World Shaking Down (Part 4/?)
Title: World Shaking Down (Part 4/?)
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 4,475
Warnings: Some violence and eventual character death (minor character). Also, spoilers for 2x13 and anything before that.
Summary: You can't save the dying with words... and, yet, Balinor is still breathing. Arthur would know. He saw it. All of it. Including the part where Merlin used magic.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.
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I couldn’t-I could never be this.
Words-to be able to control a dragon with nothing more than words-he’s altogether certain that it’s not something he could find within himself. It’s not him. He’s only Merlin, serving boy to Prince Arthur; peasant; nobody, really, not in the grand scheme of things. He is nothing at all like the man before him, who at this moment looks so terribly fantastic that it’s unthinkable that Merlin could have the same blood in his veins. His father. And yet it doesn’t seem possible.
As a child, he imagined how his father would be, dreamed of being like him, but never has he felt that more keenly than now.
This man-Balinor-he is a great man. A powerful man. A man who is using that to save a kingdom, to save a king who wants him dead, and Merlin cannot, when staring that in the face, help but feel very, very inadequate.
His father. This man. It’s unthinkable.
He’s not the only one amazed: every knight present-Arthur included-is watching Balinor with the sort of awe that comes only from seeing something certifiably amazing spread out before them. And, truly, there is so much that is exceptional in this situation.
The dragon, who was so utterly fearsome just hours before, stands before Balinor like a well-trained dog. When Balinor’s pitch rises, the dragon sways lightly with it, forward and back, moving with the cadence and volume of the words. Even when Balinor slips out of the language that only he and the dragon can understand, back into English, the words are so infused with power that Merlin could almost swear that, if he wanted to, he could reach out with his own magic and pluck them from the air-bury them deep inside himself just to feel that warm glow of magic.
There would be something beautiful about the interaction, if only Merlin could stand to see any beauty in the dragon right now. Call him blind, but he can’t make himself do it-not when every time he looks up at Kilgharrah, he sees dead bodies and blood, debris burning, waves of heat billowing past him as he and Arthur and the knights dive for cover…
“I understand your pain,” Balinor calls out, head tipped back so that every breath of wind catches his hair and pulls it messily around his face. “But this solves nothing. Killing innocents is no better than what Uther has done.”
Clearly dissatisfied with the condemnation, the dragon’s wings shudder, jutting sharply out to the side in sync with the sharp drawback of its head. Though it appears chastened, there is certainly no repentance in its solid gaze.
“And yet you help him now?” Kilgharrah challenges. “He will not keep his word. You know this.”
Balinor only smiles, cold and bitter, all hard understanding and determination. “Some things are worth a man’s life.”
The dragon hardly seems convinced. “You will stay then?” it asks, cocking its head slightly to the side as its wings settle close against its back.
“You are the last of your kind, Kilgharrah. There is nothing for you to pass on. And you know all too well that if I leave now, there are things here I can never return to. My power may continue on, but it is of no use if he to whom it passes has no knowledge of it.”
To this, the dragon simply inclines its head, and, as Merlin watches, his father does the same, and for the first time since they’ve entered Camelot, he sees a genuine-if small-smile grace Balinor’s lips. “I have made my decision. Now, leave--never return to Camelot,” he orders, and it should be harsh-downright cold-but there’s a warmth there that Merlin doesn’t understand any more than he understands the small nod of gratitude that Kilgharrah favors Balinor with.
“Until,” the dragon responds, lips curling, “the next dragon lord has need of me?”
“That will be for him to decide.”
Like it’s that easy. Like Balinor can really accept that.
Clenching his fists so hard that his nails sink into his skin, Merlin realizes that may be exactly the case.
And he doesn’t understand it at all.
Two swift beats of the dragon’s wings are enough to propel it upward, violently enough that the shock of the air rushes around all of them, flattening the grass and blowing back the fringe from their foreheads. Balinor is dwarfed under the dragon’s shadow, but like everyone else, he simply leans his head back and watches as Kilgharrah rises higher into the sky.
No one speaks until the dragon is a no more than a moving dot hovering on the horizon.
And then everyone moves at once.
If asked later, Merlin couldn’t say who gives the order-only that the voice is familiar, some knight he’s sure he knows. Perhaps, if Arthur’s voice hadn’t ripped clear into the evening air mere seconds after, he might have guessed who it was, or, better, realized what Arthur has clearly surmised.
“Stand down!” he hears Arthur bellow, but they have their orders. Someday, Arthur’s command will be the ultimate authority in Camelot.
But, today, Uther Pendragon is still king.
“Your father’s orders-“
“Nothing we can-“
“Told to stop you from interfering if necessary-“
The sharp whistle of displaced air, then a sickening thunk-the noise is enough to define exactly what has happened, but Merlin is already turning anyway, back from where he spun to try to see what knight had yelled the command. By the time he gets back around, there is already an arrow in his father’s shoulder.
He lunges forward without thinking. Words are carelessly flowing off his tongue, but he couldn’t begin to know what he’s even saying. Something not so good, apparently, because it’s mere seconds before Arthur is on him, damnably unmovable arm around his chest, the other arm half up his neck and then over his mouth. No, that’s actually his hand doing the smothering. Not the arm. Merlin’s mistake. Not that it matters exactly what he’s screaming his rage into, though it begins to matter a bit when he tastes the sharp bite of the leather of Arthur’s glove, the dirt and sweat there, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care, this is his father-
The ground is damp he thinks hysterically, over and over, frantically, as he watches Balinor sink to his knees. Balinor does get one arm down to catch himself, and Arthur’s biting out words in Merlin’s ear, reassurances that it was a shot to maim, not too kill, and “it’s not fatal, Merlin”, but the ground is wet, and it will soak through his father’s already tattered clothing. It’s not fair. He’s got nothing left. Does Uther really have to take that too? Take him down like he’s a criminal when all he’s done is save Camelot?
