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merlin_holidaysTitle: Bound to Serve
Recipient:poetryofearth
Author:piscaria
Rating: PG
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~12k
Warnings: War-time violence involving dragons
Summary: When he accidentally reveals himself to be a Dragonlord, Merlin is drafted into the service of Camelot’s Royal Dragon Force.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to J., E.B., and D.D.M. for their help and encouragement while beta’ing this story.
Based on this prompt: Modern AU where dragons roam free and kingdoms fight using dragons combined with modern warfare.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
When the first shadow drifted over the crowd of protesters, Merlin barely noticed. His attention was focused on the woman standing on the make-shift platform in front of the crowd. The afternoon sun caught the auburn highlights in her long, dark hair, and in the light, her golden eyes blazed in anger, even as her voice sailed from the platform and over the heads of the protesters, propelled by the microphone gripped in one perfectly-manicured hand.
“We are not criminals!” she yelled, and Merlin, like the other protesters, cheered and stamped in agreement. “We are lawful citizens of Camelot, and we demand to be treated with dignity and respect!”
All around Merlin, heads were nodding—among them, he was glad to see several sets of brown, blue, or green eyes amongst the ubiquitous gold of the magicians. They’d come, of course, to see Morgana, resplendent in a frock of ruby silk, and draped in a coat that probably cost more than Merlin paid in rent every year.
When the Lady Morgana had disappeared from the public eye last spring, amidst a flurry of tabloid photos and a tersely worded press announcement from the Citadel, only to reappear months later with a Binding tattoo and her eyes shining golden, Merlin, like the rest of the magical community, had shaken his head. As the King’s ward, Morgana could have championed their cause. Instead, like so many other magic users born into positions of privilege, she had hidden her powers, at least until the tabloid scandal hit: photos of Morgana leaning in to embrace known sorceress, Morgause Gorlois, followed by an investigative report proving that the two were sisters. But though it had taken a scandal for Morgana to openly oppose the king and join the campaign for magical rights, Merlin had to admit that she’d done wonders to re-focus national attention on their cause. Several videophones were held above the crowd. With luck, Morgana’s speech would be up on YouTube before the afternoon ended.
“I think this is the biggest turnout we’ve had,” Freya said to him, her voice raised to carry over the crowd.
“I know!” Merlin yelled back at her. “Isn’t it great?” Then he caught sight of a second shadow, larger this time, dark wings falling over the cheering crowd, then drifting away. Merlin’s smile faded.
Shielding his hands with his eyes, he lifted onto his tiptoes, searching the sky above them until he picked out two shapes moving through the clouds. They were small still, but growing steadily larger as they approached. Merlin reached inside himself, finding the wellspring of magic that he’d always been able to draw on. A fraction of it was hampered, raging against the curse bound into the dark ink of the tattoo that spiraled over Merlin’s heart. Most magic users couldn’t access their powers at all once they’d been Bound — Merlin didn’t know why he could, but at moments like this, he was grateful for it. He fed a string of magic into his vision, until he could see the shapes moving through the clouds as easily as he could through a pair of binoculars.
Two dragons, a red and a white. They wore the gleaming emblem of Camelot on their armored breastplates, and their backs were packed with soldiers carrying rifles.
“Dragons!” he shouted, jumping up and waving his hands to draw attention away from Morgana. “The knights are coming! Everybody run!”
Those nearest to him looked up reflexively, and several took up his cry. In moments, the protest descended into chaos, cardboard signs falling to the ground and people jostling in every direction as they tried to run, but found themselves hemmed in by the crowd. One of the dragons swooped lower, its red belly gleaming in the sunlight, and somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. Near Merlin, a child began to sob as his mother snatched him up, and his teddy bear fell to the ground. Merlin felt his stomach clench in terror. He’d seen dragons passing overhead, watched their massive shadows overlap his. Yet from the sky, he’d never gotten a true sense of the magnitude of the beasts. In size, the red dragon easily surpassed any of the buses on the street.
“They won’t really attack us, will they?” Freya asked as they tried to push away from the platform. Her pretty face had gone pale with fear, and her fingers trembled where she’d caught hold of Merlin’s wrist so they wouldn’t lose each other in the pandemonium.
“Uther’s done it before,” Merlin said grimly, spotting an opening in the mass of bodies and tugging Freya towards it. His own father had disappeared in a protest much like this, when Merlin was still a baby. His mum still kept his photo on the mantelpiece: Balinor standing golden-eyed and smiling before a crowd of protesters, his dark hair brushing the shoulder seams of his tie-dyed shirt, and his arms raised high above his head, holding a cardboard sign that read, “Magic should be free.”
The red dragon swooped low over their heads, each flap of its enormous wings ruffling their hair. On its back, a knight spoke through a microphone.
“This is an illegal gathering! Clear the square, by order of the king.”
The crowd was thinning out, those along the fringes scattering as best they could. But those in the middle could hardly move, and some seemed set on not moving at all. To Merlin’s left, a group of students had taken hands, standing in a defiant circle. Their faces were grim with fear as they looked up at the dragons, but determined nonetheless.
On the white dragon’s back, the knights were having a hurried conference. One of them shouted an order. The dragon circled overhead, then dived straight toward the group of students.
“Oh God,” Freya whispered. “It’s going to —”
The dragon drew in a deep breath, and Merlin saw the blue light of flame flaring up in its throat.
Before he realized what he was doing, Merlin was leaping forward, crying out, “No! Don’t!” At least, that’s what he meant to cry. But the words that rolled out of him pulsed like thunder in a language that he’d never heard, but which, in the dragon’s presence, suddenly seemed as instinctive as breathing.
Merlin threw back his head and roared, “Dracan! Nán dyd élc áciere miss! Eftsídas eom ála cræt! Géate stær ábére gárrés. Géate cyre. Mé tácen átende diegollice!”
Freya was staring at him, her gold eyes wide with shock. Around him, others had turned, startled by the sound of his voice. And the dragon . . . the dragon turned his head at the last moment, and the flames shot towards one of the glass display windows of a nearby storefront. The window blistered and crackled under the heat, but nobody had been hurt. The white dragon drifted down, ignoring the crowd of scattering protesters, and settled on the concrete before Merlin, bowing its head low. A moment later, the red one followed suit.
On the platforms strapped to the dragons’ immense backs, the knights gaped at Merlin. Then, as one, they rose, unbuckling their harness belts and swinging down from canvas harness straps. Merlin backed away as they started toward him.
“You there!” the leader of the group shouted. “Dragonlord! I demand that you surrender, by decree of the laws of Camelot!”
Merlin stared at him, then dumbfounded, at the dragons still groveling before him. “I’m not a —” he started. A sudden sting in his side stopped the words, and he stared down to see the rubber tip of a dart protruding from his blue jumper. Merlin staggered and fell.
* * *
Merlin woke to a roar that pounded through his aching head, making him want to huddle in on himself, to muffle his ears and possibly be sick. Only when he tried to lift his hands to block the sound did he realize they were bound behind his back. Sensation flooded back to him, and he groaned at the stiff muscles in his arms, the raw sores on his wrists where the handcuffs cut into them, the press of vinyl against his cheek, and the cottony dryness of his mouth. Inside, his magic shifted numb and sluggish. Merlin knew that in a few minutes it would start prickling at him, like the pins and needles sensation of a foot that’s fallen asleep.
Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the inside of a helicopter, filled with panels and dangerous-looking machines. Through his peripheral vision, he saw the muscular thigh of a man sitting on the vinyl bench beside him. Two other men sat in the bucket seats up front. All three wore the black and red uniforms of the Knights of Camelot.
All at once, Merlin remembered the protest.
“He’s coming to!” one of the knights said.
