[fic] The Ivy Crown, 6b/9

[da_ya_ri]

In retrospect, Arthur wasn't sure what woke him—whether it was a sudden sound or the nightly breeze that chilled him. At any rate, his eyes snapped open to the sight of the dying fire, half-burned lumps of wood glowing with heat.

He lay there for a moment, forcing his breathing to remain slow and steady, and looked around as much as he could without moving his head. Tensing, he shifted his right hand beneath his blanket, very slowly, and barely suppressed a relieved sigh when he touched the reassuring hardness of the hilt of his dagger. There was nothing to be seen but the night sky, obscured by a sheet of clouds, and the dark lumpy forms of his knights around the fire, sleeping soundly.

Arthur sat up, wincing at the crick in his neck, and looked around. The fire barely illuminated their campsite, the flames too low to be crackling anymore, but Arthur could still make out the dark silhouettes of their horses. And Merlin, who was supposed to be keeping watch on a nearby fallen log, was not there.

Sighing deeply, Arthur disentangled his legs from his bedroll and stood quickly, in an attempt to shake off his lassitude. He didn't even know why he was surprised. He'd barely given Merlin a suspicious look when his manservant had offered to take the first watch, given how tired Merlin had looked after a day of riding. But he'd let it go then, thinking that Merlin probably just wanted to prove that he was capable of pulling his own weight and contributing something to the group on this quest.

And now he was gone, most likely having ran off to investigate some nocturnal animal's cry or to commune with nature or something equally inane. Arthur sighed again, mildly irritated at having his much-needed rest interrupted, because he couldn't not go after Merlin now. The idiot had most likely come too close to the nearby treeline, and if there was one thing Merlin was good at, it was attracting the attention of large carnivorous animals.

Tying his largest dagger to his belt was a matter of seconds, and then Arthur was off, walking away from the camp in big, purposeful strides. He had no idea where Merlin could have gone, but he went in the general direction of the southern field on a whim. Away from the fire, the air was surprisingly cool, and it chilled the last of the residual tiredness from his mind. The weight of his weapon was reassuring at his side, but he still walked slowly, glancing around every few steps.

The clouds parted in the gentle breeze, allowing thin, blueish moonlight to illuminate his surroundings, and Arthur saw that he'd been right—somebody's feet had worn a path of flattened stalks through the grass, most likely Merlin's. The failure at stealth wasn't surprising either, but it still caused an irritating gnaw of worry to start up in the back of Arthur's mind. Anyone could have followed Merlin, and knowing his manservant, he wouldn't have noticed until he'd been clobbered over the head by a bandit's club.

Scowling, he followed Merlin's path, and resolved to give his servant a stern talking-to about how to sneak away properly, if he had to walk off during his watch at all. Arthur could all but see it—there wouldn't even need to be bandits involved for Merlin to get in trouble. Maybe he'd been attacked by a wild boar and dragged off into the forest to be feasted on by whatever evil ghosts lived there, according to the innkeeper. Or maybe he'd just tripped over something and hit his head on a random rock, and Arthur would stumble over his hypothermic unconscious body any time now.

There were no trees to duck behind, and Arthur felt uncomfortably exposed as he strode through the field, the faint scent of crushed grass permeating the air. His thoughts briefly drifted back to all the arguments he'd had with his father before they had left Camelot; the question of whether they should wear armor on their quest was one of the only things Uther had argued with him about in months. Not for the first time, though, Arthur was glad that he hadn't relented—right now, he provided enough of an easy target as it was, without chainmail for the moonlight to glint on.

He headed towards a cluster of bushes, and looked out across the gentle slope of the field as it sprawled before him. The grass was swaying gently in the breeze that was also ruffling his hair, but Arthur only saw Merlin when he'd reached the spot of undergrowth at the edge of the small hill.

In hindsight, Arthur couldn't say why he hadn't called out to Merlin to jerk his attention away from what seemed to be a silent contemplation of the field. But something prevented Arthur from even opening his mouth, and so he just stood there for a moment, staring at his manservant's faraway back with a mixture of surprise and slight wariness.

Then he lowered himself into a kneeling crouch behind the bushes, and peered through the leaves, strangely reassured in the knowledge that even if Merlin turned around, he wouldn't see him. He couldn't even see Merlin's face, but there was something in the air, an indefinable undercurrent of tension that reached Arthur even from that distance. Something was going on, and it wasn't anything that Arthur's instincts told him to barge in on.

