Chapter 5: Magic at the Fire

They were walking again, always on the move. Once more, silence had descended between them, though Arthur couldn't help but study Merlin out of the corner of his eyes. His thoughts kept circling around what had happened at the river.

Merlin, making stones grow out of the water with a couple of words and a flash of gold in his eyes, like it was nothing. An invisible, terrifyingly strong force yanking Arthur backwards when he had slipped and nearly fallen into the currents. The water had been wild and dangerous. It was improbable that he would have survived the fall, that he wouldn't have drowned in the murky waters, especially with one arm still out of order.

In all likelihood, Merlin had saved his life. With magic.

Arthur didn't know what to make of it. He had been angry at first, furious over Merlin using sorcery on him. But were Merlin's actions really less honourable because, instead of throwing him a rope or jumping into the river, he had turned to magic?

Merlin had used his powers a couple of times in Arthur's presence now, though never for anything that one might reasonably consider nefarious: cleaning and lighting fires. Harmless things, really.

Arthur had never wasted a single thought on the idea that sorcerers might use their powers for such mundane tasks. Whenever his father had sentenced a sorcerer to death, whenever Arthur had stood on the balcony looking down at the people who had dared to use magic in Camelot, the King had spoken of criminals performing great evils. While Arthur had never enjoyed the sight of people burning or losing their heads, he understood that the most wicked of criminals needed to be put to death – publicly, too, to make an example of them. There was no chance of rehabilitation for a person whose soul had been touched by sorcery, just as there was no redeeming a murderer or a traitor.

But now that he tried to recall it all more clearly, he remembered some of the sorcerers pleading with the King, claiming they had done naught but heal a loved one or spell their crops to grow. Arthur had always thought they were lying to try and save their sorry hides – that they had, in reality, hurt someone they despised or cursed their neighbour's crops to wither instead. It was the way of sorcerers to sneak and lie and deceive!

Was that it? Was Merlin deceiving Arthur, trying to trick him by using his magic for what looked like harmless or good pursuits, making himself appear kind and innocent, only to turn around sometime later and strike? But what evil plan would it serve to save Arthur from a fall in the river?

Arthur glanced at Merlin again. He had such a young, guileless sort of face, all dimples and bright eyes. Last night, though, it had been covered in tears, a child crying over his father's death. The story itself had come as no surprise to Arthur, of course, knowing well that knights of Camelot had hunted and killed Balinor. He hadn't known, though, that Merlin had been there, had heard his own father die at their hands, had discovered the body himself. Arthur couldn't imagine what it would be like to be confronted with his own father's killing, especially at an age so young. Merlin's pain had been genuine. Arthur was sure there had been no deceit or manipulation in his mourning.

At that moment, Merlin caught him looking and turned his head, raising an eyebrow, an easy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. All right? he seemed to be asking. Arthur found himself smiling back before looking away, still ruminating.

What reason would Merlin have to deceive him? He didn't know Arthur's true identity. He didn't have anything to gain from helping Arthur, either. On the contrary, Arthur kept slowing him down, threatening him, insulting him. Yet, Merlin had forgiven him again and again, willing to help a man in need. Selflessly so.

It made little sense, but all signs seemed to point to one thing: Merlin was a sorcerer, but not an evil one.

Was that possible? Was it because he was so young? How long could he have been practising magic? Only a few years, most likely. Perhaps the spells and enchantments he had used so far had not yet been enough to corrupt him. Perhaps sorcery needed time to twist and darken one's soul and Merlin had yet to plunge deeply enough into it to be lost completely to its wicked call.

In that case, it might only be a matter of time. Perhaps, had they met in a year or two, Merlin would have already succumbed to it. He was a dragonlord, tied to a creature of magic. Doomed, in a way, to turn evil.

Arthur looked at Merlin again and found the boy was looking back, still smiling as he brushed aside some twigs hanging in their way.

"You keep staring," he said, sounding amused.

Arthur shrugged with one shoulder, humming non-committedly as he swerved a little to avoid a rock in their path.

"Don't you worry, I won't leave you behind again. You apologised, didn't you?"

Ah. He thought Arthur was still feeling guilty. He couldn't know, of course, that Arthur had apologised only because he had wanted to stay by his side and keep track of him. Arthur couldn't afford losing the dragonlord, especially now that they were at least half a day's worth of walking into enemy territory. He needed to make use of this opportunity, or he had risked his life for nothing.

