Pendragon Red (Epilogue)
Title: Pendragon Red (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
“Why here?”
Merlin jerks his head up, tearing his stare away from where he’d settled it on the water of the lake, watching two birds fighting-dipping and diving in a sort of deadly dance-just above the surface. “What?”
Arthur peers over at him with a kind of vexed affection, even if the stress of recent events is relayed in the tension he carries with him. By now he really ought to know that Merlin enjoys watching the wildlife, yet, somehow, it never fails to amuse him. “Why did Vortigern choose to build his castle here?” Arthur elaborates, thinning his lips against the smile that seems to be threatening to sneak its way onto his face.
Merlin doesn’t answer right away, and Arthur, apparently not willing to accept that, pulls his horse up short. One tug has Merlin’s horse stopping as well-not much of a surprise, as Arthur has Merlin’s reins tied to his saddle. Merlin had complained, of course, but you can’t do it properly with only one good hand, Merlin, and that had been the end of the argument: Arthur had taken the reins and tied them to his saddle, ignoring any vaguely protesting noises that Merlin was apt to make. He’d have made a few more, except he’d caught a good look at Arthur’s face, and what he’d seen there-it hadn’t been Arthur’s usual penchant for enjoying ordering around everything in creation. Whatever it was that had been buried there just beneath the surface of his skin, it had radiated a strange kind of need, and Merlin-he hadn’t been able to close his eyes against it. Arthur had needed to make sure he was okay, and there’s no explanation for it, but when hasn’t he done his best to help Arthur?
“Merlin?”
“Same reason he did anything else,” Merlin replies finally. “Prophecy.”
Arthur’s nose wrinkles as he frowns. “Prophecy?”
“You’ve never heard the significance of this place?”
“Should I have?”
Well, no, maybe not, because he’s Arthur. Sighing, Merlin just shrugs. Teasing aside-and taking into account how Arthur always mocks his lack of knowledge, Merlin will certainly be doing some of that later-Arthur would have no reason to. It’s not exactly a place Uther would tell his son about during a bedtime story-if he ever even bothered to give Arthur that sort of attention. Funny, though, because that’s exactly how Merlin learned of it.
“It’s a common story for small children.”
Shifting uncomfortably to the point where the leather of his saddle creaks, Arthur just nods. “All right.”
Which really might as well be him asking not to be made to admit that he never had any of that. And while there are some things that Merlin might be prepared to mock Arthur incessantly for, his childhood isn’t one of them. Topics like that are just off limits, and in light of recent circumstances, any jibes about what Arthur’s father may or may not have done for him would be in terrible taste.
Doesn’t change that someone has to make up for that, though. And, Arthur, though he will never ask for, continues to watch him expectantly, like he can’t figure out why Merlin hasn’t already started.
Times like these, it’s impossible not to find Arthur at least a little bit endearing.
“There were two dragons, one red and one white,” Merlin begins, gripping onto the saddle with his good hand: Arthur will probably begin moving forward again soon. Seconds pass, though, and he doesn’t. He simply remains where he is, eyes fixed expectantly on Merlin. “These dragons were, for many years, concealed beneath a lake-“
“This lake, I presume,” Arthur interrupts, casting a glance out over the water.
He will not reprimand Arthur for interrupting. He. Will. Not. “Yes. But the legends told that, one day, they’d be released.”
“And Vortigern took that seriously?”
Right, and who couldn’t chuckle at that? Anyway, Merlin enjoys the warm vibration of the noise shaking down his spine. If someone had told Arthur these stories as a child, no doubt Arthur would have had the same, skeptical, I-can’t-believe-that face. Or it’s also possible that he may have devised a childish plan by which to investigate the matter for himself, which would have been understandably startling to any nurse he might have had… but, somehow, Merlin can’t quite imagine Arthur at any age not wanting to conquer things.
“Seems he did take it seriously,” Merlin admits, looking over at the castle that’s still only a minute or so ride behind them. “He wouldn’t have built that castle otherwise.”