Does Uther have to take everything?
There’s liquid on Balinor, and Merlin would rather pretend it’s damp from the ground rather than what he knows it really is. Red water from the ground. Because the ground is damp.
Arthur drags him backwards as the knights close in around Balinor. Had they shot him to stop any magic? Because it’s hard for anyone to do anything with an arrow in their shoulder. Magic is like anything else that way-it takes concentration, and pain throws that off.
Kind of like being hauled away will throw someone’s concentration off. Feeling himself lifted clear off the ground and back against Arthur’s chest as he’s pulled away from the scene certainly is disconcerting, but, from Arthur’s view, it is, Merlin is fairly sure, probably justifiable. He’s doing something stupid, and Arthur is stopping him, both with a whispered word in his mind-a block against the only thing Merlin could really stop this situation with-and… he can’t stop Arthur, not physically, not with how well trained Arthur is, because Merlin’s just a servant, untrained, without his magic… nothing. And Arthur-he’s a warrior. Merlin’s screaming against him, twisting, fighting, but he knows, even as he’s doing it, that this Arthur won’t play nice with him. He wouldn’t. Not when so much depends on winning, and when has Arthur ever let up in a situation like that?
No, Arthur has been trained to kill since birth, and the instinct to do so was in his bloodlines from the moment he was conceived. His ability to fight-it’s the first thing Merlin learned about him. It has never been the Arthur he knows-not all of him, doesn’t define him in Merlin’s mind-but that doesn’t make it any less true.
The knights bind Balinor’s hands behind his back, and while they’re aren’t cruel about it, they are firm in how they pull him to his feet. At least they take care to avoid the wounded shoulder as much as possible. That’s doable-the shot took him in the upper part of his shoulder, and from what Merlin can see-and it is, admittedly, rather difficult to see anything with Arthur’s hand over his mouth and half across the rest of his face too-it won’t be too difficult to extract. Gaius can do it. Merlin has seen him cure far worse.
They get him back up on his horse. With his hands bound and an arrow through his shoulder, he won’t be riding off on his own. It’s a perfectly reasonable way to transport him back to the castle, and, yet, it boils Merlin’s blood. Balinor rode out here on that same horse to save the people who are now arresting him. It’s a mockery of what he did for them to make him ride back on it too. Maybe not intentionally, but that doesn’t negate the fact that it is-
Predictably enough, rope coiling around his own wrists provides something of a momentary distraction. And honestly? It’s a shock he could do without when he sees that it’s Arthur who’s doing the tying.
Sometime in the last few seconds it seems he’s released Merlin’s mouth, though could anyone really fault him for not noticing? It’s not like Arthur has actually let go of him: he’s still at his back, halting off anything Merlin would like to try before it even begins. Only, now both his hands are at Merlin’s wrists, tying them together.
“What are you doing--?” he snarls, twisting against Arthur all over again… only to find Arthur’s hand at his neck, squeezing just lightly enough to warn. He might actually count that as a good thing if he’d interrupted the knot Arthur was tying, but a quick check not only digs the rope into his wrists, but it makes it very clear that the knots are sound.
“I’m getting you up on the horse, Merlin,” Arthur hisses right back, “and if you have any sense, use it now and keep your mouth shut.”
“Go-“
It’s probably a good thing that Arthur takes that as a sign that, yes, he does need to put his hand back up over Merlin’s mouth. If he hadn’t, it’s rather likely that the unflattering insults that may or may not involve accusations of inappropriate contact with farm animals would have come spilling out, and while Arthur can overlook a lot of things, even he can’t ignore disrespect like that in front of his knights.
It doesn’t make Merlin feel any better, though. If anything, it just makes that anger pulse a little harder.
As it is, the knights, now that they’ve gotten Balinor settled on a horse-tied there too, because no man with an arrow in his shoulder can be expected to ride properly-are surreptitiously casting glances at their prince and his furious servant. Clearly, Arthur knows it-and it’s wearing his patience thin, probably with good reason: Merlin is well aware that what he’s doing is a bad idea. This will get back to Uther, who will ask questions. He’ll want to know why his son’s servant cares so much for a dragon lord he hadn’t met until a day ago.
It’s not such a surprise that Arthur doesn’t want to give Uther a reason to ask questions.
Unfortunately for him, even Merlin is willing to admit that his actions have pretty effectively killed that likelihood.
It seems, though, that Arthur is willing to risk that rather than to have Merlin actually shout his relation to Balinor at anyone who will listen. And, really, who says he was actually going to do that? He can’t even remember what he was yelling… it wasn’t necessarily that…
“I want your word,” Arthur tells him, his voice as low and authoritative as Merlin has ever heard it. “I want your word that if I take my hand away, you won’t talk. Nod, or I swear, Merlin, I’ll knock you out on the spot. And it won’t feel good.”
No, really? Even now, Arthur has to be an utter ass, acting like this is just another situation to be controlled. That’s an illogical accusation, he knows-Arthur is doing the best he can in a bad situation-but at this point, Merlin doesn’t much care. His father just saved Camelot and was repaid with an arrow in the shoulder, and Arthur is just letting them take him back to Uther, back to what is-is-
Merlin shudders.
No. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. There’s a block clamping down on his magic, and his father is being dragged away, and the outcome of this situation will be-will be-
He yanks his body viciously against Arthur’s, trying one last time to break free before he finally gives into the inevitable-he’s not getting loose-and does the next best thing: he shakes his head emphatically.
Arthur just sighs. “Fine, but don’t blame me for how utterly wretched your head is going to feel when you wake up.”
