Pendragon Red (Part 3/4+Epilogue)

[talesofyesac]

Title: Pendragon Red (Part 3/4+Epilogue)
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 30,583
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death (minor), violence
Summary: Camelot is overrun by a group of magic users after Uther refuses to negotiate with them. Oddly, the only things they seem to want from Camelot are Arthur... and Merlin. His father dead and his kingdom conquered, Arthur, oblivious to what they could possibly want with his servant, attempts to protect himself and Merlin while somehow finding a way to escape before they reach their unknown destination. Meanwhile, Merlin tries his best to stop Arthur from unraveling completely while also endeavoring to understand what part he and Arthur play in a prophecy involving towers, dragons, and blood sacrifice. 
Author’s Notes: This story was written for the journeystory mini big bang (a story of at least 10,000 words). It takes place before Fires of Idirsholas (2.12). Also, a million thanks to stbacchus, who is the most wonderful beta in the world. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Link to the Fabulous Art Made for this Story:  http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/237916.html

They rise early the next morning.

It’s not a pleasant awakening: at some point during the night, he and Arthur have curled against each other, sacrificing pride for the sake of necessity-for warmth. Merlin hadn’t realized it until a rough hand materializes on his bound wrists, yanking him up and away from the warmth-and eliciting from Arthur what sounds too much like a snarl to be actual words. Arthur… wasn’t sleeping. Has he slept at all? He hasn’t eaten. He really should have, but there had been a sense to him, written in the sort of spring-loaded tension in his face, that it wasn’t food he needed. Merlin can’t claim to understand it, and it wasn’t like he wanted to eat all the food himself, but that-it was what Arthur had needed, or needed to see happen… or something. That much-it had just been there in his face, in the way he hardly blinked when he ordered Merlin, preferring instead to fix him with a calm gaze that was, under the circumstances, too even for the reason behind it to be entirely logical. It was just need. And so Merlin had done what he wanted.

But now Arthur hasn’t slept either.

It doesn’t take long before they’re dragged in front of the man from the throne room, who, irritatingly enough, looks well rested. Or… maybe not. Energy seems to hover in his step and in his manner, but his face-there are smudges of dark under his eyes, and the whites around his pupils are run through with red.  Well-dressed and well-groomed, yes, but none of that quite carries over into his face.

Regrettably, lack of decent rest doesn’t seem to deter him: his eyes are still quick and sharp when Arthur and Merlin are tossed to the ground in front of him. He tucks his hands behind his back, pulling himself up a bit straighter and giving them a nod. Right, and did he actually think either of them was going to return it? Arthur bites out something particularly nasty under his breath, but it’s certainly not a “good morning” of any kind-it actually sounds like he’s suggesting the man go do lewd things with barnyard animals, if Merlin isn’t mistaken. Strangely, all that earns Arthur is a raised eyebrow. Isn’t it customary to say something to one’s captive when he insults you? But no-the man only nods over toward where the horses are waiting before striding off, his gait brisk and efficient.

Again, he and Arthur are hauled to their feet. Arthur has finally fallen silent, though the hard set of his jaw makes his feelings far too clear-when are his feelings ever not clear?-and if that didn’t, the way he’s twisting against the hands holding him certainly does. Honestly, though, he admires Arthur for that-for that fight that never quite dies. It’s useless now, and, damn, Merlin can’t quite stand to watch him keep at it, but how can he not be proud? It’s Arthur, and that’s worth being proud of.

Merlin isn’t looking at Arthur when the man glances back from where he’s now standing by the horses. Maybe he should have been, because the man’s lips dip into a frown, and his forehead crinkles. He saw something, but a quick look back at Arthur yields nothing-whatever it was that was there has passed in favor of pure hatred, but still, whatever the man saw in Arthur, it’s left him looking far too much like he understands something Arthur would never want him to.

He purses his lips together, tongue darting out to wet them; carefully, he opens and closes his mouth twice, almost abortively, before he finally speaks: “Let them ride together,” he says finally. “I daresay it will make Pendragon more agreeable.”

For what is probably the first time since they’ve been captured, Arthur doesn’t protest. Even when, hands still bound, he’s heaved up onto the horse and tied there, he says nothing, only regarding his captors with a steely sort of resolve that sets the line of his back as hard as Merlin has ever seen it.

“Up you go then,” one of the bandits tells Merlin, sounding, oddly, not unkind, but more… indifferent. If only the smell of him were as neutral as his tone. The man fairly reeks of sweat and horses, but not in the sort of comforting way that Merlin associates with the stables. No, this is the sort of smell that’s wasted away, turned sour, and maybe been rolled in some manure just to add to it. Apparently, this was not the man Arthur tackled in the stream yesterday. Though, given their past history, Merlin does have to admit that he’d rather that man not be in charge of putting him on a horse. Frankly, he’d really rather no one were in charge of putting him on a horse.