Arthur just furrows his brow, and though he opens his mouth, he apparently thinks better of whatever he was going to say. After pausing for a moment, he tries again, this time a bit more agreeably, though the small frown smearing his mouth out of place suggests that he still thinks Vortigern more than a little mad. “All right. Go on.”
“When freed, the dragons began to struggle with each other. The fight stretched on and on, and on three different occasions it looked as though the white dragon would be the victor. But then, despite seeming the weaker of the two, the red dragon recovered its strength and drove the white one off.”
“That’s it?” The way Arthur tilts his head, confused and clearly unsatisfied-it’s not so hard for Merlin to imagine that he is telling this story to a young child-one that is engrossed enough in the tale to be displeased when it doesn’t end how he wants. Interesting. He’ll have to remember this for future reference. Maybe tell Arthur a bedtime story the next time he’s acting particularly like a prat-and then he’ll have to duck before Arthur can take aim with any hard objects.
“Not quite. This story was usually told to children who feared they’d be killed by invaders.” Thinking of his own mother, he can’t quite help grinning. She’d always interspersed throughout the narrative noises of the dragons, descriptions of the expressions on the witnesses’ faces, the way the earth shook when a blow was landed. And, somehow, Merlin himself always managed to get worked into the plot at some point or another. When his mother had told it, he’d always been able to fancy that he really might have been there. “And usually it’s longer, but I don’t think you’d appreciate me embellishing it for you quite like my mother did.”
Arthur probably wouldn’t appreciate dragon noises. Who knows, though….
And, no, he’s not grinning at the thought. Really, he’s not.
“So there’s a moral?” Arthur asks, eyeing him warily. It’s probably the grin. Merlin can’t quite blame him.
Honestly, though, it’s hard to resist the urge to slap his forehead. Perhaps it wasn’t that no one had attempted to tell Arthur any stories-it was just that they got fed up while trying. Because Arthur as a toddler? Was probably incorrigible. Worse than now, even. “The red dragon represents Britain, and the white dragon the Saxons. It shows that we will drive them from our lands-and that our lands will no longer be fractured.”
“So, Vortigern uncovered an underground lake because of a children’s story?”
“Seems so.”
“And actually found what the legends said he would?”
Again, Merlin finds himself just shrugging. Beneath him, his horse shifts impatiently, but try as Merlin does-and he’s not trying all that hard, really-he can’t find it in himself to want to move just yet. “He’s not the only one who believed it, Arthur.”
Unsurprisingly, Arthur seems to find that odd, and he lays his reigns across the front of the saddle, crossing his arms rather disagreeably. “Kind of like he believed stories about a king and a sorcerer?”
“Yeah. Kind of like that.” Exactly like that, and considering those stories have sort of smacked Arthur in the face with their veracity, he ought to be a little less skeptical. “And he wasn’t the only one who believed those either.”
“Well,” Arthur mutters, tipping his chin back and looking down his nose at Merlin. So haughty-always so haughty, only this time Merlin is tempted to laugh, because Arthur-he’s missing what’s right in front of him. “They certainly didn’t believe them in Camelot.”
“Oh? You can’t think of anything in Camelot that might have been influenced by either of those legends?”
This time, Merlin gets a scowl. “We haven’t time for this, Merlin. Your hand needs tending, and we need to get back to Camelot. My father-“ No surprise that he falls silent. The pallor that sinks into his skin, though-it might as well be a spark lighting a fire: sympathy burns up through Merlin until he can feel it aching all over him.
The recent past is not so forgotten. In the castle behind them there are scattered a baker’s dozen bodies. Uther is dead. Glancing down at his own hand, Merlin has to admit that he didn’t make out too well either. But Vortigern, mad as he might have been, wrong as he certainly was, had scraps of truth… and Arthur needs to see them, even if the memory of this entire situation is tantamount to gravel between the teeth.