Not blame him? Little chance that Merlin will grant that wish… but bitter thoughts or not, Merlin does have to admit, he almost welcomes the darkness that comes on the heel of the pain of Arthur’s blow. He’s not thinking now, at least.
---------------------------
“You can’t do this.”
Unfortunately, the reality, Arthur knows, even as he’s denying it, is that his father can. It’s unjust and deplorable, but he can do it.
“He practices magic! For the good of-“
Another lecture on the danger of magic. More words, useless, but Uther will never stop, because, Arthur has long since realized, he truly believes what he is saying. He honestly believes that he is justified in killing the man who saved Camelot.
And he is wrong.
Practically snarling, Arthur tosses his hands up in the air and turns on his heel back toward his father. “For the good of the kingdom? The kingdom that would have been destroyed if Balinor hadn’t intervened?”
“One good act does not negate a core of evil!” Uther bites out, slamming a hand down on the wooden table in front of him.
They have dinner in this room. Meetings are held here. Once, when Arthur was young, he even hid in here while playing a Very Serious game of hide-and-seek with the son of a visiting dignitary. Not much has changed about this place, and if it were any other day, the dying light filtering through the windows would make the room seem warm, normal. Someone will be along to light the candles soon, lest the room become too dark.
Right now, though? Right now Arthur couldn’t possibly want to see anything less than he wants to see any sort of flame, even for something as harmless as a candle.
“He saved Camelot! How is that evil?”
Leaning forward, Uther braces his hands on the table. He stands there like that for several moments, staring unmoving up at his son. “He does, undoubtedly, have his own reasons for doing so.”
Arthur’s got a reply for that-it’s almost already rolling off his tongue… but, somehow, it seems to catch in his throat, held there by the bitter reality that, oh, yes, Balinor does have a reason for what he’s doing. He’s got a son to save. A son whose life is here in Camelot. So, yes, Merlin is his reason-Balinor had refused them initially.
And yet… “That doesn’t make him evil.” Everyone has a motive. It’s just the way of things. The fact remains, Balinor could have kept Merlin away from Camelot, could have let the city fall without causing his son to fall with it.
“No, the sorcery that he practices is responsible for that.”
“Surely not all sorcerers are the same-“
Suddenly all sharp movement, Uther jerks upright. “You are blinded by today’s events!” he snaps, his fingers curling against the wood of the table.
And Arthur lashes back without thinking: “You are blinded by what happened over two decades ago!”
Not his best idea ever.
No, certainly not: he’s gone too far. He knows it the moment the words drop past his lips, but he can’t quite care, even while Uther is looking at him slack-jawed and with the kind of rage Arthur has only ever seen in a wounded animal that’s been cornered.
“Get out.”
“Father-“
“GET OUT!”
But he won’t. He can’t drop this. Too much is dependent on it-just too much. “You can’t have him killed for returning on your orders to save Camelot!”
Pitching back away from the table so violently that his leg catches the chair at his side, Uther ignores to protest of wood on wood as the chair rakes back against the floor as he stalks toward Arthur. Imposing hardly even begins to describe him, and were Arthur much younger, he’s certain he’d be backpedaling.
As it is, it’s an effort to hold his ground.
“I will do what is best for my kingdom!” Uther snarls.
“What’s best?! And what if we have need of a dragonlord again? Have you considered that?!”
Scant inches separate him from his father now. He looms over Arthur with the sheer presence of a parent who has always commanded respect, if not in height. This, though-it doesn’t look like his father. This man looks half mad, eyes almost crazed with fervor, and the lines of his face have never seemed quite so prominent as they do now.
But he does not yell. No explosion comes. Arthur half expects to be struck at any moment, but it doesn’t happen, and he’s left standing there, trying to stare his father down in a way that maybe, he thinks with a bit of shame, he’s just not ready for yet.
It’s Uther who breaks the moment.
“He banished the dragon. It will not return,” he breathes out, surprisingly quietly. “My word stands.”
And if it does? will not be an accepted answer, and so Arthur just tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. “This is unjust.”
Uther looks entirely disgusted. “This man is nothing to you.”
“It doesn’t matter who he is to me. He saved Camelot, and you seek to repay that with death. There is nothing right in that.”
Finally, Uther takes a step back, turning away from Arthur. It could be taken as a retreat, but Arthur knows better-his father is not fighting a battle with him. He has already won, simply by virtue of being king, of having his word stand as law. To step away is only to indulge his emotions, which he apparently feels he can do, since he’s won a fight that was, technically, never a fight at all.
And it won’t be-not unless Arthur puts some kind of ultimatum on the table.
How can he possibly describe the mad itch of that? The desire it gives him to get under his own skin and scratch, because this is his king, his father, and denying him is maddening, but obeying him might just drive him insane anyway. What can he possibly choose of two impossible options? That-that is the constant itch, demanding inside and out to be scratched-to have a decision made.
God help him, though, it’s not so easy.
“I won’t support you in this.” It’s half a challenge, and at least a first step. Not a flat-out incitation quite yet, but if he pushes any further, Uther will not be debating with his son-he’ll be seeking a way to subdue whatever actions might follow that challenge.
Uther pivots back around. “You have no choice.”
“I won’t stand by silently and watch you kill him.”
“Haven’t I told you once before not to look?”
Merlin. Yes. Such sound council that had been. You can’t watch him die? Then don’t look. Turn away. He drank poison for you, but that is irrelevant. His life is worth less than yours. So pretend none of it is happening. Does Uther really think he doesn’t wish it were that simple? Even now, he can’t dismiss his father’s words. It’s a reference to Merlin, and given that Uther has heard the reports from the knights, he has to know what Merlin did.
