Oh lord.
I blame a lot of people for this one. Mith, Linden,
djsoliloquy,
wizzard890, and probably more of you that I am forgetting.
So, uh. Yes. This is the one where the Great Dragon writes Merlin/Arthur slash on the walls of his cave. And, uh, well. I will let his characterization of the boys speak for itself.
Title: Writer's Block
Author:
puella_nerdiiFandom: Merlin (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: the Great Dragon, and Merlin/Arthur. A very special kind of Merlin/Arthur.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~2600
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for the Great Dragon's name. Other than that, you're good.
Summary: Between plots to undermine Uther and getting Merlin out of his usual scrapes, the Great Dragon passes his time hopefully predicting the Great Destiny of his charge.
By which I mean, he writes slash.
‘Arthur paused, his face upturned to the light, and Merlin thought he had never seen a countenance so fair, a profile so strong, eyes such a clear shade of-’
Kilgharrah pauses in his inscription and tries to recall what colour the Prince of Prophecy’s eyes are. None of the tales of the old religion he has memorised mention it, and though he did not think it an oversight at the time, he wishes now they had thought to do so. They describe everything else about the boy: the constellations at the hour of his birth, the timbre of his first howl, the hue and texture of his hair, but nothing of his eyes. The legends of his own kind are no help, and one needs a codex to decipher the Druidic mumblings on the subject. Druids. Kilgharrah’s breath rumbles in his throat. Everything is allusion with them; if they did mention the prince’s eye-colour, it would be some sort of metaphor for the quality of his soul.
His soul is well enough, Kilgharrah supposes, or at any rate an improvement on his father’s, but he seeks something more tangible now. Again, he rests on his outcropping and recalls the relevant verses, the descriptions of the King-who-shall-be: the promised Prince, the chosen Prince, Arthur the Blessed, Arto-uiros the Bear, Arturus the Great, golden Arthur, Arthur grew into a man hale and sound, Arthur tall and broad rode forth-
Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, but what colour are his eyes?
Kilgharrah roars his discontent and claws at the last line he wrote, obliterating it. Very well. Merlin will make no note of Arthur’s eyes in this tale, or will refrain from remarking on their colour, at least. There are other things he can remark on, and let the Druids and priests quibble with Kilgharrah on those.
His tail twitches. For too long he has allowed himself to become distracted from his appointed task. Strange that so many distractions should come when there is so little to do, but such is the way of things.
‘Arthur paused, his face upturned to the light, and Merlin thought he had never seen a countenance so fair, a profile so strong-”
There ought to be a third part, Kilgharrah thinks. Everything in prophesies comes in threes.
‘-a profile so strong, a stance so steady.’
There, alliteration. He allows himself a moment of satisfaction.
‘He knelt before his sovereign and said-’
Here Kilgharrah pauses again. He knows what the boy should say. The boy should offer Arthur his protection and his services, after which Arthur will take Merlin’s hands and wonder if he should not have-no, Arthur will take his hands and notice their peculiar elegance and their warmth and then wonder if he should not have. There must be a better way of phrasing that.
The real problem is that Kilgharrah has spoken to the boy, and knows his tendency to ramble well past the point where his remarks have any significance. But, Kilgharrah reasons, he is writing of things yet to be, and perhaps by then young Merlin will have learned to shut up.
Or so Kilgharrah hopes.
He sharpens his talons, and continues:
‘He knelt before his sovereign, and said, “Sire, the road before us is a long one, but I have sworn to remain by your side, and so I shall, until my last flame dies.”’
No, humans use different metaphors for death, do they not?
‘“Until I pass to the realms beyond.”’
Better, and more in accordance with the prophesies.
‘And Arthur looked upon his servant, his companion, his friend, his shadow-self, his destiny-’
Kilgharrah carves that last so deep into the stone that his talon nearly gets stuck.
‘-and knew his father’s treacherous shrunken shriveled blackened worm-eaten filthy traitorous rancid roguish moldering wretched muck-begotten excuse for a heart had not been passed onto him, for something mightier was now stirring in his breast.’
…upon reflection, he could strike an adjective or two from that.
‘The compassion of a king, yes, but a compassion and an empathy far greater than that borne by a king towards his subjects, when the king in question is not a mad tyrannical twat: no, the feeling within Arthur now could no longer be contained, and when he took Merlin’s hands in his, he was nearly overcome by the sobs that shook his chest, the paroxysms of destiny.’
His talon is now well and truly stuck in the rock. Straining his wings in a manner more suited to a bat than a dragon, Kilgharrah propels himself backwards; chunks of stone scatter across his hide, and he shakes the dust from his talons. He must use more care with that word-but how can he, when the destiny in question carries such weight?