Of course, he’d also rather that he weren’t facing the prospect of being smushed against Arthur for the day, either: he’s settled in front of Arthur in the saddle, which is awkward enough in itself, but being bound there just adds an entirely new level of uncomfortability. But, then… this might be better than being apart. Is that a foolish thought? It could be-Arthur would probably accuse him of being a girl-but Arthur-he’s not acting quite like himself, and there’s something vaguely reassuring about being able to feel the rise and fall of his chest. Alive, it says. And maybe Arthur feels the same about him, because he doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to shove Merlin for a little more room like he might ordinarily, but just settles and rests his bound hands against Merlin’s back.

And then they’re moving.

Traveling double on horseback isn’t exactly comfortable, and the pace isn’t what Merlin would call a slow one. It’s not backbreaking, certainly, but they aren’t trudging along. Clearly, they’re intending to get somewhere, probably under some sort of time constraint.

Occasionally, one the men riding around them will glance at them, but for the most part, it’s easier just to ignore their captors. Arthur seems to have grasped a similar goal, even to the point where, thank God, he’s dozing. Sad that he apparently thinks he’s safer doing that on horseback than at night, but it’s not entirely without basis: if anything happens, he’ll be jerked awake by the sudden movement, either Merlin’s or the horse’s. Either way, for the time being, he’s apparently deemed it acceptable to prop his head against Merlin’s shoulder and sleep, though very fitfully, often with troubled murmurs, and certainly not without the occasional instance of jolting awake, startled by nothing more than whatever he is seeing in his dreams.

Not that what he’s seeing is nothing. Merlin can just imagine.

Uther is dead, and there’s a good chance that Arthur is caught in that, seeing his father’s last moments over and over in his dreams. Merlin is certainly seeing Gaius’-feeling those last few breaths, gasped out against him as he held the man who had been the only father he’d ever known. Gaius had been blasted back trying to cause a distraction-something long enough so that Merlin could slip past. It’d cost Gaius dearly-he’d paid with his life-and that last death rattle in his mentor’s chest-the sound of is always going to shake Merlin down to the bone. He’ll never stop feeling it, and if Arthur is at all the same, he’ll probably never stop seeing his father’s blood.

Merlin swallows hard. So much blood. And the body….

Gaius got a proper burial, but Uther-will he have any such rite? Merlin would like to care for the sake of it being right, but as he feels Arthur’s forehead resting against his shoulder in sleep, he has to admit, he wants it more for Arthur. Uther-he has no love for Uther. But Uther is Arthur’s father. And Arthur needs him to have a proper burial.

Maybe Gwen will do it.

If she lived.

Closing his eyes, Merlin forces himself to stop thinking. Thinking only leads to counting deaths. And that-if he does that, he’ll start counting his own before it’s happened.

Noon comes and goes, and they still don’t stop. They are given a bit of food, and this time, Arthur, most likely seeing no efficient way to smuggle the food into Merlin’s possession given their positions bound on the horse, deigns to eat some of it. Well, thanks for small miracles is still thanks, at least, and Merlin does have to admit that he breathes a bit easier at the sound of Arthur chewing behind him.

It’s not until the sun is high in the sky-probably about three o’clock-that Arthur tries to talk to him.

“Their chain of command is well established. No weak links.”

In any other circumstance, the way Merlin jolts-completely startled by Arthur’s words, mumbled, obviously purposely, into the neck of his shirt-would have Arthur laughing, mocking, probably punching playfully, because It works with the knights, Merlin!  For once, it’d even be nice to have those things. They’d be Arthur, normal, and if anything about this situation could be a little more ordinary, that’d be good, right?

As it is, he just barely has the presence of mind not to say anything back: Arthur may have the luxury of a shirt to hide the movements of his mouth, but Merlin, facing straight ahead, doesn’t have that. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like a very good idea to chat openly about this sort of thing.

“Their roles are all well-defined. We won’t be able to pit them against each other.”

Is Arthur saying this for Merlin’s benefit? Or is he just working things through in his own head? Either way, Merlin shifts in the saddle, leaning his shoulders back so that his shirt wrinkles and gives Arthur, who, he realizes, is actually playing at still napping against his shoulders, more cover.

“Our best chance will be once we stop for the night. They’ll certainly be on guard again, but even the best men get complacent after standing all through a night shift.”

Merlin stretches his neck, popping out a crick in it. It’s the closest he can get to a nod without attracting attention.

Whether Arthur understands or not doesn’t really seem to have much bearing on the situation: he goes on regardless. “They have the sense about them that they’ve been working together for awhile. They’ll react immediately. We can’t count on any extra time due to sloppy teamwork.”

No, of course not, because that might actually be helpful, and God forbid that anything in this situation would be.

“And, Merlin? If you get a chance to run, you do it. Leave me behind.”

So, so stupid to snort in disbelief at that. Obviously, it draws the attention of the guards riding beside him. Against his back, Merlin can feel Arthur grind his jaw in irritation, but apparently he does have self-control enough not to tear into Merlin-who would have known, given how he carried on back in Camelot?-because he remains absolutely still, nodding off against Merlin’s back, and after a cursory glance, the guards look away.