Merlin tried to catch his balance, to sit up. The world spun sickeningly around him, and he slumped back down, breathing heavily.
“Don’t move,” the knight said, sounding almost sympathetic. He was handsome, Merlin noted dully, with an aquiline nose and a sweep of dark hair. “We gave you a sedative. I hear it’s hell on magic users.”
Merlin slumped back against the seat, wanting to cry. The helicopter’s roar still sounded in his ears. For a moment, he wondered why they’d bothered with a helicopter at all, when they had dragons at their disposal. Then he remembered the way he’d called the dragons to stop, and supposed that the knights wanted to take no chances. What had they called him? Dragonlord?
“There’s been a mistake,” he tried to say, but his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.
For a second, he thought of trying magic, but even if he could manage a spell while drugged, it might not do any good. He could knock out the knights, maybe, but he’d still be stranded in a helicopter, high in the air. Merlin had never been able to bend technology to his will. His gift was for organic things, for water, for earth, for fire, for air. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to land a helicopter, magically or otherwise, and drugged, he didn’t trust himself even to break a fall. He tried to think, to come up with a plan, but his thoughts felt as strange and distant as his magic. Finally, he let his head loll back against the vinyl bench, tired even of thinking. Maybe it was better not to do anything. They might go easier on him if he cooperated.
Not that it had worked for his father.
When the helicopter landed with a bump in the citadel’s courtyard, Merlin only hugged himself more tightly, resting his head on the knees he’d managed to pull up to his chest. The knight sitting beside him reached for his elbow and hauled him to his feet, though not as roughly as he might have.
“We’re here, Warlock.”
Weak and dizzy from the sedative, Merlin let himself be manhandled down the helicopter stairs and across the courtyard into the citadel, the dark-haired knight still gripping his elbow, the other two taking positions before and behind him. Once inside, the trio of knights paused before an elevator door set into the stone wall. They herded Merlin inside, and the knight at the front of the group punched one of the buttons.
“D3” flashed the electronic panel. And then, “Authorization Required.”
The knight lifted the dragon-emblazoned badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck and swiped it through the scanner set in the elevator wall. As the elevator doors began to close, Merlin thought about forcing them open and breaking free. But he was still weak from the sedative, and he didn’t know where to go. The citadel was crawling with guards. Besides, the knights were giving him shifty-eyed looks, their hands lingering over the guns at their hips. Resigned, Merlin allowed the elevator to carry them into the depths of the citadel.
From the stories he’d heard, Merlin half expected Uther Pendragon’s dungeon to be a dank, dark pit, heaped high with dirty straw and crawling with fleas and rats. But the elevator doors slid open to reveal a bright cell gleaming with mirrored walls. In their surface, Merlin caught sight of his own face, pale beneath the florid bruise covering one cheek, his mouth and chin crusted with blood from a split lip, eyes blazing golden.
The dark-haired knight who’d spoken to Merlin on the helicopter tapped the golden Pendragon emblem pinned to his chest, and his communicator badge chirped to life. “We have the Dragonlord in custody, Sire,” he said.
“Excellent work, Sir Gwaine,” a new voice spoke through it. “I’ll be there shortly.”
The knights pricked to attention as footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the hands on Merlin’s arms and shoulders tightened, pushing him down to his knees. Still dizzy from the sedative, and with his hands bound behind his back, he fell hard, kneecaps crashing painfully against the stone floor. The door slid open, and Merlin caught a glimpse of expensive leather boots, studded with golden buckles, a heavy, leather coat swinging around the wearer’s ankles. The man stepped forward, then leaned over Merlin, peering into his face.
Merlin caught a glimpse of blue eyes, startlingly bright. He blinked, fighting vertigo. It seemed the world yawned open around him. For a second, Merlin glimpsed the same face, but panicked, mouth stretched in horror.
“No!” he was screaming, lunging forward. His hand reached for Merlin, but too late. Merlin felt his limbs growing stiff and heavy as he sank down, down into the stone and the cradling arms of the earth.
The sword fell to the grass between them, unheeded.
Merlin’s world gave way to solid rock, while the man above him roared in frustration.
Merlin blinked, shaking his head to clear it, and found himself staring up into the face of Prince Arthur Pendragon. Like the rest of Camelot, Merlin had watched Arthur grow from a tanned and muscular youth with the boyish good looks who had graced every magazine cover in Albion, to the somber and capable commander of the Royal Dragon Force. Merlin recognized his face from hundreds of news clips and interviews, the mouth pinched and sullen, the blue eyes dark with fatigue since Morgana’s disinheritance. What Merlin wasn’t prepared for, though, was the sudden flash of recognition that flickered across Arthur’s weary expression, slamming through Merlin’s heart like a bolt of lightning as his sluggish magic quickened. Merlin felt himself rock back from the force, and wondered, for a moment, if Arthur, too, might sense it. His eyes were so wide.
“Merlin?” Arthur asked, a near plaintive note in his voice. Then he frowned and shook his head, his gaze hardening. “Merlin Emrys?” he asked, more firmly.
Merlin glared up at him. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I didn’t say you had.” Arthur caught Gwaine’s eye, and jerked his chin towards Merlin’s handcuffs. “Release him.”
“Your majesty,” one of the other knights broke in. “I’m not sure —”
“Release him,” Arthur repeated. “I’ll take full responsibility.
Merlin hissed out a breath of relief as the handcuffs were snapped off. Rubbing his sore wrist, he staggered to his feet, eyeing Arthur warily. Part of him wondered if he was in for a game of good cop, bad cop. But Arthur was looking at him strangely. As Merlin watched, an expression of uncertainty flickered over his face, before it was replaced by the assured air that Merlin recognized from the news.
“You’re a warlock,” Arthur said. He didn’t sound accusing, exactly, but Merlin bristled all the same.
“I’m registered and Bound!”
“I know,” Arthur said. “I pulled your file. Interestingly enough though, nowhere did it mention that you were also a Dragonlord.”
“That’s because I’m not one!”
Arthur gazed at him steadily.
Merlin sputtered. “Look, I don’t know what happened in the square this afternoon. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
Arthur shrugged, glancing down at the file in his hand. “It says here that you do data entry. I’m sure you don’t interact with many dragons in your work.”
“Whatever happened at the protest this afternoon, it was a fluke! This is all a mistake!” Merlin protested. “I didn’t lie, I swear it! You can’t just arrest me --”
“Oh, I can,” Arthur assured him. “Failing to report a magical talent is a crime, Merlin. Surely you know that.” Arthur lifted a hand to forestall his argument. “But you can relax,” he added. “This isn’t an arrest.”
Merlin looked pointedly at the handcuffs, still dangling from Gwaine’s hand. Arthur shrugged, looking momentarily uncomfortable.
“You seized control of two military dragons,” he said. “With their Dragonlords aboard. You can’t blame us for taking every precaution. Nonetheless,” he said, straightening, “you should feel grateful that you are not in trouble with the law.” He didn’t add “yet,” but Merlin could hear it in his voice.
“What do you want?” Merlin asked with a sinking heart.
Arthur stepped forward, lifting his chin. “Merlin Emrys,” he said. “I am calling you into the king’s service, under section six of the magical enforcement code.”
Merlin gaped him. “You have got to be joking. I’m not going to fight for you!”
“Why not?” Arthur said. “This is your kingdom, after all. We are at war with Mercia, and war requires us to all make sacrifices. Any law abiding citizen would jump at the chance to serve the king.”
“My kingdom?” Merlin said. “If this were my kingdom, I wouldn’t have been dragged in and bound when I was ten years old! I could live wherever I wanted, and I could get a decent job because nobody would care if they had a warlock in their office! If this were my kingdom, my father would still be alive! Why should I serve a king who barely tolerates my kind?”