He snorts small puffs of steam. All the weight he places on that destiny, and Merlin still has yet to recognize its import. Perhaps Kilgharrah has been too subtle. Perhaps he ought to offer more explicit instructions the next time the boy visits.
Kilgharrah thought love and hate are two sides of the same coin was painfully obvious of him, but one can never underestimate a young man’s capacity for reason. Or mental acuity. Or any perceptive abilities whatsoever-is he is your destiny such a riddle to the boy? What does he think Kilgharrah means by it? His kind may be known for riddles, but the only riddle posed now is how the Sorcerer of Legend, He who Sees Through Time, can be so blind.
Does Arthur despair over that?
‘But did Merlin see, as Arthur did now, the bonds of destiny joining them? Did Merlin know the manner of torment he brought upon Arthur’s heart? And as Merlin’s hand, joined with Arthur’s, cupped his cheek to stem the flow of tears down it, did he know that even that touch made him question all he thought he knew?’
Now he does.
‘“What ails you, sire?” Merlin asked, concern creasing his brow.
‘“Do not trouble yourself with it,” answered Arthur, “for this is the burden of the king, who must face trials such as these alone.”
‘“No!” Merlin cried, and joined their hands more tightly. “I swore never to leave you, and I never shall; surely the hour before us now cannot be so dark.”
‘And truly they were not, for his words kindled a spark in Arthur’s heart. He said, “With you beside me, they will not be,” and kissed Merlin on both cheeks, as is the kingly custom.’
Or it was the kingly custom. Do human kings still do that? It has likely fallen out of fashion under Uther, Kilgharrah reasons, but the Once and Future King will see many of the old ways reborn under his reign, and that might be one of them.
It is a perfectly justifiable choice.
‘And in similar deference to the old customs,’ Kilgharrah continues, and he dares anyone to contradict his sources on that, ‘Merlin accepted the kisses with a hint of a flush to his cheeks. He had an honest face, he knew; would his liege see what was so clearly written upon it now? Arthur might weep for his kingly burdens, but oh, if he could see the burden Merlin carried: the weighty knowledge not only of his destiny-’ Kilgharrah scribes the word less deeply into the stone this time, ‘-but of the feelings attendant with it. He knew he would choose this path even if it had not been thrust upon him, but this, if anything, made it harder to bear.
‘Was this the true meaning of his destiny? To not only serve his king, but to give himself by blood and by fire-’
No, the human expression is different. Kilgharrah rumbles. What is that phrase? Ah.
‘-but to give himself body and soul to that service?’
Observant scholars, should any happen upon this cave, will note the parallels between Merlin’s description of his true destiny and the writings of Cuthbert the Wise on kingship, and will then note that Merlin and Arthur are not so unalike as they think. One’s thoughts mirror the other’s, after all, and Kilgharrah thinks he has made that apparent to anyone who can read. They are, indeed, two sides of the same coin. (Kilgharrah must find a good place to work that in. He is most fond of the metaphor; better than the Druidic ones, at any rate.)
Yes, the parallels are established, their destinies mutually acknowledged, the scene set, and all that remains is for the young men to do something about it. Gaius has expressed similar frustrations, when Kilgharrah has spoken to him on the subject, and Nimueh-Nimueh’s thoughts on the matter are hardly worth consideration. He sniffs. He finds her interpretation of the prophesies very questionable, and has been saying as much since before his imprisonment.
At least she has stopped overlooking the importance of the destined bond between Merlin and Arthur; it took her long enough to come around. Kilgharrah, however, disapproves of the ways in which she makes use of and twists that bond in her own work.
But this is his work, not hers. He bares his teeth. And if Arthur and Merlin are still blind to the forces that move them-well, that is what tales are for.
(And in a time of myth and a land of magic such as this, tales so often end up being true.)
Merlin ought to say something, Kilgharrah realizes. The boy cannot keep his mouth shut for long. And Kilgharrah has just the phrase.
‘“Sire,” Merlin said, and looked at his lord through the translucent screen of his third eyelid-’
No, humans don’t have those, do they? A pity. He rewrites it:
‘“Sire,” Merlin said, and looked at his lord. “If ever you need proof of my fealty…”
‘“Proof?” asked the Prince who would be King, and leaned in closer, close enough that their noses almost brushed; it was as though all the world was contained in that space between them, that cruel divide they could not cross-and yet. “What proof would you offer?”
‘“The proof of my heart,” Merlin proclaimed, and-’
Here, then, is the problem Kilgharrah faces. He knows, in part, what humans do at this stage; the lore is full of stories about the power of true love’s kiss. Presumably humans enjoy it, or else minstrels would not compose so many horrid songs on the subject. What they neglect to mention is how a kiss feels. Oh, they have sayings involving explosions of light and profusions of warmth, but Kilgharrah doubts they are meant to be taken literally. Though if they are, it would explain the human fondness for kissing, if one enjoys feeling as though one has been set aglow by a star.
