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Mordred was naive to believe, even for a moment, that he wasn't bad luck.
Everything had been so good with Merlin and the dragons. He lived with dragons in a secure, hidden, safe den. And Merlin. Even if he hates the name, Merlin is Emrys. His boogers have more magic than Mordred could ever comprehend.
But he's stupid.
Merlin was supposed to be strong and smart and safe.
But he's an idiot who can't understand that he isn't actually invincible.
Mordred had gotten too comfortable, too used to things just working out. He missed all the signs. His luck was rearing its ugly head again, and it's all Mordred's fault.
He didn't notice the red cloaks bleeding along the ridge. Too focused on Merlin, how cool he looked flying through the air, he didn't see anything until it was too late. Until his Merlin, his guardian, his something-Mordred-didn't-deserve-to-have-again was struck to the ground.
Mordred knows he’s supposed to be quiet, hidden behind shrubs, still waiting for their leaf buds to open. He screams anyway. Reaching out, scrambling to run, his cloak catches on something.
Riessorth.
She's whining and pulling at the cloak gripped in her jaw, eyes darting between Mordred and their- their-
“Let go!” He grips the other end, trying to wrench it away, but she won't budge. She’s digging her heels into the dirt, keeping Mordred in place.
Merlin is still shrieking in agony. Mordred turns to find another spear in his wings. Desperately, his fingers claw at the clasp around his throat in an attempt to ditch the cloak altogether. He can't get his fingers to work right. It's getting harder to breathe.
His magic is sitting right there, ready to lash out, building pressure in his chest, but he can't get the air to scream.
The earth shakes under the weight of Merlin's roar. Time seems to stand still, everything suspended for a moment. There are men standing around him. The man from the cart approaches him with something long and brown in his hand.
Mordred doesn't notice the bramble pushing up against his legs, the branches bending down towards him, his eyes are transfixed on the man putting a collar on his- his neck. When the buckle is locked in place, the vile stench of dark magic that fills the air is suffocating.
The tugging returns, stronger now.
“Riessorth!” Mordred turns to yell, demanding he be released to go and run and do something.
Riessorth isn’t the one pulling him.
Tangled in a mess of shrubs is his cloak, bunch by bunch, being passed along bare branches, pulling him away and blocking his line of sight. An absent breeze sends Riessorth stumbling backwards, wind pushing up beneath her wings.
It’s Merlin’s doing.
Mordred knows it’s Merlin’s magic twisting the world like wicker. It’s that low, humming vibration reaching up from the depths of the dirt, humming the same tune that Merlin does when he’s folding laundry. Everything in the way air wraps around him like a feathered wing. Mordred keeps getting pulled by a firm and gentle hand, shuffling him away, away, away.
He can’t hear Merlin’s shrie— Merlin anymore. Can’t hear the metallic scraping of armor or the drum of hooves.
There’s nothing but him, Riessorth, and the dumb doe that keeps poking into her nose into Mordred’s back. Her fawn is stumbling ahead of him, goading the young dragon to keep moving. Squirrels and bunnies scurry alongside them, birds flitting between branches, keeping pace and keeping lookout.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been walking now, only that his feet hurt and he’s pissed off. They aren’t taking the way Mordred and Riessorth came, not that he actually remembers anything about it. He’d been plotting it with the dragonlings for days— whenever they went on their hunts, Mordred devised his plan. He and Riessorth would follow behind as backup, sneaking out once Kilgharrah fell asleep. Once Merlin had left, the old dragon was out like a candle.
It was supposed to be simple; he was supposed to be useful.
Now he’s being marched off by a furry brigade.
All of these animals he would normally be so happy to see—amazed to be so close to—are being so gentle and encouraging. He just wants them to go away. Even the stupid mouse sitting on his shoulder.
He doesn’t deserve this.
This kindness, this protection, this reminder that the only reason the animals are acting like this is because Mordred screwed up big time. He pressured Merlin into chasing the egg. He was too slow to react. He was unlucky.
There’s no reprieve until the sky glows orange with the steady departure of the sun. Some of the animals have moved on, replaced once Mordred entered into new territory. Now he’s sitting up against the flank of a ten-point red stag with Riessorth’s head in his lap in a small clearing, picking at the skin around his fingernails because nature decided he needs to wait here and there’s no one to stop him from his bad habits.
