cell, half shrouded in shadows, gliding his finger back and forth across one of the stone bricks, idly drawing runes. He watched as they flared to life, then immediately snuffed themselves out.

Runes wouldn't get him out of here either, it seemed. He was lucky the cell didn't bar magic altogether; he could still conjure fire, he could manipulate the air. He could really do anything, since he wasn't chained up.

He didn't do much, though. His survival instincts were telling him that it would probably be best to conserve his power.

( Not that he'd run out. )

He paused his tracing briefly when he heard a distant door clang open, but he rolled his eyes and continued on, despite the sound of approaching footsteps. All he was doing was tracing the stones over and over again, writing nonsense words and numbers, and he'd continue doing so, no matter which of Uther's lackeys decided to descend upon him.

Merlin fully intended to ignore whoever it was when they approached, but he noticed…those were significantly nicer boots than knights usually have. He slowly raised his eyes.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Standing there, arms crossed, looking quite petulant, was none other than Uther's very own son, Arthur.

This is going to be good.

Arthur had just been dismissed from the meeting between Uther and King Rodor of Nemeth he'd been sitting in on, and he was heading down to the dungeons with one goal in mind: to see whoever it was his father was being endlessly vague about.

He didn't know much, and his father wasn't talking. He knew there was a skirmish at the border of Caerleon, and that someone was captured there, but his father refused to say who. He always had the strangest glint in his eye whenever Arthur brought it up. The fact that his father didn't even tell Arthur what his plans were bothered him endlessly; Arthur was twenty-one, after all, not fifteen, and surely he could handle whatever-or whoever-it was.

As he walked through the dungeons, he saw most of the cells were empty. This was good to see…as long as it was due to no one being arrested recently, and not because his father had them all executed. He made a note to ask somebody about that-maybe send Sir Leon to get the dungeon guards to talk. It'd be good to know which of the dungeon guards were strictly his father's puppets, anyway…

Arthur turned the corner, and finally saw the lone cell at the very end of the hall had someone in it. The moment he approached the cell, and stood in front of the bars, the man looked up, and Arthur's breath hitched.

The man's eyes were unwaveringly golden. He was a sorcerer. A sorcerer that wasn't dead . Every other sorcerer Arthur had ever seen before this moment was in the process of being escorted to his father's pyre or the gallows, fresh from capture. This man had been here for a week.

The sorcerer in question was looking at Arthur with a rather predatory look on his face; he had the smile of a wolf that just downed the biggest deer.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked. He didn't care if he didn't ask in a stiffy, princely tone; he didn't care that he was just a bit breathless.

The man looked at him amusedly, as if he were about to start laughing. "Your father didn't tell you? Oh, yes," he said, at Arthur's widening eyes, "I know who you are, Prince Arthur Pendragon. But you don't know me , and I think that's rather sad."

"No, he didn't tell me," Arthur simply replied. "I've come to see who you are for myself."

Trying to make a point, he stepped as close to the bars as he could. The amusement seemed to only grow in the golden eyes before him.

"Really? Oh, this has to be good. What did he tell everyone, then? If he didn't tell you, his own son, who I am…honestly, I find it hard to believe he hadn't set out bragging the instant they tossed away the key."

The man stood up slowly, fluidly-for some reason, it reminded Arthur of the movement of a snake about to strike. He stepped out of the shadows, and slowly walked over to the bars, standing hardly a hair's breadth away from Arthur's face. Arthur found himself frozen to the spot, half-entranced, despite the fact the man's eyes hadn't flickered, and there was no spell on him.

The sorcerer spoke again, so softly Arthur could have missed it, if not for the soft breath on his face, and his now intense focus on the man.

"Did you know your father has Emrys trapped in his dungeons?"

Their eyes met, and the name sunk in. Once it had, once that name went through his ears and reached his brain, it all clicked. The constantly golden eyes.

Arthur had only two thoughts, then:

One: Father is royally fucked.

Two: Morgana would love this.

Unwittingly, Arthur took a step back. It made Emrys laugh. It was a cold, harsh laugh, as though he hadn't found anything funny in the past decade. Maybe he hadn't. But, as quickly as he started laughing, he stopped, and went back to that same sinister smile.