In a case like this, though, it may be far easier to simply show Arthur rather than try to talk him through it. Prat that he is-and, all right, also the legendary king he’ll become-his listening skills leave a lot to be desired.
“Merlin-“
No better way to tell him to shut up than to just turn his back on Arthur. Predictably, that earns him a low noise of displeasure and then a more irritated drawling of his name-even that turns sharper and increasingly more annoyed the longer Merlin ignores it, but it’s not like this is the first time he’s failed to heed Arthur. And what he has to show--this needs to be seen.
Raising his hands, Merlin focuses in on the front wall of the castle they have just left. The stone there is heavily set, very solid, with no signs of deterioration. No better place than that. In all the ways that matter, it’s entirely fitting.
His horse sidesteps under him nervously when he whispers out the words, but Arthur, in a quick moment of sudden understanding, steadies it. Good thing he does too, because when Merlin finishes speaking and the front of the castle catches flame, the horse fidgets even more, tossing its head nervously.
“Merlin-“
“Just look, Arthur.”
Silence. How glorious that sounds. Arthur Pendragon, speechless. Merlin can feel himself grinning-he could feel it even if he were paralyzed. Arthur can’t find words. Clearly, this is what satisfaction feels like.
And, in addition, it feels pretty darn good to know that Arthur is finally seeing what he needs to see.
“Just because Uther didn’t believe the legend,” Merlin says finally, chancing a glance over toward Arthur. And, yes, he’s sitting there, mouth half open, staring fixedly at the castle. “Doesn’t mean your ancestors didn’t.”
Because, obviously, they did.
There, burned into the front of the castle, is the Pendragon emblem. That is, a red dragon, placed there for Pendragon. Shows how much pride Uther had that he kept the emblem and the name, even after he’d eradicated any trace of magic-including dragons-from the kingdom. Not that Merlin would ever say that to Arthur. Nothing would be gained from it-let Arthur have his good memories of his father to outweigh the end.
“You… burned my symbol onto the castle,” Arthur says finally, a little stupidly.
Merlin’s grin widens. “Yup.” He did a pretty good job too. He got just the right shade of red, kind of like fire on the gray of the stone, and even though the emblem has no telling texture, there’s an almost lifelike quality to it. Anyone who comes across this castle will probably take a few moments to seriously consider whether or not they want to enter.
“That story? That’s where my emblem came from?”
“I think you’re missing the point, Arthur.”
And to think he was worried about Arthur-if he can still scowl so imperiously, clearly some of what the last few days has wrought is settling. Not healing quite yet-it’s too fresh for that, and no doubt it will scar even when it does heal. There will be nightmares, bouts of guilt-Arthur, for someone so prideful, is oddly given to those-and it really couldn’t be any other way when Arthur saw his father killed in front of him. He was covered by Uther’s blood, abducted by Uther’s killer, and Merlin, swallowing down the guilt that is his own-because he should never have been something Arthur had to worry for-has to admit that it couldn’t have helped Arthur to see him nearly die. No, those things are inextricably a part of Arthur now. But… that doesn’t mean he has been altered for the worse. He’ll be all right.
And he’ll be king.
The kind of king that deserves to have an emblem like that.
“Oh? I’m missing the point? Enlighten me then,” Arthur snaps in a tone that very much indicates that, while he does want to know, he hates having to ask.
And Merlin very decidedly does not wait even a few seconds longer than necessary, just to irritate him further. Not at all. “The red dragon. It drives out the white one. It unites the land.”
“That-“ He stops, frowning. “Vortigern--he wasn’t entirely wrong. It’s a child’s tale. But it’s… true?”
“I think, Arthur, that you’ll make it true.”
Arthur doesn’t show vulnerability very often. But when he does, it’s worth seeing, not because Merlin wants him open to hurt, but because it makes Arthur seem so startlingly human. And human, for Arthur, is a man who cares. “I’m not ready to be king,” he admits slowly, turning his head away from Merlin.
“I think you are.”