Not that he hadn't thought about it. Perhaps he should have turned back at that river and made for Camelot when he still could, now that his foot was all right, and reported everything he had learned to the King.

"Here's a good spot for the night, don't you think?"

Arthur glanced around. They had stopped underneath a large tree next to a small pond, surrounded by thick underbrush and flanked by rocks on one side. There was something to be said for Merlin's knack for finding well-hidden spots to camp that provided what you needed to survive. A year of living like this had undoubtedly given him ample enough experience. He certainly did a better job than Sir Bedivere. Arthur winced at the thought and ended up responding rather more gruffly than the situation merited, "It'll do, I suppose."

Merlin rolled his eyes as he removed his knapsack. "You know, there's no reason to be such a dollophead all the time."

Arthur couldn't quite suppress a snort. " Dollophead ? What kind of word is that?"

"A fitting one."

Arthur decided to humour the boy. "What does it mean?"

Merlin's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Something like… cabbagehead." He raised his hands, gesturing as if assessing the shape of Arthur's skull. "Turniphead?"

Miffed, Arthur made a face at him and Merlin laughed, a genuine, infectious sort of guffaw that immediately tugged at Arthur's lips, making him smile back in spite of himself.

The sense of amusement only lasted for a short while, though. While Merlin busied himself refilling their waterskins at the pond, Arthur inspected the immediate area for signs of the Mercians, but it seemed to be a very secluded area, with nobody but a group of easily startled pheasants lurking nearby. There was no path or road either, which made it unlikely they would be accidentally spotted. Still, Arthur found himself sitting down at their camp and nervously – if rather uselessly – polishing his sword with some leaves, feeling a sort of inner drive to be prepared for the worst.

Merlin gave him an odd look, but offered no further lessons on peasant insult, walking off to collect mushrooms he had spotted nearby. He returned with two handfuls and a thick branch. He ended up whittling away at the latter, thinning and sharpening it with his knife. When dusk arrived, and with it more dragon-slain meat – the hind end of a wild boar, from the looks of it – they settled in their usual routine, making a fire and cooking. Soon, they had filled their bellies with mushrooms and chunks of pork roasted on Merlin's whittled stick.

"Looks to be a much colder night than yesterday," Merlin said when they were finished. By then, the moon had risen in a cloudless sky. "We should keep the fire going."

Merlin wasn't wrong. A sharp wind had been blowing all afternoon, sending cooler temperatures from the nearby mountains. Arthur was already bundled up in his coat. With only one bedroll between the two of them, they would definitely need the heat.

"Can't you keep yourself warm with sorcery?" Arthur asked him anyway, nervously glancing into the night, imagining Mercian knights scouting the area and spotting the shine of a fire in the distance, even through the foliage.

"If there's such a spell, I haven't learned it," Merlin replied with a shrug. He had settled against the trunk of the large tree, knees drawn in, watching the fire. "I always cuddle up to Aithusa to keep warm when she's around."

Merlin's words momentarily distracted Arthur from his worry. There was another opening here, to learn more. Perhaps if he pushed, he would start to understand why Merlin had helped him at the river, why he didn't appear to have yet been corrupted by magic. It certainly wouldn't hurt to gather more intelligence for the King, at any rate.

"Who taught you those other spells you've been using? Your father?"

Merlin gave a reluctant nod and averted his eyes to look at the fire. It was clear he didn't like talking about his father, but after what he had revealed the night before, he might be willing to open up to Arthur again.

"What else did he teach you?" Arthur probed, wanting to know what Merlin was capable of.

Merlin stayed quiet at first, tossing two more branches into the fire, but Arthur waited patiently and was eventually rewarded.

"He taught me lots of things," Merlin said slowly. "How to make a fire, how to repair and clean, how to help crops grow, things like that. He knew a lot more, though, that he didn't teach me, like how to mend wounds." He sent Arthur an apologetic look as he gestured at his arm. "I would have if I could, but my father always warned me not to try."

"Why not?"

"It can be dangerous if you don't know what you're doing," Merlin explained. "He told me I was too young to learn such magic."

"He taught you how to control the dragon, though," Arthur dared to point out.

"He didn't teach me that," Merlin denied immediately. His eyes had narrowed, his voice had turned sharper. Touchy subject, then.

"But I've seen you summon her," Arthur pushed nonetheless. "You shouted a spell and she came. She bowed to you, too."

"That wasn't a spell," Merlin replied curtly.

"It sure sounded like one to me."