As far as he could tell, Merlin was just standing there amidst the swaying grass, and he was— he was— His back was turned to Arthur, but Arthur thought he seemed taller somehow, his shoulders squared and his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

His head was tilted back as he watched the sky, his eyes seeming fixed on the moon like he was waiting for something, and a second later, Arthur understood why.

There was a mighty rush of moved air, and for a puzzled moment, Arthur thought it was a gust of wind that hadn't quite reached his hiding place. Then a shadow flickered across the moon, but before Arthur could focus his gaze, a huge something fell from the sky, landing right in front of Merlin with an impact that vibrated through the ground beneath Arthur's knees.

Only years' worth of battle training kept Arthur in place, but as it was, he nearly leaped up and out of the bushes anyway. His dagger sprung into his hand as though it possessed a life of its own, and although he'd been grateful for it just a moment ago, Arthur now cursed the fact that he'd won the argument with his father. If he'd taken his sword, he might have stood a chance, but not with the dagger— and the camp was too far away to run back and fetch his crossbow—

It was a dragon. A dragon had landed in the field, right in front of Merlin, no less, who was standing there as though rooted to the ground, his head still tilted back—its silhouette looked huge in the moonlight, amber eyes resting on Merlin in an unhurried appraisal. Arthur felt all of his senses wake up with the rush that went through him, infusing his bones with ice even as his heart began to hammer like a battle drum.

His sight seemed to sharpen impossibly even as the edges of his vision blurred, and he couldn't mistake the cold sweat beading on the back of his neck for anything but fear, but Arthur still tightened his hold on his dagger. He would break cover as soon as Merlin shook off his shock and started to run, and with the dragon's head tilted down like that, Arthur might even hit one of its eyes when he threw the dagger. He would wait until Merlin had run past him and follow only then, rousing their camp with shouts and hoping to get to his crossbow before the beast flayed the flesh off his bones—

But Merlin wasn't running, and didn't even look particularly afraid—his stance seemed loose, easier than it had been a moment ago, like the dragon was an old acquaintance that he was relieved to see. Arthur almost laughed at the thought, but forced it back down, swallowing against the jittery feeling that crept up inside him. Merlin wasn't running, and he was— Arthur squinted in the near-darkness of the moonlit night, but he was fairly sure that his eyes weren't deceiving him. He seemed to be gesturing, and although the wind didn't carry any sound towards Arthur, he thought it looked like Merlin was talking.

The great scaled head bowed down, and Arthur almost jumped up to throw his dagger anyway, but then he heard the low rumble of a voice and realized that the dragon was answering. Another hysterical laugh tried to bubble up in his throat—they were having a conversation, and a civil one, at that, as though it was perfectly normal for his manservant to chat with dragons who'd just landed right in front of him as though they had made an appointment.

Arthur ducked a little lower in his hiding place, making sure that the bushes hid him from the dragon's sight. He couldn't make out what they were saying from this distance, but he got the impression that Merlin listened more than he talked; the thought seemed ludicrous even to himself, but it seemed like Merlin was being given advice.

The dragon's scales shimmered in the moonlight whenever it shifted its weight, the great leathery wings twitching occasionally as though it was secretly longing to take to the skies again. Merlin was motionless save for the breeze that stirred his hair and the occasional gesture as he talked; oddly enough, he seemed at ease, if not completely relaxed. Arthur wasn't sure if it was the same dragon that his father had chained beneath the citadel, but he was willing to bet that it was—dragons were supposedly extinct, after all.

He had no idea how long he knelt there, crouched low beneath the bushes with leaves tickling his neck and cold sweat chilling his spine. By the time the dragon rose on its haunches and stretched its wings again, his muscles had been locked in the same position for so long that they protested as he sat up a bit straighter. His fingers hurt when he flexed them around the hilt of his dagger, and he realized belatedly that he'd been clutching it like a lifeline all this time.

Arthur waited, hardly daring to breathe for the sound of blood rushing in his ears, but the dragon didn't lunge at Merlin to devour or flay him, whichever seemed more appealing at that moment. It just flung itself up into the air, spiraling higher with each flap of its wings, and glided out of sight in the dim moonlight.