“And what would you know about it?” he mutters, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably.
“I don’t know about it. But I know about you. And I know you’ll meet whatever faces you… and Arthur-losing isn’t something you do often or well.” Even with his head mostly turned away, Arthur’s smug little smile is detectable. “You do what needs to be done, for yourself and for others. Haven’t the past few days proved that much to you at least?”
At first, Arthur gives no answer. The moments slide by-perhaps he won’t give one at all. The wind is picking up, though, and Merlin pulls his jacket up a little more firmly around his ears. He’ll wait for whatever Arthur has to say… or he’ll wait until Arthur is ready to go.
As it turns out, he’s met with the former.
“You have that much faith in a legend?” Arthur asks, breaking the silence. His face is still turned away, but, slowly, by minute inches, he looks back, eyeing Merlin, first out of the corner of his eye, but then, because he’s Arthur and he just can’t stand not to properly face anything down-even his own insecurities-he looks Merlin straight in the face.
Merlin makes no move to turn away. “When I can see it playing out in front of me? Yeah, I guess I do.”
And Arthur just smiles. There’s still an ache to it-probably will be for a while, but for Merlin-and he can’t quite turn away-there’s strength to it. Just a lopsided, easy grin, almost mocking, like Merlin, you fool, you believe in bedtime stories. But from the way Arthur looks at him, it’s obvious he’s pleased about it, and no matter what he says, there’s something in that smile that says he might just believe it too.
“I don’t care what destiny says, you know,” he says eventually. “You’re still going to polish my armor. More often now than ever, actually-I don’t appreciate being lied to.” He shoots Merlin a last pointed look-the kind that promises more discussion, and it’s not as though Merlin didn’t know Arthur was going to press for details about his magic-about all the lies surrounding it-but it’s not exactly a pleasant knowledge.
Merlin wets his lips. Not nervous. Not much. Just… all right, maybe a bit. “I-“
“Not now, Merlin,” Arthur snips, rolling his eyes.
Right. Seems that closes the issue for the moment-and Merlin can respect that, can be thankful for it, for Arthur letting the issue sit until things have smoothed back into something where the shocks and lingering emotions of the last few days won’t influence the discussion they’ll inevitably need to have.
For now, it’s just time to go home. They’ll fix the rest later.
Raising his chin-prat’s just pleased he got what he wanted while still getting his point across-Arthur settles back deep into the saddle; he takes up his reigns as though he can’t conceive of why he dropped them to begin with, and kicks his horse forward. Merlin’s horse, attached, goes with him, and if Merlin looks back over his shoulder, gazing at the emblem burned into the building, even as the building grows smaller and small in the distance, well, that’s his affair.
Even when they start down the mountain and the picture disappears behind the skyline, the image remains burned into Merlin’s vision. Funny, though, how when he pictures the dragon, it’s not up on a castle, but rather moving on a shield in battle, glinting against the sunlight as Arthur blocks a blow. It’s in that stupid servant’s livery he sometimes has to wear. It’s the stitching on every cloak of the knights of Camelot.
It might as well be Arthur himself.
Watching the man in question, Merlin settles further back into his saddle. It’s not worn to fit him like the one he usually uses, but, then, a lot about this situation is new, untried, just like the leather. Maybe he could say this is a new beginning… but, really, this is something that started ages ago. There’s nothing new about it. And prophecy, legend-it’s all the same, all just a concept that seems like nothing at all when he glances up at Arthur’s back. So what if what they’ll end up doing is written and foretold? Even if it weren’t, this is Arthur, and this is him, and that’s enough to make it real, written or not.
Anyway, what’s been said about them before doesn’t matter: it’s what will be said about them in the future. Prophecy will become history, and already, Merlin can see a little of the Once and Future… in both of them.
Squeezing his legs against his horse’s sides, he urges it forward a little faster, up next to Arthur.
Arthur doesn’t look at him. But he smiles.
And Merlin grins back.
END