Trust
a Merlin fanfiction
by Elfling

Summary: Merlin is unsure if he's feeling regret. The battle has raged for hours… "Arrest him!" cries the king.
Rating: T
Warnings: angst, some violence; AU/what if-story
Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Morgana, Uther, Guinevere/Gwen, Gaius
Pairings: Friendship? Romance? Nothing is intended as romance, but there are Merthur and Mergana elements if you take it that way.
Spoilers: Basically up to season 3 episode 1-2.
Disclaimer: 'Merlin' is property of BBC and I make no claims, profits or money by doing this. I've written this as a work of fan-fiction, to be read freely for entertainment. By writing this I don't gain anything, but the pleasure to write. When I'm finished I'll return all the characters safe and sound…Um, wait a minute, maybe not all of them.
Author's note: My first Merlin story - at least my first published Merlin story. I'd like to have some critisism, good or bad, constructive please. I'm still looking for a beta, so please do tell if you want to beta! Thanks. And enjoy please. This story is almost complete, written in 3 chapters. It began as a oneshot/one-chapter story, but as it turns out, it's hard to stop, isn't it?
Word count: 4873 (I-X)
Beta: Imperial Mint [reupload of chapter 29/10/10]

I.

It's dark. The kind of darkness you wish to take shelter from, to crawl under your blanket while you sleep. Merlin shudders, tries to shy away from it but to no avail. It is no better by the fact that dozens of creatures, dark and hard to make out in the foggy gloom, are sneaking up on him, disturbing the leaf-covered ground. Their scent warns him as does his sense for magic; whatever they were, they're dangerous and magical, and it makes him uneasy. He shifts, looks around. What was that? A sound?

Nothing.

A rustle. The aching of his shoulders. Every little thing he became aware of, itches against his skin, ants moving through the leaves, an owl howling in the distance; they all mocked him and his vulnerability.

Silence.

Nothing he's done has worked so far. The chains trap him and he cannot move. No words he says release him, magic cannot free him, only traps him harder; so he waits, tries to figure out how to get out of this mess and get back to Camelot. He must warn them!

Morgana. Morgause. They plotted against Uther, poisoned his dreams, and made him delusional. Rumour spread that the king was going mad. They had allied with Cenred, a king, and his army. Marching towards Camelot. Uther. Arthur.

Arthur.

Merlin needs to warn Arthur. The stupid prat is going himself killed. But how? He's trapped. Think, think.

In his head he can just imagine Arthur smirking at him – 'It's really not one of your redeemable features, Merlin.'

II.

The sky is boiling, the clouds heavy as if thunder soon will strike, once for each sword clashing against another. The cobble stones of the street are being painted with red, red as the knights' cloaks, scarlet and bleeding, something they'd rather turn their eyes away from but cannot - not in this chaos. Smells of death and blood and sweat make their eyes hard and armours slowing them down. Contrasting against dark gloomy night are a thousand spears and glowing torches.

"Sire!"

A voice in the mist. It takes a while for him to hear it.

"Sire!"

Two days since Merlin had gone. Disappeared. Vanished. It weights his heart down like a stone, at least for a moment, but the circumstances made him force any such thoughts aside. There is a battle to think of. Defending Camelot. In his ill father's place. Where his idiot manservant had gone matters very little.

"Sire!"

He swirls around, something brushes against his cheek and almost knocks him over; but he beats the odds, regains balance, parries a blow, keeps glancing off towards the left for Sir Kay and Sir Leon, to see if they were yet alive in this mess.

"What?" he demands, once he get a bit away from the front lines, where a knight is waiting for him, face flushed as if he'd just been running a race.

"Your father, sire, he's gone from his chambers. We cannot find him, nor his armour and sword."

He doesn't roll his eyes or mutter or give a sarcastic remark, just gives the knight a serious gaze, fists clenching and unclenching. Gone! Where could he have gone in this chaos? He's going to get himself killed!

"Begin a proper search, but I want the men concentrating on our defences." Cannot let them take Camelot.

"Yes, sire."

