Upon My Sword
Author: candymacaron
Title: Upon My Sword
Rating: NC17
Pairing/s: (eventual Arthur/Merlin?)
Character/s: Arthur, Merlin, Leon, George
Summary: Arthur faces a fearsome foe
Warnings: Graphic violence.
Word Count: 1234
Prompt: #80, Wrath
Author's Notes: Trying something a little different from modern AU for a change.
Prince Arthur’s eyes flew open, taking in the sight of his manservant’s face hovering above him. The siege bells were ringing, the servant wincing through every iron clang.
“George? What’s happened?” Arthur asked, flipping the bedclothes off his body.
“The castle is under siege, Sire,” George replied. He rushed to the prince’s wardrobe, retrieving a pair of clean breaches and a red tunic. “By a dragon, they say-”
Arthur’s stomach clenched. “Kilgharrah?”
“No Sire, Aithusa the White. He’s been spotted circling the castle. His Majesty has requested-“
Arthur’s muscled relaxed, and he brushed George aside, searching for the longsword he kept by his bed. If dragons were at work, it stood to reason that Emrys was behind them. It had been years since Arthur had witnessed the sorcerer’s powers. His otherworldly gold eyes still burnt in Arthur’s memory like a pair of hot coals.
The Great Dragon staking out Camelot would have been disastrous, but Aithusa… Aithusa Arthur could handle.
George placed a tunic gently over Arthur’s shoulders, hurrying with the stringy laces. “The castle is under siege and you didn’t think to wake me?” Arthur asked.
“Sire, His Majesty thought it best you stay confined to your chambers.”
“Did he?” Once he was dressed, Arthur unsheathed his sword, smiling at the glistening blade like an old friend. “Ready my armor, George.”
“But Sire… King Uther-“
“My armor,” Arthur growled. “Now.”
*
The interior of the castle was a cacophony of hoof beats and shrieks by the time Arthur arrived. The cloak of midnight made it difficult for the prince to discern even the most familiar face, but the dull sound of wings beating air was unmistakable.
Aithusa was here. And circling.
Arthur found the Camelot guard huddled in a metallic mass next to the keep, ushering citizens inside and mumbling strategies. Arthur pulled Sir Leon aside. “Why the hell wasn’t I notified of an attack?” he said, twisting the neck of Sir Leon’s cape.
Sir Leon’s face contorted. “The king’s orders, Sire,” he replied. When Arthur shot him another furious stare, Leon lowered his voice, pleading. “Arthur, your father said it was too dangerous for you to be out here. He didn’t want-"
“To hell with what father wants!”
Arthur released Leon and pushed himself into the rest of the guard, men who over the years had become an extension of his sword and his honor. He knew each red clad youth would be loyal to prince and country unto death….
So why shouldn’t he return the courtesy?
“I’m head of the Camelot guard, not my father,” Arthur said, shouting over whispers of concern. “If this truly is Aithusa the White, then the beast isn’t much bigger than an ox. I want you to light every torch you can find. I want a shield on every guardsman, a longbowmen at every arrow slit, and for God’s sake someone stable the horses before the poor beasts die of shock.”
Men trotted left and right to obey Arthur’s commands and fill their posts. And, despite the whooping wind and the guttural call of the dragon overhead, Arthur felt fully in control.
“Are you sure this is wise?” Leon asked softly. “Juvenile dragons have been known to wipe out kingdoms-"
"If Camelot is to fall, I’m to fall with it, and not shuttered up in the keep like a lady in waiting,” Arthur replied.
Leon opened his mouth to counter, but a piercing shriek interrupted him. A white form shooting with it down from the sky, like a sliver of lightning.
“Wings!” Arthur called. “Take aim at the dragon’s wings and fire at will!”
The bowmen stood at the ready, a flurry of arrows impaling the parchment thin skin of Aithusa’s wings. The dragon twisted midair, slamming itself into the exterior wall.
“Ready again at my count,” Arthur commanded. “One, two-“
The white dragon clambered up the side of the castle, dislodging chunks of lime in its panic. With Aithusa so close, the longbowmen could not take proper aim. Before Arthur could voice command retreat, Aithusa’s sinuous body had rippled over the guard tower, roaring a gust of fire at the archers.
Bow’s fell. Bodies flailed, baking alive in armor coffins.
Arthur’s blood burned with wrath for the loss of his men. If Camelot were to stand a chance, the dragon must be lured into the heart of the courtyard. The casualties would be great, but the castle would still stand...
The prince thrust his sword into the air, calling his challenge with all his might, “If it’s a fight your master is after, Aithusa, then by Camelot he shall have it! My kingdom will not fall, and your head will become my trophy come the morrow!”