But Arthur is still silent for the rest of the ride.

And Merlin most decidedly does not spend the remainder of it hoping to hear anything more.

Except maybe he does, and he can’t quite make himself feel sorry for it.

------------------

They stop for the night in a small village, someplace that Merlin has never seen. It’s nothing much to look at; bigger than Ealdor, at least, but that’s not saying much. The road, which is filled with ruts and holes, is lined by a number of small buildings. Animals wander; children play in the dying light, stalwartly ignoring the calls of their mothers to come inside. Off to the side, a man is gathering up the goods he’d apparently been selling earlier in the day. All in all, it’s not a remarkable village. Still, something in Merlin relaxes when they ride into it. There are other people here, and that’s a small comfort at least.

Things even look up a little more when they stop in front of the inn. That’s… a bit unexpected. Frankly, Merlin really expected to be tossed in a pile of hay somewhere in a barn and told to sleep, so it’s rather a shock when the leader of the group-Lead Prat, Merlin had started calling him in his head at some point during the day-returns from inside the inn, waves a hand, resulting in him and Arthur being pulled down from their horses and steered inside. Inside and upstairs. Two flights of stairs. Well, damn.

Right, and how does Arthur plan to sneak away now?

“I’m surprised that you notice civilization when you stumble across it,” Arthur announces loftily as they’re pushed toward the room after having their hands unbound.

Unbound. Interesting. That… might be helpful.

Still, Arthur just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Never can. Not in situations like this, and Merlin knows he’s scowling, but so long as Arthur doesn’t see, that’s probably all right. Shut up, Arthur.

Lead Prat-and won’t Arthur just be thrilled to know there’s someone who is, in Merlin’s mind, a bigger prat than he is?-who is standing to the right of the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, just smiles. His clothes are dusty from the road, and his hair hangs lankly, in need of a bath, but he matches Arthur with an equal amount of vigor. “We’ll reach our destination tomorrow, princeling, and you can see just how ‘civilized’ we actually are.”

Arthur, who’s halfway through the door, a man’s hand on his back, grinds his heels in and levels a glare at the man. The movement closes the distance between them until their faces are mere feet apart. “And where would that be?”

The smile dies down a bit, but a hint of it remains, smoldering more in his eyes than on his lips. “Gwynedd.”

Merlin takes a step back toward the man, retracing his footfalls, having already been pushed into the room. No doubt the man or one of the guards will shove him back… or not. Instead, Arthur snaps his arm out and grabs his shirt, holding Merlin behind him. One push is all it takes to determine: Arthur has locked his elbow. No intent to let him pass, then. And then a quick shove to his chest has him stumbling backwards. Arthur never even turns to look. “Specifically?” he presses on.

The man leans more heavily into the doorway, crossing one of his ankles over the other. When he receives a querying look from the guard holding Arthur, he only shakes his head. Let him talk, it seems to say. “Why should I tell you?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. The only sign he’s even aware of anything other than the man before him is how he rolls his shoulder, trying to throw off the guard’s touch. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“Fair enough,” the man agrees, shrugging. “The mountains of Eryri.”

Oh? Something about that-Arthur doesn’t like it. He’s been with Arthur long enough to read the changes in his moods when they’re subtle-but this, it’s nothing like subtle. His jaw clenches and his eyes darken, followed by a series of too rapid blinks. Slowly, he takes another step forward, and though it draws no movement from the man in front of him, it does from Merlin: he takes a step forward as well. This time Arthur doesn’t seem to notice… or maybe he just hasn’t moved far enough yet.

“Vortigern?” he asks. Arthur’s tone has dropped, and, goodness, that scrapes over the nerves too much like gravel for it to be anything even approaching comfortable.

“Good boy. Seems you aren’t entirely unaware of the state of things around you.”

The first warning that there’s something very wrong is that Arthur doesn’t bite back at that. Rather, he just swallows, dipping his chin down and saying very slowly, “Vortigern is mad.”

The man doesn’t move. “Is he?”

“Word has it that he’s consumed with fortifying his tower.”

“And why is that? Do you know?”

“Protection against the Saxons.”

“You think so?”

“You know otherwise?” Again, Arthur swallows, and, oddly enough, some of the hostility bleeds out of him. He’s still very tense, but the need for information seems to win in the face of his desire to rip this man apart in every way he can, including verbally and with a glare.

As if in recognition of that, the man gives him a small smile. “It started that way. But the tower he wants-it’s far more than that. The place where he’s built it-there are legends told concerning it. And legends told of a great sorcerer connected to it.”

That time Arthur tossed him in the watering trough? This feels about like that. A unpleasant rush of cold water. Because somehow? It’s clear that he’s not talking about an unknown person. He’s giving an explanation-one that Arthur can’t possibly understand, not when he doesn’t know that the sorcerer the man is clearly talking about is a few feet behind him, having been just shoved there by Arthur’s own hand.