And the knight's gone into the murky masses, cloak swirling behind him, and Arthur doesn't want to linger on the word – gone – so he turns back to the advancing enemy. They are like hordes of madmen, streaming on, endlessly. Shouting, barking, like dogs; each time one falls two came to take its place; there is no control. Arthur doesn't like the loss of control. Being outnumbered. It was a weakness, and he hates weaknesses, when they were obvious, shown, taken advantage of. And his father's escape – he must have escaped, both his chambers and Gaius' sleeping draughts – worries him more, for Uther's dead body is nothing he wants to see, but the old fool would get himself in trouble in the state he is in.

Camelot is being tainted by a thousand bloodied swords.

III.

The pain is unexpected. Sudden. He gasps and twists, feeling sick and overcome; at first he doesn't understand where or what it comes from.

His senses begin to blur, and he realizes that there's nowhere to go, he's still chained and unable to move. He shouts, eyes glowing beautifully golden, and the creatures are hurled backwards into the thick trees with loud, piercing shrieks. However, it doesn't stop them for long. They are many more now than a minute before and all determined upon killing him. They crawl back, but he cannot see them any clearer when they're closer, it's so dark.

Merlin looks at the sky, at the dark canopies above him, and cannot see very far. It's blurry. It hurts. He cannot see any stars.

He hasn't thought that this was how he would die.

So terribly alone. When he's been so close. So close! Close at revealing Morgana and her plot. Or was that it? Maybe close at helping Arthur. Changing him into a better man, someone who'd one day make a king. Not a pratty prince. Friend. An idiot one, at that.

Merlin would have laughed hysterically or maybe cried, if it wasn't for the pain. The laugh twists into a shout, for aid, for anything, and in his pain he cannot remember what words his lips forms or if his eyes are blue or golden. It matters very little. The world is turning darker. Misty and blue, a bit like Arthur's eyes and the young warlock suddenly scowls; how can he think of Arthur right now? The prat. The stupid, stupid prat who couldn't dress himself or find his own socks or protect himself from anything but maybe deer and rabbits or maybe not even them. Useless. No, his mind protests, he's no useless, he's good…a good man, when it comes to it. Could help out of good will, at times, not just because of duty.

Only vaguely could he recall the last time he'd called Arthur a prat. A few days ago? A week? God, he should have called him a prat again and whacked him over the head. Like a kind of good-bye. A memory.

Told him about his magic. Then it wouldn't have mattered if he was going to be executed, he feels like he's dying now anyway. Fading away. But he doubts, a little, that Arthur would really let hum burn at the stake.

Told him his secrets. One by one. Stripping himself down to the bone. Because he meant so much ... and maybe, didn't realize it, not the right way, not the way Merlin thought of him. Of his heart.

Because I believe in your destiny, Merlin thinks, before he closes his eyes, barely aware of the fire or hot wind ghosting over his face, making the leaves tickle his skin right above the collar.

You'll be a great king, Arthur.

One day.

IV.

"Father!"

Uther struggles against his son and sir Leon, who grasps his upper arms to steady his wobbly steps. "No! This is my fight, my battle." Arthur doesn't know why. "Let go, Arthur. Let go!"

"You're in no condition to fight." Arthur nearly shouts into his face and despite the adrenaline and blood it's only his own willpower that makes him keep composed. He couldn't show panic, or uncontrolled anger or annoyance, he needed to stay composed and in charge. "Take him back to the hospital," he tells Sir Leon, and the knight nods briefly before shouting to someone to aid him, begins – forcibly – walking towards the citadel, Uther still struggling, but also fevered and weakened. The knight guides him behind shadowed walls, outside which the battle will rage on for many hours on end.

Arthur briefly allows himself to pause and breathe, resting his head in his hands, filled still with all kinds of thoughts, uncertainties, and where the hell is Merlin?

They still don't know what is causing Uther's madness, illness, whatever it can be called. None of Gaius' remedies helps other than making him go back sleep, troubled. None of Morgana's soft consolations soothes his soul. He burns. His mind... Nothing. Arthur feels hopeless and he hates it, it's like watching his father dying by falling into pieces, so easily. It's…frightening.

Then he is back in the battle and forgets everything else.

V.

'…Merlin.'

'Merlin!'

His head pounds. Cautiously he tries to raise his hands, his arms, but they are heavy and dull. It is hard to move. Each and every bone in his body aches. Blood rushes through his veins loudly, his heart his sore, like a drum in his chest. Chilly winds wrap around him like a cloak, and he shivers, and only that makes it possible for him to open his eyes.