Merlin grimaced. For a moment, it looked like he wouldn't elaborate, but then he revealed, "It's a different kind of power. One that was passed onto me after my father was killed. When he died, I inherited the ability to speak dragon tongue. If I use that language, Aithusa must obey me and do as I say." He paused, then added, "I hate using it, though. I hardly do."

"Don't you tell her to hunt or to protect you at night?" asked Arthur.

"No. She helps me because she wants to. I only ever use my power to summon her, when I move camp." He paused, then added, "When I first fled, I even thought about sending her away. But I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Arthur stared at him. Once more, Merlin had taken him completely by surprise. Who wouldn't want to use such a mighty beast if it was at their disposal? Aithusa, for all that the dragon intimidated Arthur, was a formidable creature. People would kill to control one.

"You don't ride on her, either?" Arthur surmised. "She looks like she would make for a good mount."

Merlin vehemently shook his head, emphasising, "I don't."

"Whyever not?" Arthur prodded. "You wouldn't have to walk all across Albion to evade your enemies. You could hide with her in the mountains, fly away from anyone that might be pursuing you!" Belatedly, he realised that perhaps he shouldn't be giving Merlin advice on how to escape the knights of Camelot.

"Well, I don't," Merlin snapped. He was glowering now. "I'm not—I don't do that. I don't ride her, I don't command her, I'm not—I just don't."

"I don't understand why," Arthur admitted.

"You wouldn't." Merlin looked away. He took a shaky breath, rubbed a hand over his face, then added quietly, "Don't you see? I shouldn't have those powers. I don't want them. They're my father's, not mine."

Arthur recognised the look on his face, then: guilt. Grief, too. Part of him wanted to back off at the sight, to leave Merlin be and call it a night. But Arthur still didn't understand this boy. On the contrary, Merlin was a riddle that seemed to become more complicated the longer he tried to solve it.

He needed to know more: "You still use sorcery, though."

Merlin let out a strange huff. "That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Merlin replied. "I didn't get those powers from my father."

"You told me earlier that it was your father who made you a sorcerer."

"No," Merlin disagreed. "It was him who taught me spells."

"But isn't that how one becomes a sorcerer? By learning spells?"

"No. Spells help you access the magic you already have," Merlin explained. "Some have a lot of it, some have none. My father always said it's like a seed that is sown at birth, but needs to be nurtured to grow."

"At birth?" Arthur repeated. "What do you mean, at birth ?"

Merlin frowned at him. "I mean what I said. Some people are born with magic."

Arthur let out an incredulous noise, just shy of a humourless laugh. "Don't be ridiculous."

Merlin's frown deepened. "It's not ridiculous. It's the truth."

"It's not," Arthur retorted, voice growing sharper. "Sorcery – it's something you choose to do. Something you decide to learn, like those spells you were taught."

Merlin didn't relent. "You're wrong. I was doing magic shortly after I was born, as a young baby. I knew no spells then. I couldn't even lift my head properly, let alone speak, yet my parents saw me move objects with magic. It's been this way ever since I can remember. Magic is a natural part of me."

"Magic isn't natural !" Arthur insisted. Finally, Merlin was showing his true face! He was lying, like sorcerers were wont to do! "Magic is something you turn to in pursuit of power. Magic corrupts!"

Merlin glared across the fire. "It does not . I've been using it since I was a few weeks old. Do I seem corrupted to you?"

"I don't know. I can't look inside your head!" Arthur retorted.

"Right," Merlin spat. "Well, don't believe me, then. It doesn't make a difference to me. I know I'm right about this: Magic is not evil, or corruptive, or any of that nonsense they've been teaching you in Camelot!"

"I know for a fact that sorcerers have attacked Camelot," Arthur argued. "They've killed knights on patrol many times. Some have even tried to assassinate the King himself!"

Merlin let out a derisive noise. "Do you blame them? Uther keeps beheading and burning their families. Of course, some of them will want revenge. It has nothing to do with their magic, and everything to do with Uther's gruesome laws!"

"They're not gruesome," Arthur defended his father. "They're necessary to protect the realm!"

"Protect?" Merlin scoffed. "My parents told me how ruthless the laws are. Even conjuring a butterfly will get you sent straight to the pyre. Nobody needs to be protected from that, but Uther knows no mercy. He kills anyone who shows even an ounce of magic." He scowled. "He even kills children. What kind of monster does that?"

The words hit Arthur like a slap. He flinched, breath catching in his throat. What kind of monster…

You don't need to concern yourself, Arthur. They were the children of sorcerers. If they weren't sorcerers already, they were doomed to be. Really, our men did them a kindness.