And Merlin, after having watched the dragon's flight for a moment, simply turned around and walked back the way he'd come, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

Before Arthur could second-guess himself, he was already stumbling out of his hiding place, his legs stiff after such a long time spent kneeling. Relief was quieting the frantic pounding of his heartbeat even as shock numbed his senses. The dragon was gone, Merlin didn't have so much as a scratch on him, and that was enough to make Arthur ignore the look of shock that crossed his face when he caught sight of Arthur.

"What—," he spluttered, the word tumbling from his mouth on its own accord as he gestured aimlessly at the sky. "Merlin, what—"

"Hell," Merlin said, which wasn't all that informative, and rubbed a hand across his face as though the sight of Arthur was just another ordeal in a long string of exhausting events.

Arthur took two deep, calming breaths, sucking air into his lungs until they burned, and felt marginally more relaxed as he exhaled. "What the hell was that?" he asked, in what he felt was a calm and reasonable tone, considering what he'd just seen.

Merlin just stared at him, though, his expression somewhere between incomprehension and numb fatigue, as if the sight of his prince was just as unbelievable to him now as the dragon had been to Arthur before.

"Merlin!" he snapped, and Merlin flinched, a bit of awareness returning to his eyes. He blinked slowly, his gaze dropping to Arthur's right hand that was still clutching the dagger like a lifeline. At the flicker of indecipherable emotion that flitted across Merlin's face, Arthur let out an impatient sigh and slammed the blade back into its sheath on his belt, not pausing when he heard the faint sound of ripping leather.

"Were you there the whole time?" Merlin asked at last, the words as slow as though he first had to push a million other things to the back of his mind to focus on this moment.

"The whole time you talked to a dragon, yes," Arthur replied testily, still not quite believing that he was actually saying that out loud.

Merlin just sighed, the look in his eyes begging Arthur to let it go just for now and return to their campsite, but after those long, excruciating minutes of fearing that a dragon might snap Merlin's head off, Arthur was determined to get some answers out of him. He folded his arms across his chest and stared back at Merlin in silence, not quite glaring yet, but willing to go there if that was the push that his manservant needed to start talking.

"I—," Merlin began, but broke off again, rubbing a hand across his face as though to pull himself out of the shock that seeing Arthur had sent him into. "I just needed help," he said, his tone torn between apologetic and pleading, like he feared Arthur would condemn him, except that didn't make sense since Arthur had no idea what Merlin was on about yet.

"And that dragon helped?" Arthur asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism or to pull his eyebrow down from its high perch on his forehead.

"Yes," Merlin replied, either not noticing or not caring about the hint of sarcasm. "He— he told me things." He shrugged, but the gesture looked more tired than subdued now, although his eyes remained wary. "I still have no idea what to do, but..."

"Explain," Arthur commanded when Merlin trailed off, although he did let his arms slide down to hang loosely at his sides in an attempt to look less guarded and impatient than he felt.

No matter how much he wanted to just grab Merlin and shake him until an explanation fell out of him, it wouldn't do to push him beyond his endurance. He'd never actually promised to rein in his temper and listen rather than accuse, after their argument on Beltane eve, but it seemed like the resolve had crept up on him anyway.

He saw Merlin's throat work as he swallowed, and realized right then that this would be bad. It would be another thing that Merlin had kept from him, tied in with his magic as all of his secrecy seemed to be these days, like a well-hidden gift finally put into Arthur's tentative hands. The thought made him frown, felt unwieldy and strange in the angles and planes of his mind, and he pushed it away with some difficulty.

Merlin took a deep, shaky breath, and drew himself up to his full height, much as he had done when he'd waited for the dragon. His voice shook, but he didn't break Arthur's gaze even for a second when he said, quietly, "I'm a Dragonlord."

For just a moment, Arthur thought he might have misheard, but the tight, unreadable expression on Merlin's features assured him that his ears were working just fine. He closed his mouth, dimly realizing that it must have dropped open on its own accord, and finally just choked out, "What?"

"I didn't used to be," Merlin replied hastily, as though that made it less unbelievable in any way. He was fidgeting now, Arthur noticed dimly, long, pale fingers toying with the cuffs of his sleeves in that way that meant he couldn't help himself, and just needed an outlet for his mounting nervousness. "I had no idea they even existed until—"

He stopped, and swallowed again, seeming to gulp down more than an obstruction in his throat. "Apparently it runs in the family," he stated, slightly breathlessly, like he was trying to push the words out before his courage deserted him. "It's passed down from— from father to son."