Wonderful. And here he hadn’t thought this situation could get worse.
“If I had, I would have lost a loyal servant.”
Yes, loyal. Merlin is not treasonous, no matter how he might have acted when Balinor was arrested.
Though, Uther seems to disagree, and Arthur would very much like to curse when he sees a small, humorless smirk curl the corners of his father’s lips. “Yes, perhaps. A loyal servant that shows loyalty for the dragonlord as well.” Tucking his hands behind his back, he tips his head back and breathes out heavily through his nose. “Did you think the knights wouldn’t report your servant’s behavior when I asked for a full account of the events?”
He tries not to let the stiffening in his shoulders show too visibly, though he suspects he fails to some degree. “I had no doubt that they would. And what of it? Merlin, for all his apparent idiocy, has a developed sense of right and wrong.”
“So much that he would blatantly commit an act that could be construed as treason? No, Arthur, if that were all it were, he would have waited, tried something later. His actions today were of a man too caught by passion to think logically. Sense of right and wrong or not, no man will do what your boy did for a person they know little to nothing of. There was something that made him care-something beyond a concept of justice.”
He doesn’t swallow, but it’s a near thing. “You’re wrong,” he counters simply.
“Then he would disobey his king for an ideal?”
There’s that urge to curse again, perhaps even more violently: caught in his own words. He shouldn’t have walked into that so easily. “He wouldn’t commit treason at all. I have never had a more loyal servant. I know he is loyal to the crown.”
“He is loyal to you.” Uther sneers, raising a hand to rest on the back of one of the chairs. “To you, Arthur, and by extension to me. And in most circumstances, that’s good enough. But not this circumstances. Not when you oppose me on this as well. I won’t allow a divide in my kingdom.”
“And you think Merlin would cause that? He’s only a servant.”
“No, but your dissent would. If you openly oppose me, lines will be drawn. The knights serve under you. You’ve trained many of them-knighted them, even. They owe much to you. Your servant wouldn’t be the only one to follow your example. I won’t have that done to my kingdom.”
The tension now is nearly tangible: Arthur feels it as though it were a knife up under his ribs, twisting. And now he is only waiting-waiting for the coup de grace. His father has more to say. And, oh, it will come, he’s sure… and it will be deadly when it does.
“I won’t support you on this,” he says anyway, knowing already-feeling it in a way that rakes at his nerves-that he’s lost.
Slowly, Uther takes another step forward, wrapped in his authority. Right now, he is not a father-he is a king, and Arthur is well aware that he himself is a subject, not just a son. “Then I suggest you make a decision: if you oppose me, or if anything happens to the dragon lord, I will have your servant executed along with him. Or, if by some manner of chance or manipulation, the dragon lord manages to escape, I will execute the boy in his place. Am I clear?”
Yes. So clear that Arthur would like to grab his father and do-do-something, anything to make him remember that he is not this man. He is not someone who would kill a servant simply to spite his son. He’s not, is he? He can’t be, even if he wouldn’t give Gaius that flower, even if he’s had children put to death, sometimes mistakenly-no. He is Arthur’s father still. Isn’t he? Isn’t he?
Damn it all, isn’t he?
“Arthur? Am I clear?”
“Merlin has done nothing,” he grinds out, voice hoarse even to his own ears.
Uther only nods. “Perhaps. But it isn’t about him. It’s about you, and about what your duty requires of you. If the only way I can teach you is by the life of a serving boy, then that is a price I will gladly pay.”
As if Merlin is worth nothing. Just an expendable life.
“And, Arthur?” Uther continues, arching an eyebrow. “If I were you, I would take care to keep the boy from committing any other acts that might tie him to the dragon lord.”
“Father-“
But Uther only holds up a hand to silence him. “Do you think I’m unaware that, if I look, I’ll likely find a reason for his behavior?”
Of course his father thinks that. He just has no concept of exactly what he’ll find. No doubt he’s thinking something small, like a friendship formed over their quick journey. He’s not thinking familial relation. He’s not thinking sorcerer. If he were, he’d have killed Merlin already.
“I turn a blind eye to this only as a favor to you, Arthur,” Uther continues sternly. “But if his behavior-or yours-continues, you’ll find that mercy to be quickly withdrawn. He’s your responsibility, Arthur-I won’t have him disgrace this court.”
No, just as Arthur can’t have his father looking any closer at Merlin’s motives. If he’d just waited, not caused a scene, done what Arthur had bloody well told him to do…
But he didn’t, and there’s no help for that now. There’s not hope for much, actually, other than perhaps closing this conversation without Merlin’s head already half on the chopping block.
Because right now? From Arthur’s vantage point, it’s looking to be either Merlin’s or Balinor’s head, and that is, in Arthur’s mind, really no choice at all.
Merlin will undoubtedly hate him for his decision.
But he’ll be alive to hate him.
And, so, because there is nothing else for him to do, he simply inclines his head and gives a half bow. “I understand.”
Uther nods in response. “I hope you do.”
“I do.”
Taking that as a dismissal, he turns from his father, forcing himself to take deep, even strides as he exits the room. That is, of course, easier in theory-when he’s so close to simply lashing out at the wall with his fist (not the best of choices under any circumstances) it becomes much harder in practice. He manages it, though, and quickly finds himself out in the hallway, a door finally-thank God-separating him from his father.
He’d still really like to hit something.
But no. That’s going to have to wait until after he finds Merlin and stops him from committing whatever foolish action he’s inevitably already planning.
And, honestly? Given the mess Merlin’s actions have gotten them both into, Arthur can’t help but think that Merlin damn well better pray he doesn’t end up as the thing that Arthur’s hitting, because, right now, that’s a very real temptation.