Arthur’s eyes had widened during Merlin’s tirade, but as Merlin watched, he composed himself once more. “The king has taken the necessary steps to protect the kingdom from magical terrorism,” he said stiffly. “It’s not your place to question his decisions. As I said, we must all make sacrifices during war.”
“I don’t see you making any sacrifices,” Merlin muttered. He knew without a doubt that Arthur Pendragon had never wondered whether he should wear shades on a rainy day to keep from being harassed on the tube. Arthur, as a child, never had a stranger spit in his face and snarl, “Fucking warlocks! They should all be drowned at birth.” Certainly, Arthur would never have had to endure such abuse in silence, with his mother’s hand around his shoulder and her voice a panicked whisper in his ear, begging, “Don’t, Merlin!” when he reached for his magic.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I risk my life every day for this kingdom and its people,” he snapped. “Even the ones who don’t appreciate it. So does every man and woman in the army. It is an honour to fly with the dragons. It’s an honour to serve Camelot.”
"An honour," Merlin snorted. "The dragons barely tolerate you lot. If they did, you wouldn't need Dragonlords.”
"The dragons understand that it's safer for them to be accommodating," Arthur countered. "These are hardly the middle ages. If we rise up against the dragons, it won't be with swords. They're outgunned and they know it. This is the most humane option."
"Humane," Merlin sniffed. "Like butchering is ever humane. If I hadn’t stopped them, your knights would have roasted that entire crowd of protesters."
“We were only going to fire above their heads!” Gwaine protested. Arthur and Merlin both glared at him.
“Those under my command have worked hard to be in their positions,” Arthur said, voice dangerously low. “Some men and women will spend their entire lives working for the RDF without once getting a chance to go dragonback. Believe me, I would not be offering this opportunity to you if there weren’t the direst need.”
“This isn’t an offer,” Merlin scoffed. “If it were an offer, I could refuse.”
“I’m giving you a chance to save hundreds of lives!”
“By killing others!” Merlin snapped. “I won’t do it. I’d rather die.”
Arthur sighed. “I can see I’m not going to convince you."
“That’s right,” Merlin said, crossing his arms.
Arthur nodded to one of the knights. “Bring in the other prisoner.”
The knight left, only to return moments later, leading two of the citadel guards behind them. They held a man between them. The prisoner’s golden eyes betrayed him for a warlock, as did the black spiraling tip of a Binding tattoo just peeking above the low collar of his v-necked t-shirt. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to Merlin, and he frowned, wondering if they’d met. Yet the prisoner was clearly a soldier. His greying dark hair was cropped short, in the military style, and he wore black utility trousers and combat boots, a Pendragon-red t-shirt, and a heavy leather draciator’s jacket, emblazoned with the golden badge of the RDF. A Dragonlord, then.
Merlin’s stomach clenched, and he scowled, certain now that he’d never met this man. He’d have remembered a Dragonlord. It was bad enough that magic users were forced into designated housing and bound with the spiral tattoos that kept their magic constantly fighting off the curse formulated into the ink. But for the Dragonlords to help Uther in his cause, even under duress . . .
Upon seeing Arthur, the Dragonlord straightened in the guards’ grip. “What is the meaning of this, Sire? I’m a loyal member of the king’s army, I demand to know why I’ve been taken into custody!” The Dragonlord scowled at Arthur, swinging his gaze around the prison cell in disgust. But when he caught sight of Merlin, an inexplicable change came over him. The rage drained from his face, leaving behind it a look of sorrow and regret. “No,” he groaned, his shoulders sagging. “Not him.”
“My father wants a decision by sunset,” Arthur said. “You have an hour to convince him, Balinor.”
Merlin’s head snapped up at the name. Arthur and the knights left, the door sealing shut behind them, but Merlin barely noticed. He stared up at the man standing across from him.
“No,” Merlin said, stepping backwards, and nearly stumbling against the cot. “You can’t be! He’s dead!”
Balinor sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I’m sorry, son,” he said.
* * *
Merlin shook his head, his stomach a knot of emotions he couldn’t begin to pick through. “You’re sorry?” he repeated, his voice tight. “We thought you were dead! And you’re sorry?”
“I had to let you think that!” Balinor leaned forward, reaching for Merlin’s shoulder. A pained expression crossed his face when Merlin shrugged him off. “I know I haven’t been much of a father to you,” he started.
Merlin interrupted him. "I'm 29! Mum tells stories of how you let the Pendragons catch you to keep us safe. She keeps the letter you wrote her in a box under her bed. I still catch her looking at it sometimes. She talks about you like you're a hero! And all this time . . ." He swallowed, feeling queasy. Furiously, he wiped at his eyes. He’d always hated how quickly he teared up. “You’re a Dragonlord.”
Balinor sighed heavily. “It’s genetic, Merlin. I can’t help being a Dragonlord any more than I can help my blood type.” He hesitated a moment, looking sad. “Neither can you.”
Merlin glared at him. “I’m not a Dragonlord.” Balinor opened his mouth to protest, but Merlin shook his head. “I might have the gene,” he allowed. "But I'm not a killer. I'd rather die than sell myself out." He didn’t bother to add, “like you did,” but he could tell from Balinor’s flinch that he felt the unspoken jab. They glared at each other for a moment, gold eyes locked with gold.
Then Balinor sighed, a rueful expression crossing his face. “I guess I deserve that,” he said. “But please, Merlin. Don’t be stubborn. You don’t know the methods they will use to force you to cooperate now that they have you.”
Merlin pressed his lips together, glaring at his own expression reflected in the mirrored wall.
“It’s not such a bad life,” Balinor pressed on. “King Uther needs his Dragonlords. He knows that. You won’t have freedom, but you’ll have some measure of respect. And it’s magic, of a sort they can’t Bind.”
Merlin wanted to protest that he could already use his magic, but he checked himself just in time. Balinor might be his father, but he was a stranger all the same. And there was no way to know who was watching their exchange through the mirror.
Instead, Merlin asked, “Is that why you did it? For respect?”
Balinor sighed. “I did it to protect you. When the guards took me, Hunith had just realized she was pregnant. They’d have come after her if I refused. And once they learned I had a child . . .” Balinor trailed off, a pained expression on his face. “As long as Uther had me, I hoped the two of you might be safe.”
“You could have contacted us,” Merlin said, remembering how his mother took down Balinor’s photo every Sunday and dusted it.
“Look, Merlin, it wasn't easy,” Balinor said. “Uther needs Dragonlords, but he doesn’t trust us. The knights monitor my phone calls. I know they follow me when I leave the citadel. I didn’t dare get in touch with your mother. I would have led them straight to you!”
Merlin snorted, resting his head back against the cold surface of the mirror. He wondered who was watching them on the other side, and almost started to look with magic, but his self-preservation instincts stopped the half-thought spell before he’d managed to release it.
“Well, now they have me,” he said. “But I won’t do it. I don’t care if they kill me.”
“Please!” Balinor said, desperation touching his voice. “I just met you, son! I don’t want to see you tortured! And they will, Merlin. They will.” His head lifted and his eyes lost focus for a moment, as though he were looking inside, at something only he could see. “They’re coming,” he breathed, his eyes darting frantically to Merlin. “Please, son. Don’t make this hard on yourself!”
The widest of the room’s mirrored walls slid open with a hiss.
Arthur stepped inside, but this time, he wasn’t alone. King Uther was shorter than he looked on television, but he wore the same hard, fierce expression that Merlin recognized from countless television programs.
“This is your son, then?” Uther asked, staring at Merlin as if he were a piece of used tissue.
Balinor looked from Merlin to Uther, a helpless expression on his face. “Yes,” he said. “This is Merlin.”