"Children with magic," he heard himself reply, automatically, without much conscious thought. "Tainted by sorcery. Their lives were forfeit already."

"Tainted? Forfeit? Are you even listening to yourself?"

Arthur's vision blurred.

Listen to me! I said to spare the children! I— I command you to stop! Halt! Don't kill them— I— Please, stop!

"They aren't tainted, or corrupted, or evil. They're children. They're innocent."

Screaming. Pleading. A woman's cry for mercy. A cowering boy, small, trembling hands raised in the air, a laughable defence against a sword, swung with merciless intent.

"Do you really think it's right to kill a child?"

Fair hair, braided and adorned with ribbons, darkened by blood. A pair of dark, empty eyes, accusing in a tiny, ashen face. Chalky white hands clutching a straw doll. A bundle, still and smeared red, cradled in slackening arms.

"Arthur?"

Arthur exited the visions with a jolt, realising he was still staring at Merlin across the fire. He swallowed heavily, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Mutely, he shook his head, suddenly no longer able to look Merlin in the eye.

No, of course it wasn't right . He had always known, deep down, that killing children could not be the answer. That was why he kept having those nightmares about the druid camp, wasn't it? Because Merlin was speaking the truth – only a monster would kill children. Arthur knew that it had not been right, no matter what his father had told him afterwards. He should have stopped his men from slaying those druid boys and girls. He should have taken up his sword to protect them instead of watching honourable knights slaughter the innocent.

Arthur had failed those children. That was why their faces kept haunting him in the night.

Suddenly, he felt sick. He lifted his hand, smeared it over his mouth, rubbed a pair of fingers over the bridge of his nose, and found that he was shaking. Hurriedly, he lowered the hand again, not wanting Merlin to see, but the boy must have noticed something. His voice softened, anger and disgust melting away as he said, "I'm sorry, Arthur. Was I too harsh? I didn't mean to imply anything."

Arthur only blinked at the fire, pressing his hand into his thigh to keep it from trembling.

"I know it must be hard," Merlin added, "to give magic a chance after hearing all your life that it's evil, but it's just… it's really not."

Arthur gave a jerky nod – to say he had heard? To agree? He didn't know! – feeling too choked to speak.

"I'm so sorry," Merlin repeated after a long moment of thick, heavy silence. "I really upset you, didn't I?"

"No. It's fine," Arthur croaked. He shook himself a little and took a deep breath, aiming to brush aside the cold shudders still creeping up his back, to ease the churning in his stomach.

"Want to see something beautiful?" Merlin asked, clearly aiming to cheer him up, to make amends.

At his hopeful tone, Arthur finally looked up again. Disgust and anger had vanished completely from Merlin's demeanour. He looked once more a boy, all soft eyes and a smile that instantly drew you in.

"What's that?" Arthur choked out.

Merlin's smile widened, eyes crinkling. "Watch!"

He lifted his hand and looked at the fire, murmuring a word that might have been drake . His eyes lit up and then, a dragon made of flames ascended. It spread its little wings and took off, sailing above their heads. Arthur tracked its movement with his eyes, mesmerised. Merlin chuckled as he made the creature fly in circles, then in loops. It left little sparkles in its wake, which floated about the air like fireflies.

Merlin was right. It was beautiful.

Somehow, at least for a moment, the sight eased Arthur's inner turmoil.

Awed, he lost himself in watching the dragon take turn after turn, flying about playfully, illuminating their surroundings with flickering spots of light. Finally, it descended, taking one last turn around the campfire before it approached Arthur. There, it gave a little bow, like an actor in a play. Arthur raised his hand to touch it, but before his finger had reached it, the dragon vanished in a whirlwind of sparkles. Arthur looked over at Merlin and their eyes met, gold just now fading from Merlin's irises.

"Did you like it?" Merlin asked.

Arthur managed a smile, small but genuine, and felt himself unable to deny the truth: "Yes. I did."

Merlin beamed.

"Knew you would," he said, then stretched, appearing oblivious to the significance of the moment. "It's late. Let's get some sleep. I'll check on your arm tomorrow and then we can decide what we want to do next." He stood, got his blanket from his pack, once more leaving the bedroll for Arthur, lying down next to the fire, turning his back as he settled down. "Good night, Arthur."

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then went to unpack the bedroll to do the same. He went through the motions without much conscious thought, though, and had a hard time falling asleep. His mind was occupied, reeling with all he had heard, all he had seen. What to make of it all? What to do with it?