“I’m not surprised,” Arthur mutters disdainfully.

The man’s smile widens. “You hate all magic, Prince Arthur?”

“I’ve seen nothing good come of it.”

The room has gotten colder. It has to have; otherwise, Merlin’s just imagining. And he is, isn’t he? Anyway, the man doesn’t seem to feel it: he uncrosses his arms and stands up straight, leaning in toward Arthur. No, it really is just Merlin who feels like he’s been placed out on ice. “Interesting. I suppose you ought to know then, the legends speak of this sorcerer in conjunction with a prince. The Once and Future King.”

One breath. Two. Another. Arthur doesn’t move, but Merlin can’t quite stop moving. His hands open convulsively, and he swallows and swallows and swallows until his throat is too dry to keep at it. Not like this-Arthur can’t find out like this.

He never wanted this. Not this way. “Arthur-“ he tries to say, only it never actually makes it past his lips, dying as a sort of loud breath that no one seems to notice.

They wouldn’t notice, or at least Arthur wouldn’t. When he’s too lost in his own thoughts like this-he’ll never see anything else when he’s too consumed with finally being smacked in the face with things he didn’t want to notice.  God help them, though, he can’t not see it now.

Merlin’s almost tempted to jerk back, retreat a little further into the room. Nothing good can come of the way Arthur has tensed further, blinking a little too rapidly like he does when he faces down his father-hears something he doesn’t like and doesn’t want to accept. “Then you don’t need Merlin.”

Oh, Arthur, no. Blind, and willingly too. Merlin closes his eyes, waiting. Arthur isn’t letting himself see it yet, but it will come. It will.

The man’s laugh whips down Merlin’s spine; he could swear it leaves a welt. “Perhaps, Arthur, in light of the information I’ve given you, you ought to consider why it is that we need both you and your servant.”

“Get out.”

Two minutes ago? Yes. He would have agreed wholeheartedly, but now Arthur isn’t looking at him, and a quick glance confirms that, yeah, Arthur’s hands are shaking. He hides it of course, propping his hands on the doorframe. Whatever his face looks like, Merlin can’t see it, but the tough lines of his back are enough.

Lead Prat gives him a nod. He’s just wrecked a life with no thought to the contrary, and he’s only going to nod and walk away.

Involuntarily, Merlin takes a step backwards.

And it is Arthur, not any of the guards, who slams the door.

“Arthur-“

Arthur remains at the door, hands resting on the wood frame. He used to do this sometimes at his fireplace-just prop his hands on it and lean forward, letting his head hang between his arms. All the times Merlin saw, though, his shoulders never seemed so still. It’s just not Arthur, who is motion, a fight, a sword, but never so still that it doesn’t look as though he’s even breathing. When he’s hunting, maybe, but never when there’s a problem to be faced. Arthur acts, and the fact that he isn’t now….

“Go to bed, Merlin.”

Merlin feels his breath catch, strangled to a stop by surprise. “What?” This isn’t how Arthur deals with things. He yells and storms about, dragging the problem out by the throat. Never, never, does he sit back and consider, temper in check. He might consider, but he’ll damn well be spouting off while he does. But here… he’s just quiet. He won’t even turn around.

“You heard me.”

“Arthur.”

A deep breath has Arthur’s shoulders rising and falling, though it looks more like the chop of an axe when they rush back down as he exhales than it does any sort of release of stress. “You heard me.”

“You can’t-“

“Now, Merlin.”

And what can he do but go? He’s locked alone in a room with Arthur. It’s not like he can leave-it’s not like Arthur can leave. He could keep on after Arthur, yes, but, he can’t help thinking as he kicks off his boots, eyes still lingering on Arthur’s back, if he pushes, it’s a bit like poking a sleeping dragon. Getting incinerated isn’t really all that appealing. And what if this is what Arthur needs? His father is dead, his kingdom conquered, and now his servant outed as a sorcerer. But still, Merlin has to try-

“Let me explain-”

Arthur’s head leans back just a fraction of an inch, jostling his hair so that a few strands fall further back.

When he speaks, it’s not an Arthur Merlin recognizes. Oh, it is, at least to some extent, but it’s not the Arthur he knows. This is the Arthur that sends men to die, who has to watch it happen. This is the man that makes hard decisions, life and death. This isn’t his friend-this is his king.

“Get the candle, Merlin, and go to bed.”

That’s all… but when said like that, it’s quite enough.

Merlin goes.

Every step toward the bed, he holds out waiting for Arthur to just say something. Then, when he draws back the covers, he’s sure it’ll come then… but nothing. His boots drop to the floor, he slides into bed-and nothing at all. He turns over, turns over again, but Arthur is silent, and the only voice Merlin hears is the scratching of the sheets against his clothes.

And, still, Arthur says nothing.