It took Arthur even longer to come to terms with that, but then he just shook his head in incomprehension. Merlin was looking at him with a pinched expression, shoulders hunched like he wanted to curl into himself for protection, though from what, Arthur didn't know. A memory rose from the depths of his mind, of a journey and a conversation deep in the woods, a crackling fire that hadn't warmed him as much as the shared words.

"You said you never knew your father," Arthur pointed out; the words came out softer than he'd intended, but Merlin's head jerked up as though he'd been struck. He opened his mouth and closed it again, and Arthur almost took a step towards him at the sudden desperation in his eyes. He'd clearly caught on to what Arthur was remembering.

"It was true then," Merlin insisted when he found his voice, the words slightly choked. "I didn't lie to you about that, I swear."

What else didn't you lie about, then? a small voice piped up at the back of his mind, but Arthur gritted his teeth against the words until the urge to say them subsided. Rationally, he knew that he was just feeling stung and betrayed again, that anger was simply the only way he knew how to deal with all this, and that it had become his default reaction over the past few months. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, struggling to regain his composure.

"Alright," he muttered at last, although the single word felt too big in the heavy silence that it broke. Merlin was watching him anxiously, not quite warily, and Arthur gestured for him to continue. "Go on."

Merlin glanced away, breaking his gaze for the first time to gaze down at his feet and run a shaking hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, like he was afraid of what he would say next, although Arthur didn't know if it was just fear of what his reaction would be, or something more.

Nevertheless, he braced himself when Merlin hunched over a little more, and found himself grateful when Merlin swallowed hard and said, the words barely audible, "Balinor was my father."

More effectively than Arthur's struggle for compose, the words cut through the remnant sting that was still smoldering in the back of his mind. He stared at Merlin, and Merlin stared back for a second before he averted his gaze again, but Arthur couldn't blame him for not wanting to see the disbelief that must have been written all across his features.

Although he hadn't thought about it that often, it seemed like barely a day had passed since then when the memory of the day they'd spent with the man rushed back. Arthur hadn't spared much thought to Balinor's prickly moodiness; he'd only been interested in what he could do to save Camelot, after all, but Merlin clearly had. They must have talked more than Arthur had realized at the time, though after a lifetime of separation—Merlin's lifetime, at that—it couldn't have been nearly enough.

And of course Arthur remembered how he had died, taking a blow that had been meant for Merlin—his son, Arthur thought suddenly, and realized that Balinor, like Merlin, must have known. Arthur had never talked to Merlin about it, although he probably should have, but given how desperate Merlin had been to hide his tears and carry on like nothing had happened, Arthur had been hesitant to bring it up.

"God, Merlin," he said helplessly, barely noticing that he'd taken a step closer at some point. Something seemed to have gotten stuck in his throat, and he wanted to reach out and touch, trail his fingers down Merlin's arm like he hadn't back then.

Merlin tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace of remembered pain, clearly hearing what Arthur hadn't said. He looked distant somehow, far away, although he hadn't moved. Arthur watched in feeble silence as Merlin took a deep breath, words clogging up his throat and fighting through the layer of shock, and he was so preoccupied with shoving them back down that he nearly missed that Merlin was talking again.

"I didn't know before," Merlin said, his voice dull, now that the earlier storm of emotion had blown itself out. "And after he—," died, Arthur finished mentally when Merlin broke off again. Even after all this time, the word seemed too hard for him to say, and Arthur nodded silently to show that he understood, that Merlin didn't have to. Merlin gave him another wavering smile, and finished, "I didn't quite realize that his powers had passed on to me until I sent the dragon away."

"The dragon?" Arthur repeated, jolted out of his earlier thoughts by the sheer unexpectedness of that statement. For a moment he didn't even realize what Merlin was talking about, but then awareness crept back in, along with a dim sort of surprise. "Oh, that dragon."

The sound of the wind rustling through the nearby treeline seemed loud in the sudden hush. Of course Merlin would tell him that he had defeated the dragon, Arthur thought sourly—he wasn't one to question the greatness of his prowess in battle, after all. It had been the safest way to ensure that Arthur wouldn't suspect a lie, and he couldn't help but be impressed rather than annoyed at Merlin's unexpectedly clever plan.