Uther turned his steely gaze on Balinor. “According to my intelligence reports, he’s twenty-nine years old. You’ve been lying to me for nearly three decades, Balinor.”
“You had me!” Balinor protested. “I wasn’t going to give you my son, as well!”
“Nevertheless,” Uther said, “we have him. And you will pay for your omission.” He crossed his arms and looked hard at Merlin. “I trust that Balinor has explained the situation. We have precious few Dragonlords. By joining our cause, you will do your country a tremendous service.”
“I’d sooner die,” Merlin said.
"Very well,” Uther said, sounding unconcerned. He jerked his chin towards Balinor, and the trio of knights behind him started at once towards the Dragonlord. “Kill him."
“Father!” Arthur protested. “Balinor has served us for years!”
“He has withheld information that would help the war effort,” Uther said. “And for that, he must be punished.”
“It’s natural for a man to want to protect his son!” Arthur said.
At the same time, Merlin cried, "You can't!"
“I can and I will,” Uther said. “Unless you are willing to cooperate.”
Merlin hesitated, torn. The knights had taken hold of Balinor. One pulled the gun from his holster, pointing it at Balinor’s head.
Merlin hung his head, resigned. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Just don’t hurt him.”
The king smiled coldly. “Excellent,” he said. “I’d hoped you might listen to reason.”
* * *
The guards deposited Merlin into the hands of a smiling lieutenant named Smith.
“But you can call me Gwen,” she said, as she led him away from the dungeon. Gwen didn’t flinch away from his golden-eyed gaze, and for that, Merlin could almost forgive her the Pendragon crest on her RDC uniform, and the revolver strapped around her hips.
She led him to his room in the citadel—a small, rectangular cell, holding only a twin bed, a writing desk, and a battered wardrobe, with a sink in one corner and a tiny mirror hanging over it, badly in need of polishing. Merlin couldn’t help but think about the spacious loft he shared with Freya, the dog-eared paperbacks spilling off the bookshelf, the dirty dishes in the sink, his tie still slung over the back of the sofa, where he tossed it upon coming home from work. Merlin imagined Freya telling his mother that he was missing. He could picture the two of them weeping on Hunith’s sofa, covered by the knotty blanket she crocheted when Merlin was a boy. He remembered holding the yarn for her, watching her swift fingers twine it around the needle.
At his expression, Gwen smiled gently. “It’s small, I know. But it will be cozy enough once you’re moved in. The toilet’s across the hall and to the left,” she added. “We all share it. Everyone in the flight crew, I mean.”
“I’ll be flying with you then?” Merlin asked.
Gwen nodded. “You’ll be on Prince Arthur’s crew,” she said. “He likes to monitor all the new recruits himself. Well, not that you’re a recruit, exactly.” She blushed. “It’s just that, you’re new, and . . .”
“He wants to keep an eye on me,” Merlin finished dully.
“It’s not so bad, really,” Gwen said. “I mean, I know you don’t want to be here, but —”
“I have a life!” Merlin protested. Gwen took a step back at his outburst. Merlin felt a stab of guilt for shouting at the first person who’d been decent to him since the knights captured him, but couldn’t stop talking. His mum always said he let his mouth run away from him. “I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow, Gwen! I have a job! And a roommate! I have a mother! My God, she’s going to be worried sick about me!”
Gwen listened to it all quietly, her eyes calm and sad. When Merlin finished, she said, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through that. I don’t think anyone should be forced to go up on the dragons.”
Merlin swallowed thickly. “Do you have a phone?” he asked. “It’s just . . . they took mine, and I need to get a hold of people. Let them know what happened.”
Gwen smiled kindly, and patted Merlin’s arm. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
* * *
In the citadel, Merlin’s life fell into a new routine. He woke before dawn in the morning and ate in the mess hall. Aside from Gwen, the soldiers ignored him, and he them. He tried to avoid the other Dragonlords, especially Balinor. Merlin still couldn’t look at his father without his gut clenching in anger. It was nearly as bad as the frustration that washed over him when he called his mother. (True to her word, Gwen managed to arrange a phone call on Merlin’s second day in the compound)
Hunith had sounded so sad as Merlin explained his situation, that he almost found himself feeling guilty for his own imprisonment. She grew quiet as he told her about Balinor, though Merlin could hear her sniffling on the other end. He imagined her standing in her kitchen with the phone clutched to her ear and tears rolling down her cheeks. A lump formed in Merlin’s throat as he spoke. When he cut the call short, he wasn’t sure if it was for her benefit or his own. He didn’t call again. Instead, he fell into a solitary life in the citadel.
After breakfast every day, Merlin went to the training field to meet Gwen, who taught him how to navigate a dragon harness. Merlin had seen movies of dragon fighting, but it was a different thing entirely to strap the heavy canvas belt around his waist and feel the heavy slap of steel rings in their reinforced straps against his legs. Gwen showed him how to fasten his carabiner to one of the many similar rings looping the heavy armor that hugged the dragon’s massive shoulders and back.
They practiced with a red dragon named Leáspel. Her long neck twisting back, she watched impassively as Merlin scrambled up to the riding platform on her back, which was a small, steel box, rather like an overlarge anchovy tin, with a clear, sloping roof of reinforced plexiglass to keep out the wind and rain. Inside were five chairs. The two in front were bracketed by odd metal contraptions, rather like tripods, and Merlin realized with horror that they were meant to hold rifles steady.
When Gwen tried to teach him how to shoot, though, Merlin balked.
“Not that,” he told her firmly.
She frowned, confused. “But Prince Arthur said that you’d agreed to help.”
“I’ll ride with you,” Merlin said. “And I’ll command the dragon. But I won’t kill anybody.”
* * *
Even as miserable and tense as he was, Merlin couldn’t entirely suppress the guilty thrill of excitement the first time they went aloft.
Leáspel’s massive wings lifted, testing the air. The dragon crouched low, then leaped skyward, propelling them higher and higher with every wing beat. Merlin clung to the canvas straps of his harness, peering down over the dragon’s shoulder at the citadel, which now seemed only a child’s toy castle. He felt grateful for the plexiglass that shielded him from most of the wind.
Sitting across from him, Gwen caught his expression and smiled. “I never get used to it,” she confessed. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”
“It’s brilliant!” Merlin agreed, then felt immediately guilty for thinking so. His smile fading, he leaned back in his seat, letting Leáspel’s broad wings propel them further and further away from the citadel, into the fields surrounding the city. He would have let the dragon fly forever, but after a few minutes, Gwen touched his arm.
“There are some commands you’ll have to learn,” she said. “Manouvres. Directions. That sort of thing. The dragons already know them. You just have to give the order.” She reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a stack of laminated cards. Shuffling through them, she handed one to Merlin. “Here. Try this one.”
“Abregda,” he read. At his voice, Leáspel flew upward immediately, shooting them higher into the air. He gasped, clinging to the harness, and Gwen giggled at his expression.
“That’s great!” she said. “Do you feel up for a dive?”
Merlin looked at her, then at the ground, which now looked very far away. Swallowing, he said. “All right. Let’s try it.”
Gwen beamed, and handed him another card.
Part 2
Recipient:
poetryofearthAuthor:
piscariaRating: PG
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~12k
Warnings: War-time violence involving dragons
Summary: When he accidentally reveals himself to be a Dragonlord, Merlin is drafted into the service of Camelot’s Royal Dragon Force.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to J., E.B., and D.D.M. for their help and encouragement while beta’ing this story.
Based on this prompt: Modern AU where dragons roam free and kingdoms fight using dragons combined with modern warfare.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
When the first shadow drifted over the crowd of protesters, Merlin barely noticed. His attention was focused on the woman standing on the make-shift platform in front of the crowd. The afternoon sun caught the auburn highlights in her long, dark hair, and in the light, her golden eyes blazed in anger, even as her voice sailed from the platform and over the heads of the protesters, propelled by the microphone gripped in one perfectly-manicured hand.