Sleep isn’t quick to come. Too many thoughts chase it off. His eyes follow Arthur, who has finally moved away from the door and gone to stand by the window. He’s silhouetted there, standing, arms crossed in the dark, face lit just well enough that Merlin can see the unforgiving curve of his mouth. If he’d only just say something. He’d always thought the way Arthur flew off in a fit of temper was irritating, but at least then he’d known what he was thinking. When Arthur is like this, Merlin can only guess, and as he shoves his head further into the pillow, he has to admit that the things his mind makes up for him are probably worse than anything Arthur could suggest.

And his mind-it simply won’t shut down. There’s only one bed, and is Arthur going to stay up all night just because he can’t stand what he’s realized? He needs to sleep. They never got dinner either. And what if Arthur hates him? What if, what if, what if….

When Merlin finally falls asleep, Arthur is still at the window.

---------------------------

A faithful sorcerer.

Is there such a thing? Magic has done so many evils, destroyed so much. And, yet, does that mean it’s intrinsically bad? Or only used too often in bad ways?

But, no, that’s not the crux of it.

It doesn’t matter what it’s done in others. This is Merlin. He lied-oh, how he lies, and that just sets Arthur biting down on his hand to stifle the noise rising up in him. It could be a shout of rage, but it could just as well be a sob, and the problem is, he wouldn’t know until it came out. Merlin. Merlin, damn him.

His father, the king, is dead. Leaning in toward the window, Arthur props his forehead against the cool glass, seeing the flash of his blade as he closes his eyes. At least the glass isn’t warm like the blood was. His father dead, Camelot fallen-who knows where anyone else he cares for is? Gwen, left in Camelot. Morgana, a betrayer. She could be anywhere. And now this with Merlin.

The thing is, he had to have known, at least on some level.

Why in the world was Merlin even in Camelot? He could have been killed. No, that’s just-Arthur feels bile rush up in his throat. Merlin is-no, never dead. It’s not right.

Looks like he isn’t planning on executing him. Oh, and he will not laugh at the absurdity of that-of the sheer foolishness of never considering that as an option, simply because he can’t stand to see Merlin die.

Gwen might still be alive. But she might not. And, if she’s not, Arthur has lost everyone. Merlin-it can’t be Merlin too. Even if Gwen were still alive, it’s not the same-he loves her, but it’s different. Merlin is his friend. Merlin he can rail at and laugh with in ways he can’t with Gwen. Just like Gwen can give him things that Merlin can’t. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need Merlin just as much.

Spreading his fingers out on the pane of glass, he… he just gives in, laughing silently-not funny, not funny. He’s got to laugh anyway, though, right? Merlin, stupid Merlin, who drank poison for him and then wanted to do it again after that incident with the unicorn. Merlin, who rides out everywhere with him, no matter how dangerous. Merlin, who brings him his dinner and makes sure he gets a little extra when Arthur has had a particularly bad day or when there is something he’s especially fond of to eat.

Merlin, who is unbearably foolish, it seems.

How long has he been at this window now? He pushes away, sparing only a cursory glance at the ghostly prints the warmth of his hands leaves on the glass. He’s been at the window too long.

Merlin should have left Camelot the second he entered it and saw just what happened to sorcerers. He never should have even entered it to begin with. And he certainly shouldn’t have gone to bed like he was told when the only other man in the room with him has been raised since birth to abhor something that is apparently an inextricable part of Merlin.

But here he is, lying on the bed in front of Arthur, sleeping fitfully. For once, he did what he was told, and, honestly, Arthur really doesn’t want to consider why that is. It’s not because it’s Merlin-that’s for certain. He didn’t just decide to listen to orders all of a sudden, and that really only leaves himself-the idea that something in his tone or manner or… anything told Merlin enough to make him heed, just this once.

Arthur inhales slowly, holding it until it burns, and then some. He watched his father die yesterday. Merlin didn’t magic them out of the situation. Why? Why? And, now-he doesn’t do it now, either. But there’s always a reason, and when has Merlin ever betrayed him?

Leaning down, he puts a hand on the bed. Lie down, the softness seems to murmur. It’s only Merlin. Only Merlin, yes, and so he sits. If Merlin is guilty, then not only is Arthur’s father dead and his friends gone, but he will have lost the last person who he cares about in a way that’s more than duty. Tell him he’s guilty, he can’t stop thinking, but in the end, you’ll just forgive him, and all that yelling will have been because he’s angry with Merlin for lying, not for being a sorcerer. And if he knows that, why fight? Merlin-he needs to be safe in a way that is a necessity and not hopeful planning. Arthur won’t have him getting killed too. And if that’s the case, why attack at something that will only push Merlin away. He needs Merlin close now-distance means danger, and Merlin. Will. Not. Die. His father-he’s already had his father’s blood on his clothes, in his hair, on his face, and looking down at Merlin, he can’t help but think how pale he looks. Like he’s drained of blood already.

No.

Arthur slips into bed. He doesn’t yank the covers away. He doesn’t jostle Merlin. He doesn’t even make a noise. Yet, somehow, when he settles down on the pillow, Merlin’s eyes flutter open.