If only Merlin had just kept his mouth shut…
Author: talesofyesac
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Word Count: 4,475
Warnings: Some violence and eventual character death (minor character). Also, spoilers for 2x13 and anything before that.
Summary: You can't save the dying with words... and, yet, Balinor is still breathing. Arthur would know. He saw it. All of it. Including the part where Merlin used magic.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Just playing around.
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I couldn’t-I could never be this.
Words-to be able to control a dragon with nothing more than words-he’s altogether certain that it’s not something he could find within himself. It’s not him. He’s only Merlin, serving boy to Prince Arthur; peasant; nobody, really, not in the grand scheme of things. He is nothing at all like the man before him, who at this moment looks so terribly fantastic that it’s unthinkable that Merlin could have the same blood in his veins. His father. And yet it doesn’t seem possible.
As a child, he imagined how his father would be, dreamed of being like him, but never has he felt that more keenly than now.
This man-Balinor-he is a great man. A powerful man. A man who is using that to save a kingdom, to save a king who wants him dead, and Merlin cannot, when staring that in the face, help but feel very, very inadequate.
His father. This man. It’s unthinkable.
He’s not the only one amazed: every knight present-Arthur included-is watching Balinor with the sort of awe that comes only from seeing something certifiably amazing spread out before them. And, truly, there is so much that is exceptional in this situation.
The dragon, who was so utterly fearsome just hours before, stands before Balinor like a well-trained dog. When Balinor’s pitch rises, the dragon sways lightly with it, forward and back, moving with the cadence and volume of the words. Even when Balinor slips out of the language that only he and the dragon can understand, back into English, the words are so infused with power that Merlin could almost swear that, if he wanted to, he could reach out with his own magic and pluck them from the air-bury them deep inside himself just to feel that warm glow of magic.
There would be something beautiful about the interaction, if only Merlin could stand to see any beauty in the dragon right now. Call him blind, but he can’t make himself do it-not when every time he looks up at Kilgharrah, he sees dead bodies and blood, debris burning, waves of heat billowing past him as he and Arthur and the knights dive for cover…
“I understand your pain,” Balinor calls out, head tipped back so that every breath of wind catches his hair and pulls it messily around his face. “But this solves nothing. Killing innocents is no better than what Uther has done.”
Clearly dissatisfied with the condemnation, the dragon’s wings shudder, jutting sharply out to the side in sync with the sharp drawback of its head. Though it appears chastened, there is certainly no repentance in its solid gaze.
“And yet you help him now?” Kilgharrah challenges. “He will not keep his word. You know this.”
Balinor only smiles, cold and bitter, all hard understanding and determination. “Some things are worth a man’s life.”
The dragon hardly seems convinced. “You will stay then?” it asks, cocking its head slightly to the side as its wings settle close against its back.
“You are the last of your kind, Kilgharrah. There is nothing for you to pass on. And you know all too well that if I leave now, there are things here I can never return to. My power may continue on, but it is of no use if he to whom it passes has no knowledge of it.”
To this, the dragon simply inclines its head, and, as Merlin watches, his father does the same, and for the first time since they’ve entered Camelot, he sees a genuine-if small-smile grace Balinor’s lips. “I have made my decision. Now, leave--never return to Camelot,” he orders, and it should be harsh-downright cold-but there’s a warmth there that Merlin doesn’t understand any more than he understands the small nod of gratitude that Kilgharrah favors Balinor with.
“Until,” the dragon responds, lips curling, “the next dragon lord has need of me?”
“That will be for him to decide.”
Like it’s that easy. Like Balinor can really accept that.
Clenching his fists so hard that his nails sink into his skin, Merlin realizes that may be exactly the case.
And he doesn’t understand it at all.
Two swift beats of the dragon’s wings are enough to propel it upward, violently enough that the shock of the air rushes around all of them, flattening the grass and blowing back the fringe from their foreheads. Balinor is dwarfed under the dragon’s shadow, but like everyone else, he simply leans his head back and watches as Kilgharrah rises higher into the sky.
No one speaks until the dragon is a no more than a moving dot hovering on the horizon.
And then everyone moves at once.
If asked later, Merlin couldn’t say who gives the order-only that the voice is familiar, some knight he’s sure he knows. Perhaps, if Arthur’s voice hadn’t ripped clear into the evening air mere seconds after, he might have guessed who it was, or, better, realized what Arthur has clearly surmised.
“Stand down!” he hears Arthur bellow, but they have their orders. Someday, Arthur’s command will be the ultimate authority in Camelot.
But, today, Uther Pendragon is still king.
“Your father’s orders-“
“Nothing we can-“
“Told to stop you from interfering if necessary-“
The sharp whistle of displaced air, then a sickening thunk-the noise is enough to define exactly what has happened, but Merlin is already turning anyway, back from where he spun to try to see what knight had yelled the command. By the time he gets back around, there is already an arrow in his father’s shoulder.
He lunges forward without thinking. Words are carelessly flowing off his tongue, but he couldn’t begin to know what he’s even saying. Something not so good, apparently, because it’s mere seconds before Arthur is on him, damnably unmovable arm around his chest, the other arm half up his neck and then over his mouth. No, that’s actually his hand doing the smothering. Not the arm. Merlin’s mistake. Not that it matters exactly what he’s screaming his rage into, though it begins to matter a bit when he tastes the sharp bite of the leather of Arthur’s glove, the dirt and sweat there, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care, this is his father-
The ground is damp he thinks hysterically, over and over, frantically, as he watches Balinor sink to his knees. Balinor does get one arm down to catch himself, and Arthur’s biting out words in Merlin’s ear, reassurances that it was a shot to maim, not too kill, and “it’s not fatal, Merlin”, but the ground is wet, and it will soak through his father’s already tattered clothing. It’s not fair. He’s got nothing left. Does Uther really have to take that too? Take him down like he’s a criminal when all he’s done is save Camelot?
