Arthur Pendragon had marched on the Druid camp in deference to his father. What he hadn't anticipated was the complete lack of resistance. None took up arms, instead kneeling in defiance. Arthur had withheld the order to attack. Maybe if his father could see them, he'd realize they weren't really a threat. Arthur changed the order to one of arrest, but the moment a mother screeched as her child was torn from her arms and naturally fought back was all his father's knights needed to begin the slaughter.

Arthur had dived in as well when several of the Druid men withdrew knives and clubs, attacking the knights attacking their families. He fell into the easy rhythm of battle, and the usually peaceful Druids were a sorry match for his prowess. Or so he thought until one managed to knock his sword from his hand with a particularly crushing blow to his arm. Arthur heard the snap of his wrist and sucked in a breath at the pain. He fell back and the Druid made to smash his head like a melon, when a boy appeared out of nowhere, throwing himself in front of the prince.

Arthur stared into the boy's blue eyes as the club hit him in the back and sent him sprawling. Arthur had time to retrieve his sword and thrust it through the chest of the Druid who collapsed dead. One of his father's knights had appeared, grasping the back of the boy's shirt collar and hauling him into the air. He held his sword to the boy's neck.

"Wait!" Arthur cried out. "Stop!"

The knight suddenly dropped his sword and the boy. The boy darted away into the battle. Arthur stared after him until his father's knight fell onto him, a knife in his back. Arthur was forced back into the battle.

Merlin stumbled through falling bodies and stamping feet. His back roared in pain, but he kept going. A normal child might have faltered, but Merlin was far from normal. He was seeing time in slow motion, able to dodge obstacles as he made for the woods. He reached them and ran until breathless. He fell and curled up near a tree, praying he wouldn't be found, but afraid he would. After all, he'd seen the man who'd haunted his steps ever since he was born.

Arthur stared blankly at the numerous bodies dotting the Druid camp. None had been left alive. He tried to tell himself he'd just been following orders, but the corpses of women and children cried out to him. He shook his head, pushing away guilt. They may have looked innocent, but they were magic users. His father had told him from the time he was born you couldn't trust those who used magic. They were wolves in sheep's clothing.

A knight tended to his broken wrist, bandaging it and creating a makeshift sling from fabric torn from a Druid's clothing. Trying not to think of the battle, Arthur's mind flitted to the boy who'd taken the blow meant for him. He'd started to think he imagined the whole thing. Why would a Druid boy step in and save a man murdering...no, he corrected, killing...his people?

Once he was patched up, he called for a return to camp. It was too late to head home with news of a victory. Better to rest and eat after such physical exertion.

Arthur found himself alone back at the camp, not hungry and unable to joke and laugh as his father's knights were. He'd come of age six months ago, but even so, many of the knights chafed at his leadership. Almost all of them were far older than he was. He could only think of one that had always gone out of his way to be kind, Leon, but he'd stayed home this time.

Arthur wished his father would let the younger knights come on expeditions like this. Some of them were his friends, but his father was obsessive over his safety and even though he knew Arthur had to be allowed to exercise his leadership, he also desired his protection. The more experienced knights would do that, or so he said.

A breeze blew through the camp, rustling the trees and bushes surrounding it. Arthur blinked lazily, tired. A bush rustled again. Arthur frowned. There had been no breeze that time. He concentrated on the bush and after a while, it trembled ever so slightly. Arthur slowly stood. He walked in the opposite direction of the bush, then into the woods, drawing his sword and circling back around to come at the bush from the back.

Arthur stepped lightly, his boots barely making noise as he'd been trained. He could just make out a form crouched behind the bush. He came up right behind it and pressed his sword into it. The form yelped and whirled around to face him. His face blanched. It was the boy who had saved him.

"What was that?" a knight called out.

Arthur cursed and sheathed his sword, then grasped a wad of the boy's jacket, dragging him deeper into the woods as fast as he could. He didn't stop until the sounds of knights ceased behind them. He dropped the boy to the ground and leaned against a tree. The boy scooted backwards on his rear. Arthur couldn't see his expression in the dark.

"Foolish idiot," Arthur hissed. "Why did you come back here?"

The boy didn't answer.

"You need to go. Run."

"You...you don't want to kill me?"

"You saved my life. Why would I kill you?"

"You killed all the Druids."

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. The boy talked like he didn't belong to the Druids. "You're not a Druid?"

"No," the boy readily admitted.

"Where do you come from?"

"Ealdor."

In Cenred's kingdom. The boy was a long way from home. "Why are you here, then?"

"I...I..."

"Well?"

"I...left home. The Druids found me in the woods."

Arthur laughed at that. "You're a runaway. Well, then, run away. Go."

"I don't want to go home."