Merlin doesn’t move. He just lays there in the dark, staring at Arthur with a half-lidded gaze. If he had any instinct at all, he’d be afraid-would expect a knife to his neck, and would certainly never wake so easily upon finding someone who could be his killer slipping into bed with him. But Merlin-he just blinks awake: the sleep fades in the first few seconds, chased away by the rapid expansion and contraction of his pupils, focusing in on Arthur. He’s very awake, but he doesn’t move.

“How long?” Arthur finds himself murmuring.

Merlin blinks. “Since I was born.”

Made of magic then. Merlin would be, just to make things difficult. “All right,” he says, because there’s nothing else to say. And then again, “All right.” They’ll have to talk about it later, but… not now. Maybe not even soon. Not until they can just talk about it, without whatever they’ve got to say being overshadowed and colored by the mess they’re currently in.

“You ought to get some sleep, Arthur.”

Yes. Goodness, yes. How long has it been? “Yeah. I should. So should you.”

“We all right?” Carefully, Merlin tugs the blanket a little further up over his shoulder. Once he has it where he wants it, he curls his fist into it, watching quietly as Arthur arranges his part of the covers to his own liking.

“Yes.”

No answer. There’s answer enough, though, in how Merlin’s face relaxes, jaw slackening as his eyelashes flutter down, ushering in a soft smile. “I only ever used it to protect you,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“I know.” And he does know. He might not have realized that until now, but he does-he does know.

“Please don’t forget that.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “As if I ever could.”

----------------------------

They’re back in the saddle almost before the sun has managed to rise fully. There’s a hint of it on the horizon, casting everything in a sort of soft morning light that Arthur suspects Merlin is accustomed to more than he himself is. At the crack of dawn, isn’t that when Merlin gets up? Turns out, Arthur’s never really asked-he just expects Merlin to have done the things that need to be done by their proper time.

Anyway, if Merlin feels the strain of the early morning, he doesn’t say anything, remaining subdued when his hands are retied and he’s hoisted up on the horse in front of Arthur. There’s more than a little relief in that-in having Merlin in front of him again. In some ways, it’s even more comfortable now than it was yesterday. Sure, words unsaid but still understood don’t actually provide more cushion to the saddle, but they do soften the stress in Merlin’s face, and for the first time since his father died, Arthur feels like he can actually breathe again.

They ride for hours. They’d been given a bit of food before they left the inn, but by the time noon has rolled around, Merlin’s stomach is grumbling, and Arthur isn’t doing much better. Finally, they are given some bread, but there’s not much of it; it barely takes the edge of hunger off. Better than nothing, though, and so Arthur settles back in for the ride, scanning unceasingly for weaknesses in the men around him.

Magic won’t help them. When they’d woken this morning, he and Merlin had passed a few quick words about it, about the suppressed magic. Not much more than that, because talking about it-at least now-didn’t seem right, still doesn’t, and Arthur-right now he just wants to keep Merlin close and safe. It’s his responsibility. Merlin is only here because he stayed in Camelot to help Arthur-these men never would have found him otherwise. So, Arthur’s doing, his responsibility.

And the idea of seeing Merlin die is enough that, responsibility or not, he’ll do everything in his power to prevent it.

A few hours after noon, the ground starts to rise. They’re in a wooded area, thus concealing the terrain ahead, but if Arthur had to bet, he’d guess they’re somewhere near the mountains of Eryri… which means this journey is nearly at an end. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, it’s hard to tell. At least it won’t mean any more days or riding like this, double in the saddle, grabbing naps where he can and for the most part just trying to find any weakness. On the other hand, it means the time when escape is still possible is rapidly closing. It’s always easier to escape when traveling, rather than when they’re stationary. Although Arthur isn’t particularly looking forward to spending time in a cell, said cells are, he has to admit, extremely effective in keeping people where they don’t want to be.

He’d hoped for last night. Honestly, though, two stories up-and all that time he’d spent staring out the window was certainly enough for him to get very familiar with the two guards that had been stationed below it. No doubt there were guards outside the door as well. There had been no escape that way.

No one is this good, though-sometime, they’ve got to make a mistake.

Little by little the trees begin getting shorter, and by the time the sun has begun making long shadows, they’ve disappeared altogether, leaving the group to ascend the slope via a rather rocky mountain path. A few times pebbles go flying out from under the horse’s hooves, and even though Arthur has ridden horses all his life, his heart still beats a little faster when his mount stumbles under him. Being tied to the horse changes things. There will be no easy roll out of harm’s way-if the horse goes down, he’s going with it, as is Merlin.

And then, finally, when he’s beginning to wonder if they really will make it by dark, the trail levels out and they’re left on even ground, staring out onto the surface of a small lake. As high up as they are, there should be wind, but it’s eerily still instead-a lake topped with a pane of liquid glass.

“It used to be underground, you know,” the man says absently, reining in his mount and signaling the other men to do the same. Once they have, he turns toward the lake, staring out across it with a small frown that, if Arthur had to guess, he’d say looks almost like longing. “Vortigern had it uncovered.”