Arthur turned on the bedroll so he could observe Merlin's thin back, wrapped up in his blanket.

What to do with him ?

Arthur's plan had always been to capture or kill Merlin. His left side was still of little use, but his sword arm was unaffected, the fever was no longer an issue and his ankle had healed. Sorcerer or no, Arthur could probably take Merlin down if the boy wasn't expecting it. Here was his chance right now, with Merlin fast asleep, his back open and vulnerable. Undoubtedly, the dragon was close by, but not close enough to be able to stop Arthur from running Merlin through with his sword.

But it felt wrong. So, so wrong. Merlin was little more than a child. What kind of monster…

Arthur pressed his lips together so tightly that it hurt.

Was he hesitating because it was the right thing to do, or because he was weak, unfit to one day be King of Camelot, unable to make the hard choices when it came to protecting the realm?

The King wanted Merlin, and he would not stop hunting him, either, obsessed as he was with killing Merlin's dragon and eradicating magic. Uther would go to great lengths, too, to reach his goal. One day, he might decide to kill Merlin's mother, or capture her to draw the dragonlord out. And then? Would Merlin not be tempted to use his powers for evil after all, to attack and injure, to kill? He had said it himself: A thirst for revenge would turn anyone.

Could Arthur afford to let Merlin live and walk away? Could Arthur face his own father and lie to him if he was asked about the dragonlord? Could he live with the guilt if Merlin turned dark after all and attacked Camelot?

Suppressing a groan, Arthur rolled onto his other side. Tomorrow. He would make a decision tomorrow.

He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly drifted to sleep.

Mayhem. A flurry of billowing red cloaks and flashes of gleaming steel. A forest ground soaked with blood. Arthur stumbled mutely through the chaos. His foot caught on something and he fell, hard. When he turned his head, he was staring into the face of a boy, writhing violently on the floor, dying: Merlin, his innocent features distorted with agony, choking out words with his last breath. 'What kind—of monster—does this?'

Arthur woke with a start, immediately seeking out Merlin's form beyond the fire. The boy was still curled up tightly underneath his blanket, alive and breathing, merely asleep. Arthur must have kept quiet this time.

He ran a hand over his cheeks, brushing away what he hoped were pearls of sweat. He stoked and fed the fire, feeling cold, then lay back down to blink up at the night sky. It was only just losing its midnight colour in favour of lighter hues of blue, the barest hint of an orange dawn creeping in at the edges.

Arthur didn't go back to sleep, gazing up at the fading stars, thinking and weighing his options. When Merlin started to stir with the sun just dipping past the horizon, painting the sky above deep pink, Arthur still hadn't come to a decision.

Merlin stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stepped out into the bushes, then washed his hands and face in the pond before offering to check on Arthur's wound one more time. In the first light of dawn, mingling with the shine of the crackling fire, Arthur could just make out the injury, now fully covered in scabs, still swollen at the edges and tender, but clearly on its way to mend.

When Merlin cleaned the bandages with magic, Arthur didn't even flinch.

"Have you put any thought into where you want to go now?" Merlin asked him as he carefully wrapped up the arm. "I'd like to take a break from moving, find something permanent for a couple of days. But I'd be willing to walk with you until we find a farm or village if that's what you'd prefer."

Arthur swallowed. "I…"

Merlin threw him a shy look. "You don't have to leave, though. You can stay with me for as long as you want. I'd enjoy the company." He smiled at Arthur's surprised expression, ducking his head. "Well, you are a bit of a prat, but I wouldn't mind… I mean, you could, if you wanted to… travel with me a while longer, that is. If you like." He threw Arthur another look as he finished wrapping the bandage, coming to sit on his heels as he started to babble in earnest, "It's just— you don't have anywhere to go, right? Why not stay with me? Aithusa can feed us both, no problem, and we could try and go beyond Mercia, maybe towards the sea or—"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupted him, voice rough as an inexplicable wave of guilt crashed over him in the face of Merlin's enthusiasm.

The boy bit his lip, clearly misunderstanding Arthur's tone. "Sorry," he said, eyes coming to rest on his thighs. "I get it. It's dangerous to travel with me. I'm wanted. It was a stupid idea."

"Merlin," Arthur repeated, more gently this time, but he never got to say more.

Several cracks, rustling leaves and then, they were surrounded by ten men wearing blue cloaks and grim faces, beady eyes trained on them.

"Greetings," said one of them, teeth bared into a grim smile and sword raised. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"