"Wait," Arthur muttered at last, because another thought had just sneaked up on him. Merlin had sent the dragon away, so he could probably summon it too, if he wanted to—but no, Arthur thought, Merlin wouldn't seek out the company of the beast that had killed so many and reduced Camelot's lower town to rubble.

Nevertheless, he waved a careless hand at the sky to indicate what he meant, and found himself frowning when Merlin looked sheepish rather than confused. "That dragon?"

"His name is Kilgharrah," Merlin said carefully, and Arthur gaped at him in stunned incomprehension. "He's not— well, he's usually quite fond of riddles and he was really mad at having been chained under the castle, but he's not evil, not really."

"First the Green Knight, and now a dragon," Arthur snapped when he'd found his voice, and pointed an imperious finger at his manservant, not quite surprised at the extent of his naivete. "Merlin, when will you get it into that thick head of yours that not every magical being is like you?"

Merlin flinched slightly at his raised voice, defiance sparking through his eyes, but then he went utterly still and silent, staring at Arthur in mute wonder. The nightly breeze stirred his hair and tugged gently at his clothes, but Merlin didn't seem to notice the chilly air—he just went right on staring, his eyes wide and fever-bright in the moonlight. Gentle shadows smudged his features, and for just a second Arthur was reminded of that long, ethereal moment at Sir Ricbert's house when he'd all but seen the power thrumming just out of reach beneath Merlin's skin.

"The dragon could have killed you," Arthur went on, unsettled by the hopeful, intense look Merlin was giving him, "it could have snapped your head right off with those giant jaws, or burned you to a crisp to get back at you for—"

"I'm not evil, then?" Merlin interrupted, clearly not having heard a word of Arthur's tirade. His voice shook, although he made a brave attempt at concealing the tremor, and Arthur threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Of course you aren't, you dolt!" he exclaimed, the words too loud in the nocturnal hush. "You're—"

He broke off as the full impact of what he'd said hit him, and stared back at Merlin in mute surprise for a moment. This was almost like their nightly talk at the inn, except that this time, it seemed to be going right. Merlin looked like he couldn't quite believe what Arthur was saying, but the hopeful, slightly terrified glimmer in his eyes told him that he wanted to.

"My manservant," Arthur finished, attempting to sound imperious and infuse the situation with some shred of normalcy. Merlin choked on a laugh, the noise surprised out of him as the tension in the air seemed to break.

Merlin's eyes still seemed brighter than normal, but the urgency was wiped away by the tentative smile that broke out across his face. Arthur found himself smiling back helplessly, something in his chest loosening as a strange warmth spread through him, but for once he didn't feel like second-guessing it.

They just stood there for a while, but although Arthur was dimly aware that they'd already been holding each other's gazes for far too long, he couldn't bring himself to look away. Merlin sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his shoulders slumping visibly as some of the accumulated tension melted out of his stance. He looked more tired than he had just a moment ago, like he'd been holding on to a hidden strain for far longer than just tonight.

"So, um," Merlin said at last, clearing his throat when his voice came out sounding scratchy. He shuffled his feet in the grass and jerked his head in the general direction of their campsite. "Shouldn't we go back?"

"We should," Arthur agreed, privately glad that Merlin had been the first to admit to his fatigue—it was the middle of the night, after all, and it looked like they were in for another day of riding. "You've kept me awake for far too long anyway."

Merlin muttered something that sounded like you didn't have to follow me, but Arthur graciously chose to let that go. He turned and started walking back the way he'd come, following the path of flattened grass that Merlin had made earlier on his way to the field. His manservant fell into step behind him, feet dragging audibly through the grass, and for some reason Arthur was reminded of that moment near the beginning of their journey, when Merlin had followed him to the lake and then back again.

He'd been angry then, unable to cut through the confusing jumble of conflicting emotions that stirred within him whenever he saw Merlin, but this was different. This time, Merlin didn't walk behind him out of misguided deference, and clearly didn't even try to stay well out of Arthur's reach, if the way his feet kept nipping at the back of Arthur's heels every so often was anything to go by. He seemed to walk behind him because he wanted to follow.

The fire had been stoked and fed when they reached their camp, flames crackling merrily around a few thick branches. The warmth felt stifling after such a long time spent out in the chill of the night, and Merlin edged closer with a pleased sound, almost tripping over one of their bags in his haste to warm his hands.