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, because he will not snap, will not lash out at this man. He needs a clear head. Their chances for escape are slipping away, and the angrier he is, the harder it’ll be to capitalize on any of those few chances left.

“Good use of his time,” Merlin mutters from in front of him.

Arthur most decidedly does not smile. Much.

Surprisingly, the man smiles as well, and even if it’s rather hard to see under the layers of weariness in his face, it’s there at least. “And then he built that,” he adds, nodding to a castle about halfway around the lake.

It’s not all that impressive. About the only really characterizing feature is the giant tower attached to it. Still, about five of it could fit inside Camelot’s citadel. And, frankly, the idea of building a castle all the way out here, where the land is sparse and the nearest town is in the foothills-it’s more than somewhat strange. This would be a difficult place to attack, certainly, and if what he’s heard is true, and Vortigern really did cut a deal with the Saxons that they went back on, then he’ll need that advantage. But this-it’s a little like ruling over only the land itself. Oh, he might control the surrounding towns in the foothills and nearby, but for all intents and purposes, it looks very much like he’s hiding away up here.

“Legend has it,” the man begins again, gently nudging his horse forward as the party begins its last leg toward the castle, “that the blood of a sorcerer-a boy with no known father, will make that tower stand against any enemy. But my Lord has heard other stories-there are Druids in this area, did you know? Driven out by your…” he pauses then, raising his eyebrows and looking at Arthur before muttering, “father. They came to hide here.”

Keep your head about you. Emotions can be good-can fuel you, but they can just as easily blind you. A rush of anger will smother your tactics, and he can’t afford that-not now. God help him, though, the way the man looks almost regretful when he glances at Arthur-it’s worse than any sort of gloating possibly could be. He’d said he hadn’t wanted to have things come to this-had wanted to negotiate. But he had still killed Uther in cold blood, and what, then, can he possibly have to be sorry about?

“The Druids,” the man continues on, “told him legends of a king… and of a sorcerer who served him. This king-he was to conquer all of Albion. I’m sure you’ll understand why my Lord found that idea unfavorable.”

In front of Arthur, Merlin shifts, clearly uncomfortable. What? Does he think Arthur is going to object to being told he’ll unite all of Albion? Just for good measure-to make sure Merlin gets the point and realizes how stupid that is-he gives him a light shove with his bound hands. For his part, Merlin just twists a little more, leaning back to bump into Arthur. Beneath them, the horse tosses its head slightly in protest at the movement.

The man, switching his reins to his other hand, gives them a rather disapproving look, but says nothing about it. Neither do any of the guards-in fact, from what Arthur can tell, they’re doing their best to appear to not even be listening. Strange.

“He assumed that, if the blood of the sorcerer would make him invincible, what would the blood of both the sorcerer and his king do? And, as Vortigern’s court sorcerer, I can’t say that I disagree. Blood magic is a powerful thing, and a destiny like the legends say this sorcerer and king have-it could only strengthen it.”

“Two sides of the same coin,” Merlin murmurs.

Arthur jerks his head up. “Excuse me?”

Merlin just shrugs, maybe because, at this point, he feels like he’s got nothing to hide. Whatever the reason, he apparently has no compunctions about explaining in front of Vortigern’s court sorcerer. “It’s what the dragon told me.”

“The dragon? The one under the castle?”

“Yeah. Apparently we’ve got a destiny.”

“You were talking to a dragon,” Arthur replies tonelessly. Not only a dragon, but the dragon-the one under the castle that Arthur has been warned about since before he could walk. Even when he’d gotten old enough to conceivably go see what all the fuss was about, something had just… held him back. No need to quite literally wander into the dragon’s lair, right? But Merlin-apparently he’d just waltzed on down to see the creature and had initiated a nice little chat with it. “Merlin…“

He gets a murmur of assent. Beside them, the man just keeps watching like they’re a particularly fascinating act at the local fair. For once, Arthur can’t quite blame him. This is ridiculous.

“Right. And it told you we’re like two sides of the same coin?”

Merlin shrugs again. “Obviously I’m the brighter side.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The horse jerking forward under them, tugged back into movement by Vortigern’s sorcerer, is enough to shut both of them up. Instinctively, Arthur leans back in the saddle, letting Merlin bump into him for support. After the last few days, it seems likely that riding double will never again feel strange. That’s… not exactly a comforting thought.

“We’re expected,” the man says simply, pushing his hair roughly back out of his face so he can better see the castle that’s drawing closer every moment. “And my Lord does not like to be kept waiting.”

