Chapter Text
"It's not a Wyvern."
Arthur raised his eyebrow.
"And how would you know that, Merlin?"
There was a coldness in his voice, a sharpness that didn't use to be there. It had happened gradually, one snap at a time, until their rhythm had been lost to noise, and their mornings started in silence.
"It's a dragon." Merlin replied.
It hurt, the way Arthur sighed, the tiredness and impatience entirely unconcealed. He was fed up with the not-knowing, the misdirection. He'd screamed as such at him once, drunk off his mind on a cold night. He had changed, after he lost his father. He laughed less, fought harder, became angrier.
More than anything, Merlin wished he could help. Most nights, he got lost in dreams in which he offered comfort, in which he heard that wheezing sound that reminded him of a screeching cat, the one that Arthur only made when he laughed so hard he couldn't breathe. He loved that man. More deeply and more intensely than anything, Merlin burned with the love he had for him.
It sat heavy within him, the knowledge that the only thing Arthur would want from him, the only thing he couldn't give him, was the truth. He could see it in his face when Arthur looked at him, and his features contorted, but he held back from being cruel, never asked him to go.
Once, Arthur had confided in him that he was afraid of being alone. He'd spoken it softly in the silent room as Merlin tidied some shirts, letting Merlin hear his confession without ever looking at him. That night, Merlin had taken extra long to complete meaningless tasks in the dark, not leaving the chambers until Arthur's breathing changed, and he knew he'd fallen asleep.
So he wouldn't leave. Not unless he was ordered to. For as long as Arthur tolerated him, he'd stand by his side, because the alternative seemed simply unbearable. He couldn't leave him unprotected, obviously, but if he was being honest, he couldn't leave him at all.
Arthur rubbed his eyes, letting the papers in his hands join the mess of half-forgotten documents on his desk.
"The Dragon is dead, and even if it wasn't, the reports describe a much smaller creature." The King said, examining the servant opposite of him.
Merlin took a deep breath. It was the way Arthur blinked and his eyelids were late to open again that pushed him over the edge. The king was so full of sadness he was about to burst from it, and the warlock couldn't stand it. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing, but he was doing what Arthur had taught him: being brave, being honest. He took extra care to plant his feet firmly on the ground, and tried to steady his voice.
"I'm a dragon lord." He declared.
It was strange. Merlin had thought he was an expert on fear, until that moment. His heart beat so hard he thought it might take flight, and he felt like vomiting, as he realized he'd never been afraid of death. Not really. Not nearly as much as life without Arthur.
The King looked confused, unsteady.
"What?"
"I have been lying to you, sire, about so much. But you need to know."
"You're a dragon lord." Arthur repeated, almost amused. He didn't believe him.
"I am."
"How?" Arthur asked.
"Balinor was my father." Merlin explained, and willed his body to stop shaking.
Arthur stood from behind the desk, moving closer to Merlin. He watched him for a moment, and any hint of amusement, even bitter, faded away.
"You're being serious."
"Deadly."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was already lost too deep in the lies."
Arthur's face fell. Merlin just couldn't seem to stop hurting him. He vowed to himself that would be the last time.
"I don't want to lie to you anymore, sire. I'll tell you everything. Just let me. Please, let me tell you everything, and then you can throw me in the dungeons or run me through yourself, I don't care."
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it again when he caught the look in Merlin's eyes.
"Okay, then." He agreed. "Sit down."
The men took a seat on opposite ends of the large table, and Arthur gestured to Merlin to begin his explanation.
"Your father kept the last dragon chained beneath Camelot for years. When he broke free and attacked Camelot, you didn't kill him. You couldn't have, not while he was so angry. I sent him away, made sure he would never be a threat to the Kingdom."
To his credit, Arthur remained silent, even as his eyes widened at the revelation, and the muscles in his face tensed.
Merlin continued. "Kilgharrah, the dragon, is old, and even creatures of magic die eventually. He was the last of his kind, and I was the last dragon lord. Then, I heard of a dragon egg hidden in Camelot's treasury. I... Stole it, and hatched it. It was a white dragon, exceptionally rare, and incredibly beautiful. Her name is Aithusa."
He resisted the urge to remind Arthur to breathe.
"Somehow, she was found by Morgana, and adopted by her, until they were both imprisoned in a well for two years. She grew disfigured, and she never learned to speak, or where to feed from."
"Dragons speak?!"
"In riddles, in my experience, but yes, they do."