“We are not criminals!” she yelled, and Merlin, like the other protesters, cheered and stamped in agreement. “We are lawful citizens of Camelot, and we demand to be treated with dignity and respect!”
All around Merlin, heads were nodding—among them, he was glad to see several sets of brown, blue, or green eyes amongst the ubiquitous gold of the magicians. They’d come, of course, to see Morgana, resplendent in a frock of ruby silk, and draped in a coat that probably cost more than Merlin paid in rent every year.
When the Lady Morgana had disappeared from the public eye last spring, amidst a flurry of tabloid photos and a tersely worded press announcement from the Citadel, only to reappear months later with a Binding tattoo and her eyes shining golden, Merlin, like the rest of the magical community, had shaken his head. As the King’s ward, Morgana could have championed their cause. Instead, like so many other magic users born into positions of privilege, she had hidden her powers, at least until the tabloid scandal hit: photos of Morgana leaning in to embrace known sorceress, Morgause Gorlois, followed by an investigative report proving that the two were sisters. But though it had taken a scandal for Morgana to openly oppose the king and join the campaign for magical rights, Merlin had to admit that she’d done wonders to re-focus national attention on their cause. Several videophones were held above the crowd. With luck, Morgana’s speech would be up on YouTube before the afternoon ended.
“I think this is the biggest turnout we’ve had,” Freya said to him, her voice raised to carry over the crowd.
“I know!” Merlin yelled back at her. “Isn’t it great?” Then he caught sight of a second shadow, larger this time, dark wings falling over the cheering crowd, then drifting away. Merlin’s smile faded.
Shielding his hands with his eyes, he lifted onto his tiptoes, searching the sky above them until he picked out two shapes moving through the clouds. They were small still, but growing steadily larger as they approached. Merlin reached inside himself, finding the wellspring of magic that he’d always been able to draw on. A fraction of it was hampered, raging against the curse bound into the dark ink of the tattoo that spiraled over Merlin’s heart. Most magic users couldn’t access their powers at all once they’d been Bound — Merlin didn’t know why he could, but at moments like this, he was grateful for it. He fed a string of magic into his vision, until he could see the shapes moving through the clouds as easily as he could through a pair of binoculars.
Two dragons, a red and a white. They wore the gleaming emblem of Camelot on their armored breastplates, and their backs were packed with soldiers carrying rifles.
“Dragons!” he shouted, jumping up and waving his hands to draw attention away from Morgana. “The knights are coming! Everybody run!”
Those nearest to him looked up reflexively, and several took up his cry. In moments, the protest descended into chaos, cardboard signs falling to the ground and people jostling in every direction as they tried to run, but found themselves hemmed in by the crowd. One of the dragons swooped lower, its red belly gleaming in the sunlight, and somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. Near Merlin, a child began to sob as his mother snatched him up, and his teddy bear fell to the ground. Merlin felt his stomach clench in terror. He’d seen dragons passing overhead, watched their massive shadows overlap his. Yet from the sky, he’d never gotten a true sense of the magnitude of the beasts. In size, the red dragon easily surpassed any of the buses on the street.
“They won’t really attack us, will they?” Freya asked as they tried to push away from the platform. Her pretty face had gone pale with fear, and her fingers trembled where she’d caught hold of Merlin’s wrist so they wouldn’t lose each other in the pandemonium.
“Uther’s done it before,” Merlin said grimly, spotting an opening in the mass of bodies and tugging Freya towards it. His own father had disappeared in a protest much like this, when Merlin was still a baby. His mum still kept his photo on the mantelpiece: Balinor standing golden-eyed and smiling before a crowd of protesters, his dark hair brushing the shoulder seams of his tie-dyed shirt, and his arms raised high above his head, holding a cardboard sign that read, “Magic should be free.”
The red dragon swooped low over their heads, each flap of its enormous wings ruffling their hair. On its back, a knight spoke through a microphone.
“This is an illegal gathering! Clear the square, by order of the king.”
The crowd was thinning out, those along the fringes scattering as best they could. But those in the middle could hardly move, and some seemed set on not moving at all. To Merlin’s left, a group of students had taken hands, standing in a defiant circle. Their faces were grim with fear as they looked up at the dragons, but determined nonetheless.
On the white dragon’s back, the knights were having a hurried conference. One of them shouted an order. The dragon circled overhead, then dived straight toward the group of students.
“Oh God,” Freya whispered. “It’s going to —”
The dragon drew in a deep breath, and Merlin saw the blue light of flame flaring up in its throat.
Before he realized what he was doing, Merlin was leaping forward, crying out, “No! Don’t!” At least, that’s what he meant to cry. But the words that rolled out of him pulsed like thunder in a language that he’d never heard, but which, in the dragon’s presence, suddenly seemed as instinctive as breathing.
Merlin threw back his head and roared, “Dracan! Nán dyd élc áciere miss! Eftsídas eom ála cræt! Géate stær ábére gárrés. Géate cyre. Mé tácen átende diegollice!”
Freya was staring at him, her gold eyes wide with shock. Around him, others had turned, startled by the sound of his voice. And the dragon . . . the dragon turned his head at the last moment, and the flames shot towards one of the glass display windows of a nearby storefront. The window blistered and crackled under the heat, but nobody had been hurt. The white dragon drifted down, ignoring the crowd of scattering protesters, and settled on the concrete before Merlin, bowing its head low. A moment later, the red one followed suit.
On the platforms strapped to the dragons’ immense backs, the knights gaped at Merlin. Then, as one, they rose, unbuckling their harness belts and swinging down from canvas harness straps. Merlin backed away as they started toward him.
“You there!” the leader of the group shouted. “Dragonlord! I demand that you surrender, by decree of the laws of Camelot!”
Merlin stared at him, then dumbfounded, at the dragons still groveling before him. “I’m not a —” he started. A sudden sting in his side stopped the words, and he stared down to see the rubber tip of a dart protruding from his blue jumper. Merlin staggered and fell.
* * *
Merlin woke to a roar that pounded through his aching head, making him want to huddle in on himself, to muffle his ears and possibly be sick. Only when he tried to lift his hands to block the sound did he realize they were bound behind his back. Sensation flooded back to him, and he groaned at the stiff muscles in his arms, the raw sores on his wrists where the handcuffs cut into them, the press of vinyl against his cheek, and the cottony dryness of his mouth. Inside, his magic shifted numb and sluggish. Merlin knew that in a few minutes it would start prickling at him, like the pins and needles sensation of a foot that’s fallen asleep.
Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the inside of a helicopter, filled with panels and dangerous-looking machines. Through his peripheral vision, he saw the muscular thigh of a man sitting on the vinyl bench beside him. Two other men sat in the bucket seats up front. All three wore the black and red uniforms of the Knights of Camelot.
All at once, Merlin remembered the protest.
“He’s coming to!” one of the knights said.
Merlin tried to catch his balance, to sit up. The world spun sickeningly around him, and he slumped back down, breathing heavily.
“Don’t move,” the knight said, sounding almost sympathetic. He was handsome, Merlin noted dully, with an aquiline nose and a sweep of dark hair. “We gave you a sedative. I hear it’s hell on magic users.”
Merlin slumped back against the seat, wanting to cry. The helicopter’s roar still sounded in his ears. For a moment, he wondered why they’d bothered with a helicopter at all, when they had dragons at their disposal. Then he remembered the way he’d called the dragons to stop, and supposed that the knights wanted to take no chances. What had they called him? Dragonlord?