Does Uther have to take everything?
There’s liquid on Balinor, and Merlin would rather pretend it’s damp from the ground rather than what he knows it really is. Red water from the ground. Because the ground is damp.
Arthur drags him backwards as the knights close in around Balinor. Had they shot him to stop any magic? Because it’s hard for anyone to do anything with an arrow in their shoulder. Magic is like anything else that way-it takes concentration, and pain throws that off.
Kind of like being hauled away will throw someone’s concentration off. Feeling himself lifted clear off the ground and back against Arthur’s chest as he’s pulled away from the scene certainly is disconcerting, but, from Arthur’s view, it is, Merlin is fairly sure, probably justifiable. He’s doing something stupid, and Arthur is stopping him, both with a whispered word in his mind-a block against the only thing Merlin could really stop this situation with-and… he can’t stop Arthur, not physically, not with how well trained Arthur is, because Merlin’s just a servant, untrained, without his magic… nothing. And Arthur-he’s a warrior. Merlin’s screaming against him, twisting, fighting, but he knows, even as he’s doing it, that this Arthur won’t play nice with him. He wouldn’t. Not when so much depends on winning, and when has Arthur ever let up in a situation like that?
No, Arthur has been trained to kill since birth, and the instinct to do so was in his bloodlines from the moment he was conceived. His ability to fight-it’s the first thing Merlin learned about him. It has never been the Arthur he knows-not all of him, doesn’t define him in Merlin’s mind-but that doesn’t make it any less true.
The knights bind Balinor’s hands behind his back, and while they’re aren’t cruel about it, they are firm in how they pull him to his feet. At least they take care to avoid the wounded shoulder as much as possible. That’s doable-the shot took him in the upper part of his shoulder, and from what Merlin can see-and it is, admittedly, rather difficult to see anything with Arthur’s hand over his mouth and half across the rest of his face too-it won’t be too difficult to extract. Gaius can do it. Merlin has seen him cure far worse.
They get him back up on his horse. With his hands bound and an arrow through his shoulder, he won’t be riding off on his own. It’s a perfectly reasonable way to transport him back to the castle, and, yet, it boils Merlin’s blood. Balinor rode out here on that same horse to save the people who are now arresting him. It’s a mockery of what he did for them to make him ride back on it too. Maybe not intentionally, but that doesn’t negate the fact that it is-
Predictably enough, rope coiling around his own wrists provides something of a momentary distraction. And honestly? It’s a shock he could do without when he sees that it’s Arthur who’s doing the tying.
Sometime in the last few seconds it seems he’s released Merlin’s mouth, though could anyone really fault him for not noticing? It’s not like Arthur has actually let go of him: he’s still at his back, halting off anything Merlin would like to try before it even begins. Only, now both his hands are at Merlin’s wrists, tying them together.
“What are you doing--?” he snarls, twisting against Arthur all over again… only to find Arthur’s hand at his neck, squeezing just lightly enough to warn. He might actually count that as a good thing if he’d interrupted the knot Arthur was tying, but a quick check not only digs the rope into his wrists, but it makes it very clear that the knots are sound.
“I’m getting you up on the horse, Merlin,” Arthur hisses right back, “and if you have any sense, use it now and keep your mouth shut.”
“Go-“
It’s probably a good thing that Arthur takes that as a sign that, yes, he does need to put his hand back up over Merlin’s mouth. If he hadn’t, it’s rather likely that the unflattering insults that may or may not involve accusations of inappropriate contact with farm animals would have come spilling out, and while Arthur can overlook a lot of things, even he can’t ignore disrespect like that in front of his knights.
It doesn’t make Merlin feel any better, though. If anything, it just makes that anger pulse a little harder.
As it is, the knights, now that they’ve gotten Balinor settled on a horse-tied there too, because no man with an arrow in his shoulder can be expected to ride properly-are surreptitiously casting glances at their prince and his furious servant. Clearly, Arthur knows it-and it’s wearing his patience thin, probably with good reason: Merlin is well aware that what he’s doing is a bad idea. This will get back to Uther, who will ask questions. He’ll want to know why his son’s servant cares so much for a dragon lord he hadn’t met until a day ago.
It’s not such a surprise that Arthur doesn’t want to give Uther a reason to ask questions.
Unfortunately for him, even Merlin is willing to admit that his actions have pretty effectively killed that likelihood.
It seems, though, that Arthur is willing to risk that rather than to have Merlin actually shout his relation to Balinor at anyone who will listen. And, really, who says he was actually going to do that? He can’t even remember what he was yelling… it wasn’t necessarily that…
“I want your word,” Arthur tells him, his voice as low and authoritative as Merlin has ever heard it. “I want your word that if I take my hand away, you won’t talk. Nod, or I swear, Merlin, I’ll knock you out on the spot. And it won’t feel good.”
No, really? Even now, Arthur has to be an utter ass, acting like this is just another situation to be controlled. That’s an illogical accusation, he knows-Arthur is doing the best he can in a bad situation-but at this point, Merlin doesn’t much care. His father just saved Camelot and was repaid with an arrow in the shoulder, and Arthur is just letting them take him back to Uther, back to what is-is-
Merlin shudders.
No. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. There’s a block clamping down on his magic, and his father is being dragged away, and the outcome of this situation will be-will be-
He yanks his body viciously against Arthur’s, trying one last time to break free before he finally gives into the inevitable-he’s not getting loose-and does the next best thing: he shakes his head emphatically.
Arthur just sighs. “Fine, but don’t blame me for how utterly wretched your head is going to feel when you wake up.”