"You mean to tell me you've talked to the dragon?"
"I wish I hadn't."
It was true some of the time. He blamed Kilgharrah for throwing him into a losing battle with destiny unprepared, for never offering any real help, for taking his revenge on innocent people. Still, no creature deserved to know what it feels like to be the last of your kind, to be hunted and chained in the dark for years, entirely alone. Kilgharrah was old and bitter, manipulative, angry. Merlin couldn't help but imagine he hadn't always been that way.
"What did it tell you?" Arthur asked, openly curious.
"He spoke to me often when he was still in Camelot. He spoke of the past, of Camelot's dark history, but mostly he spoke of the future. There is a prophecy, you know, about you."
"What prophecy?"
"You are to bring Albion's golden age. You are to unite the land under your rule and bring back magic."
At that, Merlin stopped, and only watched. Arthur shook his head the smallest amount at the sound of the last part of the prophecy, looking to the ceiling. He was troubled, frustrated.
"You believe the lies of such a creature?" He asked finally, voice weak.
"The prophecy is ancient. It existed far before the dragon did. And I believe it. I believe in you, sire."
"You want me to allow magic into the kingdom?"
"I do."
"Why? You've seen how it corrupts, what it can do. Why would I encourage it's use?"
"Because you understand it is but a tool in the hands of men. Hunt people down like they're monsters, and those who survive will become one. Believe me."
"Magic killed my mother! My father did what was best, and then it killed him too." Arthur snapped, leaning forward on the table. A threat, or a plead for Merlin to stop. He didn't look threatening. He looked scared. Defending his father was an instinct, the only choice he'd ever known.
"He was wrong."
"You forget, Merlin. You are speaking to your King. You shouldn't dare criticize the laws my father put in place, the laws of my Kingdom."
You're a servant. That's it. Don't you forget that.
Disrespect me again and I'll have you spend a week in the stocks.
No one asked for a servant's opinion, Merlin.
I'm not your friend. I'm your King.
Within a year, Arthur had became cruel in his defence. He cut people on the barbed wire he caged his heart with, and made sure he was never close enough to see it. Not too long ago, he led with kindness he held onto despite his upbringing, humble in his arrogance, and always merciful. He had valued Merlin once, as a friend, as a confidant, in spite of his position. Now, his crown tipped the scale, no company as valuable as it. The prince that risked his life for a servant had grown into a King, and Merlin was left with no choice but to hold back the insults, to address him with "sire", and "my lord", and pretend it didn't hurt to have known him different.
He hardly had any idea what to expect of the prince. He never let himself imagine it. It felt too close to free falling off of a cliff into the dark. Now, stood opposite of a King, he felt even more unsure.
"I've done much worse than that." He breathed out.
"And that was my mistake. I allowed-"
"Arthur." He cut him off . "I have magic." He couldn't control the way his voice shook. "I am made of it."
Arthur stood abruptly, the chair dragging on the floor. He didn't see it happen, but Arthur's sword was in his hand, and he aimed it towards the servant.
"Who are you."
"It's me. I've always had magic. I've used it only for you, for the kingdom."
"You are not my servant." He growled.
Merlin lifted his hands in front of him in surrender. "You got stung by a bee on your behind last month. You think pale blue looks best on you. You didn't pick the flowers you gave Gwen. It's me, Arthur, I promise."
"As if that means anything!" He exclaimed, advancing towards him swiftly, until the blade almost pierced his skin, the only barrier between them the thin fabric of his tunic.
Merlin remained seated, calm, even as tears gathered in his eyes. He couldn't afford to let them fall, not now. He still had things to say, confessions to make.
"Ask me why." He rasped out, feeling the point of the sword digging into his chest as he breathed in.
"Why." The king growled.
"Because you are worth dying for. So kill me if you must, but let it not be in vain. Hear me."
Strangely, the thought of dying by Arthur's hand brought him some comfort. If he were to die, he thought it just that it be by the one he was born to serve, so that his death may serve him too. But Merlin was unafraid, even as he watched the rage drown those beautiful blue eyes, as the hand he'd cared for so many times held him firmly in the swords way by his shoulder. If he knew anything, he knew Arthur didn't want to kill him. Not like this, without honour, without trial.
The sword clattered against the ground where Arthur threw it, and the grip on Merlin's shoulder eased.
"Not one more lie. Tell me everything." The king commanded.
Merlin obliged.