“There’s been a mistake,” he tried to say, but his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.
For a second, he thought of trying magic, but even if he could manage a spell while drugged, it might not do any good. He could knock out the knights, maybe, but he’d still be stranded in a helicopter, high in the air. Merlin had never been able to bend technology to his will. His gift was for organic things, for water, for earth, for fire, for air. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to land a helicopter, magically or otherwise, and drugged, he didn’t trust himself even to break a fall. He tried to think, to come up with a plan, but his thoughts felt as strange and distant as his magic. Finally, he let his head loll back against the vinyl bench, tired even of thinking. Maybe it was better not to do anything. They might go easier on him if he cooperated.
Not that it had worked for his father.
When the helicopter landed with a bump in the citadel’s courtyard, Merlin only hugged himself more tightly, resting his head on the knees he’d managed to pull up to his chest. The knight sitting beside him reached for his elbow and hauled him to his feet, though not as roughly as he might have.
“We’re here, Warlock.”
Weak and dizzy from the sedative, Merlin let himself be manhandled down the helicopter stairs and across the courtyard into the citadel, the dark-haired knight still gripping his elbow, the other two taking positions before and behind him. Once inside, the trio of knights paused before an elevator door set into the stone wall. They herded Merlin inside, and the knight at the front of the group punched one of the buttons.
“D3” flashed the electronic panel. And then, “Authorization Required.”
The knight lifted the dragon-emblazoned badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck and swiped it through the scanner set in the elevator wall. As the elevator doors began to close, Merlin thought about forcing them open and breaking free. But he was still weak from the sedative, and he didn’t know where to go. The citadel was crawling with guards. Besides, the knights were giving him shifty-eyed looks, their hands lingering over the guns at their hips. Resigned, Merlin allowed the elevator to carry them into the depths of the citadel.
From the stories he’d heard, Merlin half expected Uther Pendragon’s dungeon to be a dank, dark pit, heaped high with dirty straw and crawling with fleas and rats. But the elevator doors slid open to reveal a bright cell gleaming with mirrored walls. In their surface, Merlin caught sight of his own face, pale beneath the florid bruise covering one cheek, his mouth and chin crusted with blood from a split lip, eyes blazing golden.
The dark-haired knight who’d spoken to Merlin on the helicopter tapped the golden Pendragon emblem pinned to his chest, and his communicator badge chirped to life. “We have the Dragonlord in custody, Sire,” he said.
“Excellent work, Sir Gwaine,” a new voice spoke through it. “I’ll be there shortly.”
The knights pricked to attention as footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the hands on Merlin’s arms and shoulders tightened, pushing him down to his knees. Still dizzy from the sedative, and with his hands bound behind his back, he fell hard, kneecaps crashing painfully against the stone floor. The door slid open, and Merlin caught a glimpse of expensive leather boots, studded with golden buckles, a heavy, leather coat swinging around the wearer’s ankles. The man stepped forward, then leaned over Merlin, peering into his face.
Merlin caught a glimpse of blue eyes, startlingly bright. He blinked, fighting vertigo. It seemed the world yawned open around him. For a second, Merlin glimpsed the same face, but panicked, mouth stretched in horror.
“No!” he was screaming, lunging forward. His hand reached for Merlin, but too late. Merlin felt his limbs growing stiff and heavy as he sank down, down into the stone and the cradling arms of the earth.
The sword fell to the grass between them, unheeded.
Merlin’s world gave way to solid rock, while the man above him roared in frustration.
Merlin blinked, shaking his head to clear it, and found himself staring up into the face of Prince Arthur Pendragon. Like the rest of Camelot, Merlin had watched Arthur grow from a tanned and muscular youth with the boyish good looks who had graced every magazine cover in Albion, to the somber and capable commander of the Royal Dragon Force. Merlin recognized his face from hundreds of news clips and interviews, the mouth pinched and sullen, the blue eyes dark with fatigue since Morgana’s disinheritance. What Merlin wasn’t prepared for, though, was the sudden flash of recognition that flickered across Arthur’s weary expression, slamming through Merlin’s heart like a bolt of lightning as his sluggish magic quickened. Merlin felt himself rock back from the force, and wondered, for a moment, if Arthur, too, might sense it. His eyes were so wide.
“Merlin?” Arthur asked, a near plaintive note in his voice. Then he frowned and shook his head, his gaze hardening. “Merlin Emrys?” he asked, more firmly.
Merlin glared up at him. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I didn’t say you had.” Arthur caught Gwaine’s eye, and jerked his chin towards Merlin’s handcuffs. “Release him.”
“Your majesty,” one of the other knights broke in. “I’m not sure —”
“Release him,” Arthur repeated. “I’ll take full responsibility.
Merlin hissed out a breath of relief as the handcuffs were snapped off. Rubbing his sore wrist, he staggered to his feet, eyeing Arthur warily. Part of him wondered if he was in for a game of good cop, bad cop. But Arthur was looking at him strangely. As Merlin watched, an expression of uncertainty flickered over his face, before it was replaced by the assured air that Merlin recognized from the news.
“You’re a warlock,” Arthur said. He didn’t sound accusing, exactly, but Merlin bristled all the same.
“I’m registered and Bound!”
“I know,” Arthur said. “I pulled your file. Interestingly enough though, nowhere did it mention that you were also a Dragonlord.”
“That’s because I’m not one!”
Arthur gazed at him steadily.
Merlin sputtered. “Look, I don’t know what happened in the square this afternoon. I’ve never done anything like that before.”
Arthur shrugged, glancing down at the file in his hand. “It says here that you do data entry. I’m sure you don’t interact with many dragons in your work.”
“Whatever happened at the protest this afternoon, it was a fluke! This is all a mistake!” Merlin protested. “I didn’t lie, I swear it! You can’t just arrest me --”
“Oh, I can,” Arthur assured him. “Failing to report a magical talent is a crime, Merlin. Surely you know that.” Arthur lifted a hand to forestall his argument. “But you can relax,” he added. “This isn’t an arrest.”
Merlin looked pointedly at the handcuffs, still dangling from Gwaine’s hand. Arthur shrugged, looking momentarily uncomfortable.
“You seized control of two military dragons,” he said. “With their Dragonlords aboard. You can’t blame us for taking every precaution. Nonetheless,” he said, straightening, “you should feel grateful that you are not in trouble with the law.” He didn’t add “yet,” but Merlin could hear it in his voice.
“What do you want?” Merlin asked with a sinking heart.
Arthur stepped forward, lifting his chin. “Merlin Emrys,” he said. “I am calling you into the king’s service, under section six of the magical enforcement code.”
Merlin gaped him. “You have got to be joking. I’m not going to fight for you!”
“Why not?” Arthur said. “This is your kingdom, after all. We are at war with Mercia, and war requires us to all make sacrifices. Any law abiding citizen would jump at the chance to serve the king.”
“My kingdom?” Merlin said. “If this were my kingdom, I wouldn’t have been dragged in and bound when I was ten years old! I could live wherever I wanted, and I could get a decent job because nobody would care if they had a warlock in their office! If this were my kingdom, my father would still be alive! Why should I serve a king who barely tolerates my kind?”
Arthur’s eyes had widened during Merlin’s tirade, but as Merlin watched, he composed himself once more. “The king has taken the necessary steps to protect the kingdom from magical terrorism,” he said stiffly. “It’s not your place to question his decisions. As I said, we must all make sacrifices during war.”