-------------------------

For most of the journey, Merlin has been able to keep his mind off the cuff around his wrist. It’s chafed occasionally, certainly, and the restriction on his magic is like having a chunk of him cut off… but it’s not as though he’s had an opportunity to stop and really try to get it off. Oh, he’s fiddled with it, pulled at it, but it’s pretty clear that it’s not going to be easily removed. Plus, at first, looking at it too much would have drawn Arthur’s attention, though Merlin does privately have to admit that it wasn’t so much about that as it was about being concerned over Arthur. The first day they’d been riding… Arthur hadn’t seemed quite present. Grabbing for swords that weren’t there-it’s not something a man entirely well in the head does. Who could possibly blame him, though? Given what he’d just seen, anything else would have been remarkable.

Now, though-now that Arthur knows about his magic, and now that they’re walking into a situation where some king apparently wants to use that part of him, his magic has started screaming. It’s like when the cuff was first put on-the magic is pushing against his skin, rising up against the metal, trying to expel it. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s always there, and as his magic starts to panic, he can feel himself start to as well.

Every step they take into the castle pushes him a little further. His magic itches, and he turns his head, looking over to see-and, yes, Arthur does look just as strained, at least to someone who knows what to look for. There’s no leisurely grace in his movements-every twitch of a muscle is deliberate, controlled. Everything he passes, he takes it in, studying, calculating.

Once, Merlin had thought Arthur was bragging when he said he was trained to kill from birth. After a few times of seeing him like this, however, he’d gotten the truth of it: Arthur, when he needs to be, is so finely tuned to war that it sinks into him and becomes part of him. Goodness, though, Merlin fears any day when it becomes all of him.

Merlin will never understand it. For him, war is never natural, and any situation like this-it’s something he could never grow used to. He could never be at home on a battlefield-not the way Arthur is.

He is at least able to take in details, though. Arthur may accuse him of being oblivious, but even he has enough sense to notice things like the tapestries and the woodwork. Vortigern, it seems, while he may live almost at the end of the world, does not lack for comforts.

A sharp jab to his shoulder by the palm of a guard is accompanied by a sharp, “Move, boy.” He hadn’t realized he’d slowed down, but apparently he had, and that earns him a sharp look from Arthur, though merely an amused one from the court sorcerer.

Turns out, maybe he wasn’t slowing down, but rather that the party had sped up. Because apparently they’ve reached the throne room. At any rate, they’ve stopped in front of a large set of doors, and the court sorcerer is sorting out his clothes, brushing off the dust and grime of travel as best he can. Pat, pat, pat, and Merlin is willing to bet that stain his hand is hovering over isn’t coming out ever. If Arthur got something like that on his clothes, it’s the sort of thing Merlin wouldn’t even bother trying to remove without magic.

Arthur, on the other hand, tips his head to one side, working the cricks out of his neck. But that’s what he does when… oh, and, yes, there he goes, working his shoulders, loosening them up. Merlin has seen him do it dozens of times… right before a fight.

God only knows what Arthur is expecting.

“Thought your king didn’t like to be kept waiting?” Arthur mocks, lining his words with a sneer and a look that very much says you are beneath me. Under normal circumstances, Merlin might bother to be a little worried at how comforting he finds it that Arthur’s raw, blind anger has been replaced by his usually haughty snarkiness. It’s not like the latter option is a good one… but it is more like the Arthur he’s used to.

Arthur, when ruled by blind anger-he does things like try to kill his father on the hearsay of Morgause. Arthur immersed in his own snark-well, he tends to throw things, give a lot of orders, and mock Merlin far more than anyone’s self-esteem should be able to take. Still, Merlin supposes as he watches Arthur clench his hands, that of the two options, he’ll just have to be longsuffering and bear that bite of Arthur’s rage.

For his part, the court sorcerer merely reaches out, resting his hand on the heavy wooden doors. Oddly, his hands don’t seem hard worked-not a sorcerer doubling as a manservant, then. Absently, Merlin rubs his forefinger against a callus on his thumb. Must be nice to have soft, unworked hands.

“You don’t know what you ask, princeling.”

“I know that if I’m going to face an enemy, there’s no sense in waiting on it.”

A soft snort escapes the man’s nose, and his hands press down harder on the door, arching his knuckles up until his palms nearly cup at the wood. “Vortigern is not your enemy. He could be your ally if you’d let him.”

Right. Because men who kill kings of neighboring kingdoms and kidnap the heirs to the throne are generally looking to make an alliance with said kidnapped heir. They let Arthur sit in his father’s blood-what the hell kind of alliance do they think they can hope for after that?

Arthur seems to be thinking similarly: “The only thing I’ll willingly assist him in is his own death.”

Charming, Arthur. Very charming. And, yet, Merlin feels a shade smug on Arthur’s behalf. Never let it be said that Arthur cowers in the face of adversity.

Unfortunately, the man seems nowhere near as impressed. In fact, he lets out a long sigh, stretching his chest enough to disturb the fabric of his shirt. Even once he exhales, he looks no more settled: if anything, the downturn of his mouth and the whiteness in his knuckles indicate stress. And, though Merlin can’t be sure, something in his manner seems an awful lot like disappointment.

“So be it then. I did offer you an alternative.”

And then he shoves the doors to the throne room open.

Part 4