A stinking metallic blood oozed from Aithusa’s shredded wings. He shook his tattered wings limply, in an attempt to shake free the lodged arrows, reared forward on his hind legs and propelled himself downward with an ungraceful flap of broken skin.
Blood splattered through the air like fetid raindrops. The knights circled their prince, shields at the ready. Flawless form making it difficult for even Arthur to tell where one man ended and the other began. With the power of a battering ram, Aithusa plowed into them. Gnashing and snapping at whatever flesh stood in his way.
This was the swiftest, filthiest battle Arthur had encountered in his eighteen years, yet he endured the bloodbath with the patience of a monk.
This dragon was only an infant. The longbowmen had already clipped its wings; Sir Leon crippling the creature further by reducing its right eye to an oozing hole.
Emrys’ pet was not long for this world.
Aithusa’s ribcage let out a spasm with each puff of flame, but Arthur waited until the dragon stood screaming before him to make his strike. The first blow fell short--his sword nicking the leathery skin of the dragon’s throat, giving Aithusa the perfect chance to counter. He swooped his tail down like an ungodly mace, knocking Arthur right off his feet.
Arthur gasped as armor thudded to the earth, rattling his bones.
He blinked the sweat from his eyes.
Salivating above him was the Aithusa the White. Mouth red and hungering.
There was only one choice left-
As the dragon lunged forward, Arthur greeted its bite with an upward thrust of his arm. His longsword sailed up Athusia’s throat, slitting through bone and exploding out the top of the creature’s skull.
Aithusa twisted. Arthur could feel a growl build and die in the beast’s throat. A plume of smoke flared lazily from each nostril, the dragon’s good eye rolling back in its socket toward death.
The body fell limp.
Arthur could have laughed in the delight of victory, if his arm weren’t still locked in the creature’s bite. It was a feeling that was worse than death--the torture of a hundred lances piercing through his body, each searing hot as a poker.
Sir Leon dove behind him, cradling Arthur’s back, as three of the guards attempted to pry open the dragon’s jaws.
“Dead?” Arthur asked, Leon’s face blurring in and out of focus before him.
Leon nodded gravely. “He’s dead, Sire. You’ve slain him.”
Arthur smiled. He wanted to tell Leon to have a messenger deliver the beast’s heart to Emrys, but no words came. Nothing but a rush of hot air from Arthur’s lungs-
And then his sight fell black.
Title: Upon My Sword
Rating: NC17
Pairing/s: (eventual Arthur/Merlin?)
Character/s: Arthur, Merlin, Leon, George
Summary: Arthur faces a fearsome foe
Warnings: Graphic violence.
Word Count: 1234
Prompt: #80, Wrath
Author's Notes: Trying something a little different from modern AU for a change.
Prince Arthur’s eyes flew open, taking in the sight of his manservant’s face hovering above him. The siege bells were ringing, the servant wincing through every iron clang.
“George? What’s happened?” Arthur asked, flipping the bedclothes off his body.
“The castle is under siege, Sire,” George replied. He rushed to the prince’s wardrobe, retrieving a pair of clean breaches and a red tunic. “By a dragon, they say-”
Arthur’s stomach clenched. “Kilgharrah?”
“No Sire, Aithusa the White. He’s been spotted circling the castle. His Majesty has requested-“
Arthur’s muscled relaxed, and he brushed George aside, searching for the longsword he kept by his bed. If dragons were at work, it stood to reason that Emrys was behind them. It had been years since Arthur had witnessed the sorcerer’s powers. His otherworldly gold eyes still burnt in Arthur’s memory like a pair of hot coals.
The Great Dragon staking out Camelot would have been disastrous, but Aithusa… Aithusa Arthur could handle.
George placed a tunic gently over Arthur’s shoulders, hurrying with the stringy laces. “The castle is under siege and you didn’t think to wake me?” Arthur asked.
“Sire, His Majesty thought it best you stay confined to your chambers.”
“Did he?” Once he was dressed, Arthur unsheathed his sword, smiling at the glistening blade like an old friend. “Ready my armor, George.”
“But Sire… King Uther-“
“My armor,” Arthur growled. “Now.”
*
The interior of the castle was a cacophony of hoof beats and shrieks by the time Arthur arrived. The cloak of midnight made it difficult for the prince to discern even the most familiar face, but the dull sound of wings beating air was unmistakable.
Aithusa was here. And circling.
Arthur found the Camelot guard huddled in a metallic mass next to the keep, ushering citizens inside and mumbling strategies. Arthur pulled Sir Leon aside. “Why the hell wasn’t I notified of an attack?” he said, twisting the neck of Sir Leon’s cape.