“I don’t see you making any sacrifices,” Merlin muttered. He knew without a doubt that Arthur Pendragon had never wondered whether he should wear shades on a rainy day to keep from being harassed on the tube. Arthur, as a child, never had a stranger spit in his face and snarl, “Fucking warlocks! They should all be drowned at birth.” Certainly, Arthur would never have had to endure such abuse in silence, with his mother’s hand around his shoulder and her voice a panicked whisper in his ear, begging, “Don’t, Merlin!” when he reached for his magic.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I risk my life every day for this kingdom and its people,” he snapped. “Even the ones who don’t appreciate it. So does every man and woman in the army. It is an honour to fly with the dragons. It’s an honour to serve Camelot.”
"An honour," Merlin snorted. "The dragons barely tolerate you lot. If they did, you wouldn't need Dragonlords.”
"The dragons understand that it's safer for them to be accommodating," Arthur countered. "These are hardly the middle ages. If we rise up against the dragons, it won't be with swords. They're outgunned and they know it. This is the most humane option."
"Humane," Merlin sniffed. "Like butchering is ever humane. If I hadn’t stopped them, your knights would have roasted that entire crowd of protesters."
“We were only going to fire above their heads!” Gwaine protested. Arthur and Merlin both glared at him.
“Those under my command have worked hard to be in their positions,” Arthur said, voice dangerously low. “Some men and women will spend their entire lives working for the RDF without once getting a chance to go dragonback. Believe me, I would not be offering this opportunity to you if there weren’t the direst need.”
“This isn’t an offer,” Merlin scoffed. “If it were an offer, I could refuse.”
“I’m giving you a chance to save hundreds of lives!”
“By killing others!” Merlin snapped. “I won’t do it. I’d rather die.”
Arthur sighed. “I can see I’m not going to convince you."
“That’s right,” Merlin said, crossing his arms.
Arthur nodded to one of the knights. “Bring in the other prisoner.”
The knight left, only to return moments later, leading two of the citadel guards behind them. They held a man between them. The prisoner’s golden eyes betrayed him for a warlock, as did the black spiraling tip of a Binding tattoo just peeking above the low collar of his v-necked t-shirt. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to Merlin, and he frowned, wondering if they’d met. Yet the prisoner was clearly a soldier. His greying dark hair was cropped short, in the military style, and he wore black utility trousers and combat boots, a Pendragon-red t-shirt, and a heavy leather draciator’s jacket, emblazoned with the golden badge of the RDF. A Dragonlord, then.
Merlin’s stomach clenched, and he scowled, certain now that he’d never met this man. He’d have remembered a Dragonlord. It was bad enough that magic users were forced into designated housing and bound with the spiral tattoos that kept their magic constantly fighting off the curse formulated into the ink. But for the Dragonlords to help Uther in his cause, even under duress . . .
Upon seeing Arthur, the Dragonlord straightened in the guards’ grip. “What is the meaning of this, Sire? I’m a loyal member of the king’s army, I demand to know why I’ve been taken into custody!” The Dragonlord scowled at Arthur, swinging his gaze around the prison cell in disgust. But when he caught sight of Merlin, an inexplicable change came over him. The rage drained from his face, leaving behind it a look of sorrow and regret. “No,” he groaned, his shoulders sagging. “Not him.”
“My father wants a decision by sunset,” Arthur said. “You have an hour to convince him, Balinor.”
Merlin’s head snapped up at the name. Arthur and the knights left, the door sealing shut behind them, but Merlin barely noticed. He stared up at the man standing across from him.
“No,” Merlin said, stepping backwards, and nearly stumbling against the cot. “You can’t be! He’s dead!”
Balinor sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I’m sorry, son,” he said.
* * *
Merlin shook his head, his stomach a knot of emotions he couldn’t begin to pick through. “You’re sorry?” he repeated, his voice tight. “We thought you were dead! And you’re sorry?”
“I had to let you think that!” Balinor leaned forward, reaching for Merlin’s shoulder. A pained expression crossed his face when Merlin shrugged him off. “I know I haven’t been much of a father to you,” he started.
Merlin interrupted him. "I'm 29! Mum tells stories of how you let the Pendragons catch you to keep us safe. She keeps the letter you wrote her in a box under her bed. I still catch her looking at it sometimes. She talks about you like you're a hero! And all this time . . ." He swallowed, feeling queasy. Furiously, he wiped at his eyes. He’d always hated how quickly he teared up. “You’re a Dragonlord.”
Balinor sighed heavily. “It’s genetic, Merlin. I can’t help being a Dragonlord any more than I can help my blood type.” He hesitated a moment, looking sad. “Neither can you.”
Merlin glared at him. “I’m not a Dragonlord.” Balinor opened his mouth to protest, but Merlin shook his head. “I might have the gene,” he allowed. "But I'm not a killer. I'd rather die than sell myself out." He didn’t bother to add, “like you did,” but he could tell from Balinor’s flinch that he felt the unspoken jab. They glared at each other for a moment, gold eyes locked with gold.
Then Balinor sighed, a rueful expression crossing his face. “I guess I deserve that,” he said. “But please, Merlin. Don’t be stubborn. You don’t know the methods they will use to force you to cooperate now that they have you.”
Merlin pressed his lips together, glaring at his own expression reflected in the mirrored wall.
“It’s not such a bad life,” Balinor pressed on. “King Uther needs his Dragonlords. He knows that. You won’t have freedom, but you’ll have some measure of respect. And it’s magic, of a sort they can’t Bind.”
Merlin wanted to protest that he could already use his magic, but he checked himself just in time. Balinor might be his father, but he was a stranger all the same. And there was no way to know who was watching their exchange through the mirror.
Instead, Merlin asked, “Is that why you did it? For respect?”
Balinor sighed. “I did it to protect you. When the guards took me, Hunith had just realized she was pregnant. They’d have come after her if I refused. And once they learned I had a child . . .” Balinor trailed off, a pained expression on his face. “As long as Uther had me, I hoped the two of you might be safe.”
“You could have contacted us,” Merlin said, remembering how his mother took down Balinor’s photo every Sunday and dusted it.
“Look, Merlin, it wasn't easy,” Balinor said. “Uther needs Dragonlords, but he doesn’t trust us. The knights monitor my phone calls. I know they follow me when I leave the citadel. I didn’t dare get in touch with your mother. I would have led them straight to you!”
Merlin snorted, resting his head back against the cold surface of the mirror. He wondered who was watching them on the other side, and almost started to look with magic, but his self-preservation instincts stopped the half-thought spell before he’d managed to release it.
“Well, now they have me,” he said. “But I won’t do it. I don’t care if they kill me.”
“Please!” Balinor said, desperation touching his voice. “I just met you, son! I don’t want to see you tortured! And they will, Merlin. They will.” His head lifted and his eyes lost focus for a moment, as though he were looking inside, at something only he could see. “They’re coming,” he breathed, his eyes darting frantically to Merlin. “Please, son. Don’t make this hard on yourself!”
The widest of the room’s mirrored walls slid open with a hiss.
Arthur stepped inside, but this time, he wasn’t alone. King Uther was shorter than he looked on television, but he wore the same hard, fierce expression that Merlin recognized from countless television programs.
“This is your son, then?” Uther asked, staring at Merlin as if he were a piece of used tissue.
Balinor looked from Merlin to Uther, a helpless expression on his face. “Yes,” he said. “This is Merlin.”
Uther turned his steely gaze on Balinor. “According to my intelligence reports, he’s twenty-nine years old. You’ve been lying to me for nearly three decades, Balinor.”
“You had me!” Balinor protested. “I wasn’t going to give you my son, as well!”
“Nevertheless,” Uther said, “we have him. And you will pay for your omission.” He crossed his arms and looked hard at Merlin. “I trust that Balinor has explained the situation. We have precious few Dragonlords. By joining our cause, you will do your country a tremendous service.”
“I’d sooner die,” Merlin said.
"Very well,” Uther said, sounding unconcerned. He jerked his chin towards Balinor, and the trio of knights behind him started at once towards the Dragonlord. “Kill him."