He’s hungry, and Merlin’s bag, with their jerky and dried fruit, is sitting abandoned somewhere at the base of the mountain. He looks at the stag as if he could ask permission to get up and forage the area for anything edible. The stag doesn’t take his eyes away from the forest before him; his ears twitch at rustling in the distance.
Mordred assumes it must be some other creature coming to switch positions, guide Mordred and Riessorth the rest of the way to the den. They must be a large creature, maybe with a bum leg, because they’re making quite a bit of noise.
But then there’s a voice.
Shouting.
Mordred’s at his feet before he realizes what he’s doing, tries backing away, but the deer—now standing with him—doesn’t budge.
“Stop pulling my hair!” the shouting, a man, is close enough for Mordred to pick up on the words. “You stupid, magic bird!” Stumbling through the underbrush, dragged by a familiar bird, is an unfamiliar man.
Olive doesn’t release the brown hair from her beak until he’s standing in the clearing with Mordred, just a few paces away. She easily evades his swatting hands to swoop over to Mordred’s shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek. He hasn’t seen her since she delivered his sword to the druid camp.
She sat with him and let him vent his frustrations over Merlin and the druids, like she could understand. Maybe she did. Merlin was never about the extent of her magic.
Her presence now feels like a blossom of hope.
“Fucking finally,” The man mumbles, standing tall and smoothing his hands over his hair, only to freeze at the sight of a boy and the creatures of the forest. “What?”
Mordred watches his eyes flit around, zeroing in on Riessorth sitting at his heel. The stag and Olive are calm, which he assumes is a good sign, but his hands clench at his side in preparation.
“Mordred?”
The boy’s breath catches in his throat, eyes widen in panic. “Who are you?” He demands, “How do you know my name?”
“Merlin told me about you.” The man takes a step forward, hand softly reaching. He pauses when Mordred tenses. “My name is Gwaine. Did Merlin tell you about me?”
Gwaine. Merlin couldn’t shut up about him. For a moment at that time, Mordred almost thought Merlin had replaced Arthur with this strange man with an affinity for bad ideas. “You helped him rescue an egg.”
“Yes,” Gwaine nods enthusiastically, his face relaxing into something soft. Something kind. “Temmanth, red with a little blue. Merlin got himself into a pickle when he was disguised as an old man. I helped him, and he healed me in return. Then we had to chase Temmanth across half the Kingdom.”
Mordred manages a little smile, “He’s still just as much of a troublemaker. Maybe more.” Definitely more.
Gwaine looks around again, looking for something he won’t find. “Where’s Merlin?”
Mordred opens his mouth only to croak, tears coming before he can do anything to stop them. He’s spent most of the day being pissed at Merlin, pissed at himself, and doing everything to ignore the aching pit in his chest. The image of Gwaine grows blurry as his cries turn to sobs, wracking his chest with rickety breaths.
His world grows dark as he’s tucked into Gwaine’s chest, more compassion he shouldn’t be receiving. Hands are rubbing his head, patting his back, but they’re all wrong. They aren’t the right size, the shirt rubbing against his cheek is the wrong material, the smell unfamiliar.
“They took him.” Words spill unbidden.
“Who? What ha-”
“The red men,” Mordred sobs, feeling like a child with blistered feet, dirt-stained cheeks with twigs in his hair, crying to the first druid he could find after he watched his parents be slaughtered by evil men in red cloaks. “The red men took him. They hurt his wings. They- they used m-m-magic and- and-”
It’s getting difficult for him to breathe again, words failing with his lungs.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Gwaine coos in his ear. He takes deep breaths, his chest swaying into Mordred, easing him into following along. Mordred dutifully copies, unaware of being slowly lowered to the ground with Riessorth pressing into his back. “There we go.”
He sniffs, aggressively sucking the dribbling snot back up his nose like he could erase the evidence of his feelings. Pulling his sleeves over his hands, he uses the material to scrub at his eyes, hoping to wash away the overwhelming feelings of despair gripping his stomach.
“So the knights of Camelot captured Merlin? Using magic?” Gwaine asks, leaning to catch Mordred’s eyes.
He nods, trusting his voice to remain steady. Coughing into his elbow, he clears the rest of his emotions away. “As a dragon.”
“Huh?”
“They captured him as a dragon,” Mordred clarifies, hoping that he won’t need to explain anything more.
Gwaine stares off at nothing, his hands squeezing Mordred’s shoulders. He wonders if the older man has any idea of what it could mean that they took Merlin the dragon. That they were able to. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Gwaine states, resolve clear in his eyes. A rush of relief flows through him. “The den, it’s in Andor?”