Arthur knelt down and looked into the boy's eyes, well, where he thought they were in the dark. "Do you know who I am?"

Once again, the boy refrained from answering.

"Athur Pendragon. Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. My father is the king, and you are a child that should obey when royalty commands you."

The boy remained silent.

"Go." Arthur infused all the harshness he could muster into the word.

"I...can't."

"Why not?" Arthur asked in exasperation.

But the sound of shouts and running feet interrupted him.

Do you know who I am? the prince had asked. Merlin hadn't known, but he'd wanted to say he'd seen this man from the time he was four. He'd dreamed about him almost every night of his life. He'd even given him a name—the Dragon Man, since he'd seen a dragon symbol on his clothing almost every time. Then the man said he was a prince. A prince of Camelot!

Why are you here, then? Because the voice had told him to go. Because the voice shouted at him every night for the last month until it hurt too much, and he obeyed.

The Druids had taken pity on him. He'd explained what he'd seen and heard, but even they weren't sure what it meant. Still, they didn't send him back and he thought they had secrets of their own, because he'd catch some of them staring at him as if they were awed and afraid at the same time.

He'd been terrified when the knights showed up, though he was also confused. He'd recognized the dragon symbol from his dreams. They'd been attacked, and he'd intended to hide during the entire battle. Then this man in front of him had fallen right next to his hiding spot. He'd beheld the face of the Dragon Man in real life for the first time. He'd jumped in front of him without thinking.

Go. He couldn't. He'd found the Dragon Man, and he knew if he left him, the voice would torment him once more.

"Sire!" A knight stumbled into Arthur who shouted.

"Watch out!"

"You disappeared."

"Can't a man relieve himself without being watched?"

"I'm sorry, sire." The knight became aware of a form cowering at his feet. He reached down to grip a limb and forced the child to stand. "Who's this?"

"A boy," Arthur said, keeping his voice even. "I found him wandering."

"Where are you from?" the knight asked, shaking him. "Are you a Druid, boy?"

"He's not," Arthur said quickly. "I already questioned him. He's on his own out here. No family."

The knight let the boy go. "An orphan, eh? Tough luck for him."

"Indeed. I've offered him a meal and a place to sleep for the night."

The knight grunted, but turned to move back to camp, shouting out, "I found him. He's alright. Get back to camp."

"Well, I suppose we'd better keep to the ruse," Arthur muttered, pushing the boy in the back towards the camp. The boy gasped. "I forgot...You were hurt."

"It's alright."

Arthur didn't believe that for a moment, but he waited until they made it back to camp, and the boy had been handed a bowl of stew and drunk from a water skin. Arthur was able to get a better look at him now. He guessed he was around twelve years of age, awkwardly lanky and pale with a mop of raven hair. His clothing was simple—a rust jacket, blue shirt, and red neckerchief.

"Let me see your back," Arthur insisted once the boy had finished eating.

The boy bit his lip, looking scared.

"Come on," Arthur said, wiggling his own arm in a sling. "I had to be looked after, too."

The boy slipped off his jacket and shirt, and Arthur turned him gently around to look. He whistled. A large diagonal bruise had formed across his back from his right shoulder to the center of his left side.

Arthur rose. "Wait here." He made his way to his horse, withdrew a small bottle from a saddlebag, and returned. He handed the bottle to the boy. "For the pain. Only drink a little."

The boy did as he was told, sipping it, then handing it back to Arthur. He redressed.

"Now, here's a blanket." Arthur passed it to the boy, who promptly wrapped it around his shoulders. "Get some sleep." The boy snuggled down, his face to the fire. Arthur lay back on his own pallet, staring at the boy's still form continuing to wonder why a child had seen fit to save his life.

Merlin watched the dancing flames of the fire, listening to the deep breaths of the Dragon Man—Arthur Pendragon. He worried. If there was one thing his mother had drilled into him over the years it was never, ever to show anyone his magic, and especially not anyone from Camelot. The king, she'd said, hated magic users. He killed them and drove them out of his kingdom. She always talked with such vehemence that Merlin sensed a personal story, though he never weaseled it out of her.

And now here I am, lying next to the prince of Camelot! And he's the Dragon Man! He should leave now, before they figured out he had magic. But if he did, that insistent voice would come back again, he knew it.

Merlin shivered in the blanket. How he wished he could use just a smidgen of his magic to draw a flame from the fire closer to him. No. They'll kill me. Merlin's breath caught in his throat. I can't stay here...but I can't go. I can't. He let miserable tears roll down his cheeks.

Author's Note: So I'm usually a canon writer, but another member, Pri, set me off on the idea of a younger Merlin taken under Arthur's wing and I decided to give my first in depth AU a go. I've actually written quite a bit already and I'm enjoying the fun of playing with the characters in a different way. More to come...