The moonlight falling onto him, tranquil and pale, is sharp as sunlight.

But a large, dark silhouette somehow dampens the light. Moves to stand in its way. Merlin blinks, unsure what to think or do, and by god, it still hurts and he barely can speak, his tongue feels thick and swollen.

"…you? Here?" he murmurs, at last, meeting the large yellow eyes.

"You are awake, young warlock," the beast observes, and for once, Merlin feels extremely grateful that the dragon is there.

The fire. The smoke. The heat. It must've been Kilgharrah. I called… But he has no remembrance of doing so. Never - during the one year since Arthur had dealt it a mortal blow - has Merlin used his power as a Dragonlord. He doesn't need it. He doesn't want to face the beast that he wants to trust but is unsure if he can. Conflicted with pain and emotions, he stares up at it, blinks again. The dragon's gaze is unwavering and sharp.

"You need to rest," says the beast. "You were wounded by the serket, and its poison is strong. I placed an enchantment on you to quicken the healing of your wound."

"…You came," are the next two words he manages to say, loud enough to be heard.

"Not even I could resist the call of a Dragonlord."

Thank you, his mind whispers, but he dares not say it out loud, it might give the dragon the idea that he was free to go, but Merlin realizes that Kilgharrah is the one reason he is alive right now had he'd rather stay breathing. Alive. Arthur. But he cannot move. He cannot walk. Cannot rise. Camelot! his mind screams, so suddenly that he jerks awake from the half-sleep he had begun drifting into. Arthur!

"Camelot…Morgana and Morgause are going to…" Struggling to sit. Can't, too weak – so he falls back with a sigh, briefly closing his eyes. "The kingdom is in danger … Arthur's in danger. And it's my fault!" He's in anguish but cannot hit or throw anything, his body sore and slow and heavy, but his eyes flash and it feels like something inside of him breaks. My fault.

It is hard to read the face of a dragon, even if he has faced it so many times and tried to understand its riddles. "The city is already being assaulted by king Cenred's army. He has allied with Morgause and the witch."

Panic. It is harder to breathe, not only because of the pain.

Arthur.

"I need to go back to Camelot."

"You are yet very weak, warlock," Kilgharrah says and the strong voice echoes through the forest, vibrating in its chest and causing the ground to feel uncertain. The moonlight and free crisp air makes the beast look smaller than it seemed when chained beneath the castle, confined within a cave. Now it had freedom, and Merlin, briefly, again, thought back of when he released it and caused so much destruction and death. Because of him. So many had suffered.

It had to change. Somehow.

"I…I'll be fine," Merlin grunts and now manages to sit, but using both his arms, tense and trembling, to hold himself up. On the verge of collapsing, his whole body protests, warns him, but he chooses to ignore it all.

"Your courage and determination is admirable," and now there's definitely amusement; thought it fades and even if it wasn't concern, Merlin felt it was something akin to it; "But you need to rest and revive your strength. It's a long walk back to the city."

No questioning about Morgana or Morgause or what he's soon or heard, no riddles either, and it's strange getting used to that. The silence. Maybe even obedience.

Merlin's eyes snaps open and he stares at the beast and the sky. Large and free. Both to his advantage. The sky is open, moonlit and wide, silent like the forest and unguarded. Setting his jaw in resolve, he pushes up to his knees, ignoring the yellow eyes scrutinizing him, staring him down into the ground, for he does not plan on walking. No. Not at all.

Not when I have the chance of doing this. Changing something. For Camelot.

For Arthur.

Every inch of his body trembles with pain and magic and emotion that wants to burst out of his chest and create fire, as he make his decision, and he ignores all protests that the dragon voices or mutters in his mind. Ignoring - because it's stupid and foolish, his plan. It'd been foolish to follow Morgana in the first place. Getting caught by Morgause's men and getting tied with chains that his magic couldn't break.

But he needs to get back.

To Arthur.

And quickly.

VI.

Arthur does not sleep this night. He might have rested a while, but never sleeping, never failing to keep alert. The sword lies across his knees as he waits, for answers and morning. Gaius was within his father's chambers, where Uther slept with fever and horrifying dreams beside him. But Arthur neither sleeps nor dreams. He stares out the dusty window, and plans another counterattack. The need to push away the enemy. A breath of air. Just a short while.