Arthur felt like he was some tapestry Emrys was looking at…while deciding whether or not to set it alight once he was done admiring it.

When people talked about Emrys the Dragon-Slayer, Emrys the Earth-Shaker, Emrys the Ever Golden Eyes, Arthur really didn't think he would look like this. Arthur pictured an old man, visibly wise beyond his years, with a long, greying beard and a shining robe. Arthur didn't think it would instead be a man who looked to be his own age who was oddly waifish (skinny as a hornbeam tree, he was, honestly), with strange, tattooed black inkings littering his skin everywhere -or at least, all over his arms and hands, with messy, dark curly hair that hung about his shoulders.

In Arthur's royal opinion, he looked sort of like a gangly, washed up peasant boy.

Yet…Arthur knew one fact, and that was: Emrys was not to be underestimated. Because while he looked like the wind could blow him over, he was feared. He was the one sorcerer in all the land that he knew all the kings were equally afraid of, even Cenred . Arthur knew if his father had the choice, he would have Emrys eradicated in a blink, without hesitation. And while usually, his father did have the choice,...this was Emrys.

"My father hates you."

Emrys broke out into a real smile this time, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Prince Pendragon, considering I'm currently in a cell," Emrys gestured around him, and Arthur could've sworn his tattoos glinted, "I believe I've figured that out."

"Right…yeah, of course you have. Pardon, but… why are you still alive? How?"

It wasn't the best way forward, Arthur could admit. He was feeling flustered in a way he never had before, and it was as though he couldn't figure himself out, much less Emrys. He's spoken to Kings , and he can't speak to one sorcerer? Truly, it was just as well that the first sorcerer he ever spoke to was Emrys . Well, considering the sorcerer hadn't struck him dead yet, he could at least figure the conversation was going well. Somewhat. So far.

"Well, my Lord Prince Pendragon, sir, I assume I'm not dead because your Stately, Kingly Father wants to make me do something for him, something that I refuse to do, so he will keep me here until I say yes. But, my honey princeling, that is not for you to know." Emrys turned darkly serious when he said, "Not yet."

"I do remember, though," Emrys said, much more cheerfully, "That your father said to you that he wanted to 'see my head on a spit, rolling slowly like a roasting boar's,' did he not?"

Arthur shivered. Because his father had. He said just that, the exact phrasing, and Emrys knew .

"You heard him say that?"

Maybe the 'only' discussion of Emrys they had five years ago wasn't as 'final' as his father said it was? Maybe his father had repeated that exact statement at a dinner Emrys did happen to be at, but as far as Arthur knew, his father had said that phrase to him when they were eating dinner, five years ago, with the only other person there being Morgana. Which…

Emrys simply smirked. "Of course, my Lord Prince. Why, I have eyes and ears everywhere, don't you know? I also happen to lurk under the beds of Camelotian children at night."

Arthur couldn't parse out just how much truth was in the first half of that statement (Emrys is most likely much too busy to lurk under childrens' beds at night). Did it mean Emrys could hear every time someone spoke of him? Or just every time someone spoke ill of him? Did he even mean it at all?

Distantly, Arthur heard someone-Sir Percival by the sound of it-call for him. Arthur still hadn't taken his eyes off Emrys.

The sorcerer's eyes still glistened. Emrys leaned in close, and brought up a hand to touch Arthur's jaw lightly.

"I'll tell you a secret, my dear princeling," Emrys said, his voice low. "I have laid a spell on my name. Use it, and I will know, and I will hear what follows."

"Prince Arthur, are you down here?" Sir Percival called.

Arthur briefly wondered if his eyes had always been gold, or if they turned that way later. He wondered what the man's real eye color would be. He didn't know whether he hated the gold or not.

"Go on, then," Emrys said, stepping back, and sitting back down, the exact position he held before.

Arthur felt like something had been lifted off him. Emrys's eyes were unchanging, so there couldn't have been a spell on him this whole time…could there have?

Arthur turned away, and walked back to his knights.

His mind whirred.