Sir Leon’s face contorted. “The king’s orders, Sire,” he replied. When Arthur shot him another furious stare, Leon lowered his voice, pleading. “Arthur, your father said it was too dangerous for you to be out here. He didn’t want-"
“To hell with what father wants!”
Arthur released Leon and pushed himself into the rest of the guard, men who over the years had become an extension of his sword and his honor. He knew each red clad youth would be loyal to prince and country unto death….
So why shouldn’t he return the courtesy?
“I’m head of the Camelot guard, not my father,” Arthur said, shouting over whispers of concern. “If this truly is Aithusa the White, then the beast isn’t much bigger than an ox. I want you to light every torch you can find. I want a shield on every guardsman, a longbowmen at every arrow slit, and for God’s sake someone stable the horses before the poor beasts die of shock.”
Men trotted left and right to obey Arthur’s commands and fill their posts. And, despite the whooping wind and the guttural call of the dragon overhead, Arthur felt fully in control.
“Are you sure this is wise?” Leon asked softly. “Juvenile dragons have been known to wipe out kingdoms-"
"If Camelot is to fall, I’m to fall with it, and not shuttered up in the keep like a lady in waiting,” Arthur replied.
Leon opened his mouth to counter, but a piercing shriek interrupted him. A white form shooting with it down from the sky, like a sliver of lightning.
“Wings!” Arthur called. “Take aim at the dragon’s wings and fire at will!”
The bowmen stood at the ready, a flurry of arrows impaling the parchment thin skin of Aithusa’s wings. The dragon twisted midair, slamming itself into the exterior wall.
“Ready again at my count,” Arthur commanded. “One, two-“
The white dragon clambered up the side of the castle, dislodging chunks of lime in its panic. With Aithusa so close, the longbowmen could not take proper aim. Before Arthur could voice command retreat, Aithusa’s sinuous body had rippled over the guard tower, roaring a gust of fire at the archers.
Bow’s fell. Bodies flailed, baking alive in armor coffins.
Arthur’s blood burned with wrath for the loss of his men. If Camelot were to stand a chance, the dragon must be lured into the heart of the courtyard. The casualties would be great, but the castle would still stand...
The prince thrust his sword into the air, calling his challenge with all his might, “If it’s a fight your master is after, Aithusa, then by Camelot he shall have it! My kingdom will not fall, and your head will become my trophy come the morrow!”
A stinking metallic blood oozed from Aithusa’s shredded wings. He shook his tattered wings limply, in an attempt to shake free the lodged arrows, reared forward on his hind legs and propelled himself downward with an ungraceful flap of broken skin.
Blood splattered through the air like fetid raindrops. The knights circled their prince, shields at the ready. Flawless form making it difficult for even Arthur to tell where one man ended and the other began. With the power of a battering ram, Aithusa plowed into them. Gnashing and snapping at whatever flesh stood in his way.
This was the swiftest, filthiest battle Arthur had encountered in his eighteen years, yet he endured the bloodbath with the patience of a monk.
This dragon was only an infant. The longbowmen had already clipped its wings; Sir Leon crippling the creature further by reducing its right eye to an oozing hole.
Emrys’ pet was not long for this world.
Aithusa’s ribcage let out a spasm with each puff of flame, but Arthur waited until the dragon stood screaming before him to make his strike. The first blow fell short--his sword nicking the leathery skin of the dragon’s throat, giving Aithusa the perfect chance to counter. He swooped his tail down like an ungodly mace, knocking Arthur right off his feet.
Arthur gasped as armor thudded to the earth, rattling his bones.
He blinked the sweat from his eyes.
Salivating above him was the Aithusa the White. Mouth red and hungering.
There was only one choice left-
As the dragon lunged forward, Arthur greeted its bite with an upward thrust of his arm. His longsword sailed up Athusia’s throat, slitting through bone and exploding out the top of the creature’s skull.
Aithusa twisted. Arthur could feel a growl build and die in the beast’s throat. A plume of smoke flared lazily from each nostril, the dragon’s good eye rolling back in its socket toward death.
The body fell limp.
Arthur could have laughed in the delight of victory, if his arm weren’t still locked in the creature’s bite. It was a feeling that was worse than death--the torture of a hundred lances piercing through his body, each searing hot as a poker.
Sir Leon dove behind him, cradling Arthur’s back, as three of the guards attempted to pry open the dragon’s jaws.
“Dead?” Arthur asked, Leon’s face blurring in and out of focus before him.
Leon nodded gravely. “He’s dead, Sire. You’ve slain him.”
Arthur smiled. He wanted to tell Leon to have a messenger deliver the beast’s heart to Emrys, but no words came. Nothing but a rush of hot air from Arthur’s lungs-
And then his sight fell black.