Humans have enjoyed stranger things. Very well; Kilgharrah will repurpose what he can.
‘“The proof of my heart,” Merlin proclaimed, and when he kissed the other man, it was no kiss of fealty: this was a true kiss, a kiss borne of passion, a kiss bright enough to illuminate the night sky.’
No, that will not do.
‘-a kiss powerful enough to unite what had, for so long, been divided.’
Better, but not quite what he wants.
‘-a kiss fierce enough to tame even the wildest heart.’
No, that comparison is all wrong. Kilgharrah growls, crouches low, and stares at the runes sunken into the rock, his tail twitching. What should he make of this kiss?
He brings his foreleg to his jaws with no small difficulty and presses his mouth to the joint above his talons. The scales rasp and scrape in a way that makes the ridges along his spine stand on end, and he abandons the attempt, flicks his tongue out to catch different tastes. Humans indeed. They enjoy this? Well, perhaps it is more enjoyable without scales to get in the way.
There are new scents in the air: the char and smoke of burning wood, a human’s sweat, and smaller scraps of smell clinging to his clothes, the musk of horses and the grease of kitchens and the strange bitter odor of plants. Kilgharrah almost values Merlin’s visits for this alone, for the chance to smell something other than mud and rock and mold.
“I need your help,” young Merlin shouts. What a surprise. His timing could be better, though-or, just perhaps, this is Kilgarrah’s chance to receive aid in turn.
(For once.)
Kilgharrah takes to the air, as much as he can be said to do so with a chain clamped to his hind leg, and sets down opposite the boy. “Hello, young warlock,” he says, and does make an effort to bare his teeth in what humans think of as a smile. “What brings you here?”
Merlin seems to be making a determined effort not to meet Kilgharrah’s eyes. “It’s, well.” He clears his throat. “It’s Arthur. And, well. A well, actually. Arthur’s, ah, Arthur’s fallen down a well.”
“Arthur,” Kilgharrah repeats, “has fallen down a well.”
“It’s been enchanted,” Merlin says in a very small voice. “And it won’t let him out.”
Have you asked it nicely? Kilgharrah is tempted to say. He refrains. “To trap someone within a ring of stone is indeed old magic, and powerful. Breaking it will be made more difficult because Arthur is not spirit, but flesh. Quite solid and firm flesh,” he says, and does his best to make the word sound appetizing, but the reek of fear from Merlin indicates otherwise.
“How do I do it?” Merlin asks; if Kilgharrah listens, he can hear Merlin’s heart settle back into its normal cadence.
“Think, young warlock. Every enchantment has a focus; every stone structure has a key. What happens if either breaks?”
Excitement, rather than fear, rolls off Merlin now. “It falls apart,” he says. “The spell falls apart, the arch falls down. So I’ve got to find the key, then?”
Kilgharrah must be getting better at smiling, because Merlin is smiling back. “There is always a focus for these workings, young warlock,” he says. “Just as you and Arthur are the focus of a working far greater than you realize.”
“Right,” Merlin says; Kilgharrah smells the disdain dripping from him. “My destiny.”
“Do not scoff at your destiny, Merlin. To bear the weight of so great a man is not only an honor, it is a task for the ages.”
Kilgharrah listens and smells for any change, but if anything, Merlin’s scent grows more muddled. He suppresses the rumble growing deep in his throat. Surely such a powerful warlock cannot lack for imagination.
“Well, what if I don’t want to-bear his weight?” Merlin says, lowering the torch.
“You can take turns,” Kilgharrah offers.
And now Merlin’s scent cannot decide what it wants to be. He clears his throat several more times, and says, “Right. Well. I’d best be getting on with it, then.”
“Oh yes,” Kilgharrah says, quite pleasantly. “I would recommend that.”
“So I’ll go pick up Arthur.”
“I am sure,” Kilgharrah says, “he would appreciate it. And Merlin?”
“Yeah?”
“You must not allow the well-water to linger on his body, or his spirit will be drawn into the circle again. Dry him, thoroughly.” It takes all Kilgharrah’s composure not to lick his chops. “And then purify him.”
“Purify-”
“Hot water often does the trick with you humans,” he says, and takes flight, soars up until Merlin’s choked sputters fade.
It is only after he has once again turned to the wall and his carvings that he realizes he never did ask Merlin about kissing, or the rest.
Well, doubtless the boy will visit again, and Kilgharrah will think of a good way to broach those inquiries. For now, he thinks he has an idea for another tale. Humans do such interesting things when they bathe together.
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