“Father!” Arthur protested. “Balinor has served us for years!”
“He has withheld information that would help the war effort,” Uther said. “And for that, he must be punished.”
“It’s natural for a man to want to protect his son!” Arthur said.
At the same time, Merlin cried, "You can't!"
“I can and I will,” Uther said. “Unless you are willing to cooperate.”
Merlin hesitated, torn. The knights had taken hold of Balinor. One pulled the gun from his holster, pointing it at Balinor’s head.
Merlin hung his head, resigned. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Just don’t hurt him.”
The king smiled coldly. “Excellent,” he said. “I’d hoped you might listen to reason.”
* * *
The guards deposited Merlin into the hands of a smiling lieutenant named Smith.
“But you can call me Gwen,” she said, as she led him away from the dungeon. Gwen didn’t flinch away from his golden-eyed gaze, and for that, Merlin could almost forgive her the Pendragon crest on her RDC uniform, and the revolver strapped around her hips.
She led him to his room in the citadel—a small, rectangular cell, holding only a twin bed, a writing desk, and a battered wardrobe, with a sink in one corner and a tiny mirror hanging over it, badly in need of polishing. Merlin couldn’t help but think about the spacious loft he shared with Freya, the dog-eared paperbacks spilling off the bookshelf, the dirty dishes in the sink, his tie still slung over the back of the sofa, where he tossed it upon coming home from work. Merlin imagined Freya telling his mother that he was missing. He could picture the two of them weeping on Hunith’s sofa, covered by the knotty blanket she crocheted when Merlin was a boy. He remembered holding the yarn for her, watching her swift fingers twine it around the needle.
At his expression, Gwen smiled gently. “It’s small, I know. But it will be cozy enough once you’re moved in. The toilet’s across the hall and to the left,” she added. “We all share it. Everyone in the flight crew, I mean.”
“I’ll be flying with you then?” Merlin asked.
Gwen nodded. “You’ll be on Prince Arthur’s crew,” she said. “He likes to monitor all the new recruits himself. Well, not that you’re a recruit, exactly.” She blushed. “It’s just that, you’re new, and . . .”
“He wants to keep an eye on me,” Merlin finished dully.
“It’s not so bad, really,” Gwen said. “I mean, I know you don’t want to be here, but —”
“I have a life!” Merlin protested. Gwen took a step back at his outburst. Merlin felt a stab of guilt for shouting at the first person who’d been decent to him since the knights captured him, but couldn’t stop talking. His mum always said he let his mouth run away from him. “I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow, Gwen! I have a job! And a roommate! I have a mother! My God, she’s going to be worried sick about me!”
Gwen listened to it all quietly, her eyes calm and sad. When Merlin finished, she said, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through that. I don’t think anyone should be forced to go up on the dragons.”
Merlin swallowed thickly. “Do you have a phone?” he asked. “It’s just . . . they took mine, and I need to get a hold of people. Let them know what happened.”
Gwen smiled kindly, and patted Merlin’s arm. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
* * *
In the citadel, Merlin’s life fell into a new routine. He woke before dawn in the morning and ate in the mess hall. Aside from Gwen, the soldiers ignored him, and he them. He tried to avoid the other Dragonlords, especially Balinor. Merlin still couldn’t look at his father without his gut clenching in anger. It was nearly as bad as the frustration that washed over him when he called his mother. (True to her word, Gwen managed to arrange a phone call on Merlin’s second day in the compound)
Hunith had sounded so sad as Merlin explained his situation, that he almost found himself feeling guilty for his own imprisonment. She grew quiet as he told her about Balinor, though Merlin could hear her sniffling on the other end. He imagined her standing in her kitchen with the phone clutched to her ear and tears rolling down her cheeks. A lump formed in Merlin’s throat as he spoke. When he cut the call short, he wasn’t sure if it was for her benefit or his own. He didn’t call again. Instead, he fell into a solitary life in the citadel.
After breakfast every day, Merlin went to the training field to meet Gwen, who taught him how to navigate a dragon harness. Merlin had seen movies of dragon fighting, but it was a different thing entirely to strap the heavy canvas belt around his waist and feel the heavy slap of steel rings in their reinforced straps against his legs. Gwen showed him how to fasten his carabiner to one of the many similar rings looping the heavy armor that hugged the dragon’s massive shoulders and back.
They practiced with a red dragon named Leáspel. Her long neck twisting back, she watched impassively as Merlin scrambled up to the riding platform on her back, which was a small, steel box, rather like an overlarge anchovy tin, with a clear, sloping roof of reinforced plexiglass to keep out the wind and rain. Inside were five chairs. The two in front were bracketed by odd metal contraptions, rather like tripods, and Merlin realized with horror that they were meant to hold rifles steady.
When Gwen tried to teach him how to shoot, though, Merlin balked.
“Not that,” he told her firmly.
She frowned, confused. “But Prince Arthur said that you’d agreed to help.”
“I’ll ride with you,” Merlin said. “And I’ll command the dragon. But I won’t kill anybody.”
* * *
Even as miserable and tense as he was, Merlin couldn’t entirely suppress the guilty thrill of excitement the first time they went aloft.
Leáspel’s massive wings lifted, testing the air. The dragon crouched low, then leaped skyward, propelling them higher and higher with every wing beat. Merlin clung to the canvas straps of his harness, peering down over the dragon’s shoulder at the citadel, which now seemed only a child’s toy castle. He felt grateful for the plexiglass that shielded him from most of the wind.
Sitting across from him, Gwen caught his expression and smiled. “I never get used to it,” she confessed. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”
“It’s brilliant!” Merlin agreed, then felt immediately guilty for thinking so. His smile fading, he leaned back in his seat, letting Leáspel’s broad wings propel them further and further away from the citadel, into the fields surrounding the city. He would have let the dragon fly forever, but after a few minutes, Gwen touched his arm.
“There are some commands you’ll have to learn,” she said. “Manouvres. Directions. That sort of thing. The dragons already know them. You just have to give the order.” She reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a stack of laminated cards. Shuffling through them, she handed one to Merlin. “Here. Try this one.”
“Abregda,” he read. At his voice, Leáspel flew upward immediately, shooting them higher into the air. He gasped, clinging to the harness, and Gwen giggled at his expression.
“That’s great!” she said. “Do you feel up for a dive?”
Merlin looked at her, then at the ground, which now looked very far away. Swallowing, he said. “All right. Let’s try it.”
Gwen beamed, and handed him another card.
Part 2
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Date: 2012-01-02 04:35 am (UTC)I love the way you describe Merlin and his magic - his ability to reach for it; to feed it into his vision; the way it feels when Merlin just wakes up "numb and sluggish" before it starts "prickling at him, like the pins and needles sensation of a foot that's fallen asleep"; and the Dragonlord's language seeming as "instinctive as breathing". It's gorgeous!
Oh, I just ache for Hunith, too. The idea of her keeping Balinor's photo on the mantle and dusting it every Sunday, and still reading his letter, all the while he's alive it just heartbreaking. Especially since she's taking care of Merlin and fearing for his safety.
Balinor's struggle to protect his family is heartbreaking, too. Living alone for 29 years knowing there are people out there who love you, but you are not able to even contact them is a difficult thing to stomach. I loved when he stood tall when confronted by Uther in the cell, even if it almost cost him his life.
And Merlin's excitement over his flight experiences is so charming. I'm proud of him for refusing to shoot even as he has been forced into the army.
Excited to read the rest! :D
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Date: 2012-01-26 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-15 02:58 am (UTC)1, I LOVE THIS.
2, I HATE UTHER.
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Date: 2012-01-26 04:09 am (UTC)