He wants his father. No, needs him. Needs him to stay, stay alive, get better, and advise him on what to do. Because Uther was his father and he knew how to handle this situation. How to win this battle! He needed his father. Camelot needed his father, a king.

Gaius walks past, shaking his head, no, no improvements; Arthur checks through the window one last time before walking inside the chamber and trying not to have a fit or sob with despair, because it's unbecoming of a prince, especially an adult prince in war, leading thousands of men.

Morgana sits by the bed, all velvet and large, sad eyes, gazing sternly at the king, briefly offering a small smile at Arthur as he enters, still standing. Wearing his armour, dirty and bloodied, tainting the pale room with its presence. The sword – unsheathed and cleaned – resting in his hand, a familiar weight.

Not a word passes between them. Arthur feels this strange worry about Morgana, like she has changed – a year she had been gone before they found her; of course she must have changed. Whether it's for good or ill, he is unsure and it makes him uneasy. He's always been a bit uneasy with Morgana around, with her sharp eyes watching every movement, like a hawk. Every word. Nothing passed her by.

Then she nods at him, and walks away, leaving them both to their own thoughts.

His voice feels rough and he wants to use it, but has no idea what to say. He doesn't move closer, takes his father's hand, because he is dirty by battle and an adult, a man, he shouldn't keep waiting and praying; he should take matters into his own hands. The king sleeps. Looking a bit peaceful, even as his skin gleams sickly.

The battle has been raging since evening.

VII

They are so foolish. All of them. Like puppets. So easy to trick and sneak past and they react too late; earlier she might have worried about it, when she was younger, but now she was glad of the flaws. The guards were drained, red-eyed, trying to find some air in-between the fights. The sky is dark, but the ceiling is in the way for her to see it.

Not a single glance went her way. She does not even need a cloak, no one pays attention anyway.

Down the hallways, above the battle rages on; fire crackles, cries of wounded men. Turns left. The corridors becomes more and more empty, for no one goes here, not even for protection during war; not to a vault of the dead. Dusty, quiet, abandoned.

It's only Morgana, the unmoving bodies, and the staff pulsating with magic in her hand.

VIII.

Despite pain and foggy disappointment, anger, worry, Merlin throws out his arms and shouts with strange joy, his stomach tickles and the air soars by. He's one with the wind, it rushes past his ears so loud he cannot hear his own voice, and he grins widely, for one small moment feeling something else than dread at the thought Dragonlord.

Camelot is still under attack, but they will reach the city before dawn. He has no real plan, just to intervene, jump in, save Arthur's skin. Arthur. Camelot. Uther, too, if he can, because he knows what ails the king, what Morgana and Morgause has done to drive him mad – and Camelot needs a king. Merlin knows, knows too much, and he fears what Morgana might do. She doesn't know his secret. But she knows that he poisoned her. Broke whatever trust they'd had. Trust. It's so hard to find.

He saddens when thinking about her.

…"I thought since she has magic, I thought…we were the same."

I trusted her.

"You did what you thought was right, and that shows great courage."

Kilgharrah's words, etched into his memory, leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Trust. He is unsure, now, what it is and to whom it should be given. As a child it had been easy. You and I meet, share a talk or a joke and play, before you know it we're friends, we share everything. But not now, it's not simple anymore. After meeting Arthur. Could he trust Arthur? With his life – yes. Yes. But his secrets? His magic? The emotions that are tearing him apart and make him want to scream?

He is unsure, even if he makes up decisions in his mind and the dragon sounds displeased and tries to argue, but he has his mind set now. He doesn't trust Kilgharrah, not much, because the dragon is so hard to understand, his plots, double-play.

"Trust is a double-edged sword."

Arthur is, too, and Merlin doesn't know if he has any shield left to protect himself with.

IX.

The lower town is ablaze, covered with dust, littered with bodies and torches. Smoke saturated with ashes. His eyes sting sharply; he wants to shield them, but cannot – cannot back away, cannot lower his guard.

At some point, Cenred's army raises their bows and let go of a rain of arrows. Cascading onto red-cloaked armoured knights and cobble stone. Most warriors do not react in time. A cry somewhere on his left as someone is hit and felled.