It took Arthur a moment to spot Gwaine, sitting on a fallen log and idly cutting strips of wood from a leafy branch. His hair was sticking up every which way, and his clothes were still rumpled from sleeping in them, although he looked awake and alert as their gazes met. He must have wondered where they'd gone, but apparently he'd had the presence of mind not to search for them, choosing to keep watch over the camp instead.

Gwaine's dagger paused in mid air, and his eyebrows slowly climbed towards his hairline, gaze traveling from Arthur to Merlin and back again. Merlin just gave him a sunny—if tired—smile, but Arthur felt his insides clench uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He wondered what Gwaine had thought upon finding both of them gone, but at the same time, he got the distinct feeling that he shouldn't want to know.

"Not a word," Arthur warned as he sat down amidst his blankets, but as soon as he'd said it, he realized his mistake. A slow smile spread across Gwaine's features, his teeth gleaming in the firelight as he winked at them and went back to hacking at the branch with his knife. Arthur frowned, but Merlin just rolled his eyes at Gwaine, a little pink in the cheeks, probably from the heat of the fire.

Merlin walked back to his bedroll, but although he was picking his steps carefully, Arthur heard a muffled thump as his foot connected with Leon's shin. Arthur tensed, half expecting the older knight to leap up with his dagger in hand, but Leon just yawned and poked his head out of his bedroll, not seeming to hear Merlin's whispered apologies. He glanced around in confusion, as though he couldn't figure out why they were awake at such an ungodly hour, and finally slurred, "Wha' happened?"

Gwaine grinned with anticipation, leaning forward as though to share a secret. "Merlin and Arthur were—"

"Going back to sleep," Merlin finished smoothly, and sat down on his bedroll as well. This time it was Arthur who rolled his eyes, but he didn't say anything as he slowly stretched out under his covers, shivering a little at the coldness of the fabric.

"Great," Gwaine said into the silence, watching with a slightly sour expression as Merlin tugged his own blankets up to his chin and grinned at him from the other side of the fire. "I'll just take the next watch too, then."

"Good man," Leon mumbled, turned over amidst his blankets, and fell back asleep within a few seconds, his quiet snoring the only sound that interrupted the crackle of the fire.

Arthur smiled to himself, checking absently whether his other two daggers were still where he'd put them last evening, tucked just under the edge of his blankets within easy reach. Reassured by the touch of cold steel, he rolled over to face away from the others, letting the warmth of the fire slowly coat his back.

Just a moment later, deep, snuffling breaths reached him from Merlin's general direction; it seemed like his manservant had been more tired than he'd let on all along. Or maybe it was just the fact that they'd talked to each other without shouting or storming off that relaxed him into a quick slumber. And well, he had spent half an hour talking to a dragon, which must have been exhausting in its own right.

Only when Arthur's eyes started to droop shut did it occur to him that he had forgotten to ask Merlin why he'd had to ask the dragon for help in the first place.





Although he'd felt utterly relaxed when he had finally gone to sleep again the night before, Merlin woke up with a ball of tension knotted in his gut the next morning.

At first he thought it was just the effect of residual nerves from last night, and he did his best not to let it show as he helped Lancelot butcher a rabbit for breakfast and divided the last of their dried fruit between all of them. Breakfast was a quiet affair, the clouds hanging oppressively low above the fields—what little light penetrated the thick sheets seemed feeble and thin, like watered wine, as Gwaine proclaimed after a bleary look up at the sky.

They broke camp mid-morning, but even the food didn't help to alleviate the tight, shivery feeling that plucked at Merlin's muscles. His stomach kept clenching as he tied their luggage to the packhorse, as though there was a fist in his belly that squeezed relentlessly whenever the urge arose. He took to sneaking surreptitious glances at Arthur, but even the sight of the prince trying to look awake and alert while it was clear that he hadn't gotten much sleep didn't alleviate the faint nausea.

Finally, when he was mounting his horse and shrugged the feeling off as residual fatigue, Merlin realized what had him so on edge. Up on horseback, the forest seemed to loom impossibly closer, the treeline dark and impenetrable in the wan light. For a moment, he thought he could see the individual leaves, gleaming green and bloated with sunlight and water, rubbing against each other in delighted anticipation of the rain that was sure to pour from the skies today.

Merlin took a deep breath to steady himself, and tossed a fleeting smile to Leon, who was looking at him with a hint of concern. He lined up behind the knight, putting a steadying hand on his horse's neck as it tossed its head in protest at his too-tight hold on the reins. And then they were off, Arthur leading them on a winding overgrown path that the innkeeper had assured them would lead to the forest at some point.