Not blame him? Little chance that Merlin will grant that wish… but bitter thoughts or not, Merlin does have to admit, he almost welcomes the darkness that comes on the heel of the pain of Arthur’s blow. He’s not thinking now, at least.
---------------------------
“You can’t do this.”
Unfortunately, the reality, Arthur knows, even as he’s denying it, is that his father can. It’s unjust and deplorable, but he can do it.
“He practices magic! For the good of-“
Another lecture on the danger of magic. More words, useless, but Uther will never stop, because, Arthur has long since realized, he truly believes what he is saying. He honestly believes that he is justified in killing the man who saved Camelot.
And he is wrong.
Practically snarling, Arthur tosses his hands up in the air and turns on his heel back toward his father. “For the good of the kingdom? The kingdom that would have been destroyed if Balinor hadn’t intervened?”
“One good act does not negate a core of evil!” Uther bites out, slamming a hand down on the wooden table in front of him.
They have dinner in this room. Meetings are held here. Once, when Arthur was young, he even hid in here while playing a Very Serious game of hide-and-seek with the son of a visiting dignitary. Not much has changed about this place, and if it were any other day, the dying light filtering through the windows would make the room seem warm, normal. Someone will be along to light the candles soon, lest the room become too dark.
Right now, though? Right now Arthur couldn’t possibly want to see anything less than he wants to see any sort of flame, even for something as harmless as a candle.
“He saved Camelot! How is that evil?”
Leaning forward, Uther braces his hands on the table. He stands there like that for several moments, staring unmoving up at his son. “He does, undoubtedly, have his own reasons for doing so.”
Arthur’s got a reply for that-it’s almost already rolling off his tongue… but, somehow, it seems to catch in his throat, held there by the bitter reality that, oh, yes, Balinor does have a reason for what he’s doing. He’s got a son to save. A son whose life is here in Camelot. So, yes, Merlin is his reason-Balinor had refused them initially.
And yet… “That doesn’t make him evil.” Everyone has a motive. It’s just the way of things. The fact remains, Balinor could have kept Merlin away from Camelot, could have let the city fall without causing his son to fall with it.
“No, the sorcery that he practices is responsible for that.”
“Surely not all sorcerers are the same-“
Suddenly all sharp movement, Uther jerks upright. “You are blinded by today’s events!” he snaps, his fingers curling against the wood of the table.
And Arthur lashes back without thinking: “You are blinded by what happened over two decades ago!”
Not his best idea ever.
No, certainly not: he’s gone too far. He knows it the moment the words drop past his lips, but he can’t quite care, even while Uther is looking at him slack-jawed and with the kind of rage Arthur has only ever seen in a wounded animal that’s been cornered.
“Get out.”
“Father-“
“GET OUT!”
But he won’t. He can’t drop this. Too much is dependent on it-just too much. “You can’t have him killed for returning on your orders to save Camelot!”
Pitching back away from the table so violently that his leg catches the chair at his side, Uther ignores to protest of wood on wood as the chair rakes back against the floor as he stalks toward Arthur. Imposing hardly even begins to describe him, and were Arthur much younger, he’s certain he’d be backpedaling.
As it is, it’s an effort to hold his ground.
“I will do what is best for my kingdom!” Uther snarls.
“What’s best?! And what if we have need of a dragonlord again? Have you considered that?!”
Scant inches separate him from his father now. He looms over Arthur with the sheer presence of a parent who has always commanded respect, if not in height. This, though-it doesn’t look like his father. This man looks half mad, eyes almost crazed with fervor, and the lines of his face have never seemed quite so prominent as they do now.
But he does not yell. No explosion comes. Arthur half expects to be struck at any moment, but it doesn’t happen, and he’s left standing there, trying to stare his father down in a way that maybe, he thinks with a bit of shame, he’s just not ready for yet.
It’s Uther who breaks the moment.
“He banished the dragon. It will not return,” he breathes out, surprisingly quietly. “My word stands.”
And if it does? will not be an accepted answer, and so Arthur just tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. “This is unjust.”
Uther looks entirely disgusted. “This man is nothing to you.”
“It doesn’t matter who he is to me. He saved Camelot, and you seek to repay that with death. There is nothing right in that.”
Finally, Uther takes a step back, turning away from Arthur. It could be taken as a retreat, but Arthur knows better-his father is not fighting a battle with him. He has already won, simply by virtue of being king, of having his word stand as law. To step away is only to indulge his emotions, which he apparently feels he can do, since he’s won a fight that was, technically, never a fight at all.
And it won’t be-not unless Arthur puts some kind of ultimatum on the table.
How can he possibly describe the mad itch of that? The desire it gives him to get under his own skin and scratch, because this is his king, his father, and denying him is maddening, but obeying him might just drive him insane anyway. What can he possibly choose of two impossible options? That-that is the constant itch, demanding inside and out to be scratched-to have a decision made.
God help him, though, it’s not so easy.
“I won’t support you in this.” It’s half a challenge, and at least a first step. Not a flat-out incitation quite yet, but if he pushes any further, Uther will not be debating with his son-he’ll be seeking a way to subdue whatever actions might follow that challenge.
Uther pivots back around. “You have no choice.”
“I won’t stand by silently and watch you kill him.”
“Haven’t I told you once before not to look?”
Merlin. Yes. Such sound council that had been. You can’t watch him die? Then don’t look. Turn away. He drank poison for you, but that is irrelevant. His life is worth less than yours. So pretend none of it is happening. Does Uther really think he doesn’t wish it were that simple? Even now, he can’t dismiss his father’s words. It’s a reference to Merlin, and given that Uther has heard the reports from the knights, he has to know what Merlin did.