They're fighting a losing battle. But Arthur refuses to break. Let go. He will stand his ground. Not accept defeat.

He will die fighting, he knows already. For Camelot.

Someone slashes a sword right before his nose, he hurls backwards on instinct, a second from being beheaded. The foe ends up incapacitated but he doesn't really register how, unmoving, throat bared.

Everything is such a mess, and no one is there to pick up the pieces.

A tremble rushes through the air and Arthur nearly loses his balance but it's over, a flash of a moment later, like nothing happened, time becomes alive again. He is still fighting, standing atop of a pile, a better viewpoint of disaster. Yet he is quite lucky, without major injuries, no broken bones or bleedings or mortal wounds, mere scratches and bruises in the sea of wrecked bodies. Sore. Tired. Frustrated.

A voice reaches his ear, only faintly. He's almost deaf already, but reacts anyway. He can vaguely recognize the knight's face, wide and open with shock, staring behind Arthur, behind the knights. Arthur spins around, freezing on the spot, sword in defence position.

Bony hands cradles the hilt of a deadly weapon, covered with rust or blood, it's unsure which.

What on earth- the prince manages to think, before he is thrown into combat with a dead man.

X.

Merlin has to cling desperately, till his knuckles turned white, to the horns in the juncture between the dragon's giant head and its neck. The world is small and rushing by beneath him, blurred by his eyes and the darkness and his headache. Some time when they were leaving the moon behind them, his wound began aching terribly again; it must be the abrupt, jerky movements as the dragon turns. And he feels tired, so extremely tired, exhausted and drained, he wants to sleep and not wake up for a lifetime.

But he can't. Can't close his eyes. It's too dangerous. Can't fall. Holding on stiffly, knees pressed against the sides of Kilgharrah's neck, he tries to keep the balance. He has to stay conscious, to save the pratty idiotic prince from Cenred and Morgana and Morgause and mainly himself and his stupid, stupid ways to do things.

Suddenly it matters little or maybe not at all if he reveals his magic. Himself – there, to Arthur, because he wants to, it's his destiny, he wants to just let it go, say it, show it so very much, it hurt.

Wants and hopes that Arthur will – if not understand – then accept, that he kept it hidden, why he did it, why he had to reveal it now. Hopes that Arthur will not let him die. Give him to Uther. Burning at the stake.

Please.

The sky cringes as Kilgharrah cleaves the air.

He can, when lifting heavy eyelids, see Camelot glowing against the horizon, silent and weathered, smoke rising from its tines and towers.

"Please."

The dragon's voice echoes in his head, like it hears his whisper, but Merlin knows that of course Kilgharrah hasn't.

'Do you truly wish this, warlock?' Questioning. Merlin doesn't answer. It hurts. "There will be consequences, some you may not be able to work against. I did not foresee this."

'I can deal with it.'

It hurts because it feels like he is betraying Arthur and he is going to do it again and again, losing him bit by bit when at last they were able to call each other Friend when no one else was around. And he is going to lose that now, betraying Arthur's trust once and for all - he is going to see Merlin's lies. And Gwen too, she was going to be so shocked and maybe even scared of him and Gaius, Gaius, he'd chop his head off. He was betraying Uther too, but the thought does not hurt as much.

He doesn't want Arthur to hate him.

He's afraid of the day when Arthur's going to hate him.

A shudder suddenly wrenches through his body and he gasps and almost falls off the dragon's back, as Kilgharrah too feels the strong tug of magic. Merlin accidentally bumps his head against the dragon's neck. His mind pounds. There is pain; he cannot remember feeling this bad ever before, it was the poison as well as the aching in his heart and this strange, sudden worry.

The world spins.

'The witch has made her first move,' says the dragon, half-unnecessary, because in his heart Merlin already knows.

"We have to stop her!" he cries, both in thought and out loud.

Was it surprise? Amusement? He cannot tell. 'We?'

Yes. You're with me now whether you like it or not.

"I need your help, Kilgharrah."

Merlin cast a glance at the sky and at the burning city in the distance before he closes his eyes. I don't betray you, Arthur, please, understand. I do this for you, because I have faith in you. Camelot needs to stay alive.

The words ring heavily through his head.