The rain started as the hidden sun rose higher in the sky, fighting to brighten their surroundings and failing miserably as the first fat drops landed on Merlin's cheek. He could hear Gwaine swear behind him, but in fact he didn't mind the rain all that much—it wasn't cold, after all, and the wetness was somewhat refreshing. The scent of crushed grass mingled with that of wet earth, and he sucked in a deep lungful of the flavor, trying to let it calm his nerves.

He didn't even know why he felt so edgy, why he wanted nothing more than to turn his horse around and steer it as far away from the looming treeline as possible. Sure, it was kind of daunting to enter the Green Knight's domain, but after the conversation with Kilgharrah, he was more convinced than ever that they had nothing to fear from him. Maybe it was because he knew now that Morgana was the culprit behind everything, the one who had roused the Green Knight from his sleep in the first place.

The forest looked more and more impenetrable the closer they got, a thick canopy of leaves creating a kind of natural archway above the winding trail that they were following. It would be even darker under the dripping trees, but none of the others seemed to share Merlin's reservations. Arthur was urging Llamrei forward at a steady pace, with Lancelot and Leon following, and Merlin and Gwaine were at the rear.

Even from this distance, an almighty dripping noise reached his ears as the forest was slowly drenched in early summer rain; the trail would be reduced to mud by the time they stopped for rest tonight. Merlin thought he could see ivy leaves twined around the ancient trunks, glittering with water, and the sight made him swallow hard against another surge of inexplicable apprehension.

Ahead of him, Leon impatiently wiped his dripping hair out of his face, but didn't seem at all perturbed at the sight of the huge, ancient trees and the thicket that seemed to protect the rest of the forest from view. Merlin jerked his gaze away from the treeline with some difficulty and gazed out at the soggy fields instead, long grass drooping under the onslaught of water.

All of a sudden, he remembered the song. It still felt odd to even think of it now, since he'd last heard it as a child and had even thought of it as somewhat boring back then; but something about the fields jogged his memory. Right now, they might be riding through the grassy slope where the Green Knight had died. Merlin remembered that line—down in yonder green field, there lies a knight slain under his shield—and shuddered involuntarily, hoping that he didn't mind that they were most likely trespassing on his grave.

But then again, according to the legend, the animals had dragged him off into the forest and buried him there, so maybe this wasn't his grave after all. Merlin shook his head to chase the memory away, but unfortunately, the thought of Morgana slunk back into the momentary void of hazy anxiety in his mind.

Maybe that really was the crux of the matter, Merlin thought, as the trees towered tall above him and filled his vision with wet, darkened green. He didn't know, couldn't know if they might be walking into a trap—despite the dragon's words, he had no idea if Morgana had planned this all along, or if it was indeed the Green Knight who had led them here in hopes of Merlin's help.

Ahead of him, Leon ducked to avoid a wet branch as he followed Lancelot and Arthur under the shady, dripping canopy of leaves. Merlin took a deep breath as he urged his horse to follow—and a second later, when the shadows engulfed him and a branch brushed his shoulder, he was grateful for it.

It felt like a great weight slammed into him, pushing the air out of his chest again and engulfing him in a pocket of bright, sizzling energy. There'd been nothing leading up to it, no tell-tale shimmer in the air as they'd entered the forest, and yet Merlin knew, in the split-second that it took for his vision to sharpen impossibly, that it was magic.

He gasped aloud at the answering surge of power that crested up in him, thrumming through his bones, and he felt his eyes go golden but he couldn't close them, couldn't even suck in some much-needed air as the world shook and convulsed around him. It felt like being yanked at by clumsy, curious fingers, his magic pulled up to the surface to tremble beneath his skin, infusing his veins with unbearable heat.

There was no way to call for help, no defense against the sensory assault. His ears filled with a cacophony of noise—the dripping water, the sounds of hooves squelching in the mud, it all mingled into a high, unearthly ringing. The silvery light that edged his vision looked familiar even as it mingled with black, and Merlin had just enough time to realize that this was the essence of the wild magic he'd felt in the Green Knight all along.

Then the world seemed to tilt crazily, but just before he blacked out, Merlin understood that it was him who was falling. Either way, he was helpless to do anything but succumb to the unearthing tide, and he closed his eyes and went under.






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