Wonderful. And here he hadn’t thought this situation could get worse.
“If I had, I would have lost a loyal servant.”
Yes, loyal. Merlin is not treasonous, no matter how he might have acted when Balinor was arrested.
Though, Uther seems to disagree, and Arthur would very much like to curse when he sees a small, humorless smirk curl the corners of his father’s lips. “Yes, perhaps. A loyal servant that shows loyalty for the dragonlord as well.” Tucking his hands behind his back, he tips his head back and breathes out heavily through his nose. “Did you think the knights wouldn’t report your servant’s behavior when I asked for a full account of the events?”
He tries not to let the stiffening in his shoulders show too visibly, though he suspects he fails to some degree. “I had no doubt that they would. And what of it? Merlin, for all his apparent idiocy, has a developed sense of right and wrong.”
“So much that he would blatantly commit an act that could be construed as treason? No, Arthur, if that were all it were, he would have waited, tried something later. His actions today were of a man too caught by passion to think logically. Sense of right and wrong or not, no man will do what your boy did for a person they know little to nothing of. There was something that made him care-something beyond a concept of justice.”
He doesn’t swallow, but it’s a near thing. “You’re wrong,” he counters simply.
“Then he would disobey his king for an ideal?”
There’s that urge to curse again, perhaps even more violently: caught in his own words. He shouldn’t have walked into that so easily. “He wouldn’t commit treason at all. I have never had a more loyal servant. I know he is loyal to the crown.”
“He is loyal to you.” Uther sneers, raising a hand to rest on the back of one of the chairs. “To you, Arthur, and by extension to me. And in most circumstances, that’s good enough. But not this circumstances. Not when you oppose me on this as well. I won’t allow a divide in my kingdom.”
“And you think Merlin would cause that? He’s only a servant.”
“No, but your dissent would. If you openly oppose me, lines will be drawn. The knights serve under you. You’ve trained many of them-knighted them, even. They owe much to you. Your servant wouldn’t be the only one to follow your example. I won’t have that done to my kingdom.”
The tension now is nearly tangible: Arthur feels it as though it were a knife up under his ribs, twisting. And now he is only waiting-waiting for the coup de grace. His father has more to say. And, oh, it will come, he’s sure… and it will be deadly when it does.
“I won’t support you on this,” he says anyway, knowing already-feeling it in a way that rakes at his nerves-that he’s lost.
Slowly, Uther takes another step forward, wrapped in his authority. Right now, he is not a father-he is a king, and Arthur is well aware that he himself is a subject, not just a son. “Then I suggest you make a decision: if you oppose me, or if anything happens to the dragon lord, I will have your servant executed along with him. Or, if by some manner of chance or manipulation, the dragon lord manages to escape, I will execute the boy in his place. Am I clear?”
Yes. So clear that Arthur would like to grab his father and do-do-something, anything to make him remember that he is not this man. He is not someone who would kill a servant simply to spite his son. He’s not, is he? He can’t be, even if he wouldn’t give Gaius that flower, even if he’s had children put to death, sometimes mistakenly-no. He is Arthur’s father still. Isn’t he? Isn’t he?
Damn it all, isn’t he?
“Arthur? Am I clear?”
“Merlin has done nothing,” he grinds out, voice hoarse even to his own ears.
Uther only nods. “Perhaps. But it isn’t about him. It’s about you, and about what your duty requires of you. If the only way I can teach you is by the life of a serving boy, then that is a price I will gladly pay.”
As if Merlin is worth nothing. Just an expendable life.
“And, Arthur?” Uther continues, arching an eyebrow. “If I were you, I would take care to keep the boy from committing any other acts that might tie him to the dragon lord.”
“Father-“
But Uther only holds up a hand to silence him. “Do you think I’m unaware that, if I look, I’ll likely find a reason for his behavior?”
Of course his father thinks that. He just has no concept of exactly what he’ll find. No doubt he’s thinking something small, like a friendship formed over their quick journey. He’s not thinking familial relation. He’s not thinking sorcerer. If he were, he’d have killed Merlin already.
“I turn a blind eye to this only as a favor to you, Arthur,” Uther continues sternly. “But if his behavior-or yours-continues, you’ll find that mercy to be quickly withdrawn. He’s your responsibility, Arthur-I won’t have him disgrace this court.”
No, just as Arthur can’t have his father looking any closer at Merlin’s motives. If he’d just waited, not caused a scene, done what Arthur had bloody well told him to do…
But he didn’t, and there’s no help for that now. There’s not hope for much, actually, other than perhaps closing this conversation without Merlin’s head already half on the chopping block.
Because right now? From Arthur’s vantage point, it’s looking to be either Merlin’s or Balinor’s head, and that is, in Arthur’s mind, really no choice at all.
Merlin will undoubtedly hate him for his decision.
But he’ll be alive to hate him.
And, so, because there is nothing else for him to do, he simply inclines his head and gives a half bow. “I understand.”
Uther nods in response. “I hope you do.”
“I do.”
Taking that as a dismissal, he turns from his father, forcing himself to take deep, even strides as he exits the room. That is, of course, easier in theory-when he’s so close to simply lashing out at the wall with his fist (not the best of choices under any circumstances) it becomes much harder in practice. He manages it, though, and quickly finds himself out in the hallway, a door finally-thank God-separating him from his father.
He’d still really like to hit something.
But no. That’s going to have to wait until after he finds Merlin and stops him from committing whatever foolish action he’s inevitably already planning.
And, honestly? Given the mess Merlin’s actions have gotten them both into, Arthur can’t help but think that Merlin damn well better pray he doesn’t end up as the thing that Arthur’s hitting, because, right now, that’s a very real temptation.
If only Merlin had just kept his mouth shut…