“Yes,” Mordred nods, “Up in the caves. Kilgharrah and the other dragonlings are there.”
“Okay, then we’re going to go there,” Gwaine nods, mostly to himself. “We go back to the den, get you home, and tell Kilgharrah what happened. And we write to Arthur, see what he knows.”
“What about Merlin?”
Gwaine’s mouth presses into a thin line. “If they took him alive, then we have to trust that they will keep him that way for at least a little while. And if they took him back to the castle, that means he’s with Arthur. Arthur will do everything he can to keep him as safe as he can be.”
“Okay,” Mordred assents with little confidence. Looking around the clearing, he finds that the animals have left, leaving just Gwaine, Riessorth, Olive, and himself. He takes a moment to convince himself that everything will be okay. He’s partially successful. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Gwaine stands, reaching out a hand to help pull Mordred up with him.
Dusting off his cloak, Mordred spies a sword on Gwaine’s hip. “Merlin says you’re impressive with a blade.”
“That’s kind of him,” Gwaine smirks, hand moving to grip the hilt.
“I have a sword too.”
“Oh?”
“It was too heavy to bring.” He doesn’t know why he says it, why he wants Gwaine to know this. It’s not like Mordred could have made a difference with a dull blade.
By the time they reach the foot of the mountain range, the stars are dancing above them, and Mordred’s feet are absolutely killing him. But at least he isn’t hungry. He completely cleaned out Gwaine’s travel pack, devouring every last bit of bread, cheese, and meat.
Riessorth, who’s been dragging her wings and tail for the past who knows how long, perks up, head quirking to the side. Erupting with bright chirps, she races ahead of them, bounding out of the trees and into the waiting field. Jogging after her, they’re met with a waiting dragon. Kilgharrah sits tall, his giant head looming down over them, looking entirely displeased.
It doesn’t take him long to notice the empty space. “Where’s Merlin?”
It takes some convincing, but they get him to put off the interrogation until they’re back in the den. After a thorough sniff-down from Aithusa and Temmanth, Mordred and Gwaine are seated in front of the fire, bracketed by small dragons on all sides. Mordred is much calmer the second time around, too exhausted for tears. He’s able to get the story out, beginning to end, providing details he was too distraught to bother with earlier. “Merlin’s magic pushed me away until I ran into Gwaine and Olive.”
“And the collar,” Kilgharrah is perched like a cat, propped up by his forearms. “Did you notice any details about it?”
“Not really, but the magic was… terrible. Evil.” Mordred closes his eyes, trying to remember everything about the moment.
“Do you know what it is?” Gwaine asks, running his hands along Temmanth’s scales.
“Yes.” Kilgharrah is staring at the fire, flames jumping in the reflection of his gaze, but his eyes are far off in the past. “Centuries ago, King Rinor of Daobeth found a way to harness the power of dragons through the hearts and bones of deceased Dragonlords. It was the darkest magic imaginable, the feeling was…”
His voice fades away. Mordred is torn between wanting to press, to know what it was for Kilgharrah to be under the enchantment, to know what Merlin is currently experiencing, and wanting to clamp his hands over his ears.
“The Dragonlords commanded an army of dragons and did what they needed to end it,” Kilgharrah says with finality, leaving Mordred alone with his morbid imagination. “They crafted a burial ceremony, cremation in dragon’s breath, and spent decades searching for the remains of long past dragonlords. The records of Rinor’s Ritual were supposed to be wiped from the land, burned with the rest of his putrid Kingdom. But now Uther has found it.”
“And the King who produced the Great Purge is now using magic for his own gain,” Gwaine needlessly concluded.
“What do we do?” Mordred asks, looking between the two grown-ups. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, fly in and save him?”
“No, it would be too dangerous, young Mordred,” Kilgharrah sighs heavily, his normally vibrant gold dulled. “We have no idea how the enchantment is affecting Merlin, how much control he really has. He could seriously hurt himself if ordered to.”
Mordred lowers his eyes to his lap. Aithusa is leaning up against his thigh, drawn and silent. She doesn’t respond to Mordred’s soft ministrations.
“Let’s do what we can for now,” Gwaine pats a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. “We’ll write to Arthur and see what he has to offer, then we’ll go from there.”
Mordred clambers to pull the writing material from where Merlin stores it, shoving pages into Gwaine’s hand and placing the inkwell between them. The man is quick to begin, furiously scribbling on the page. Mordred sits with the blank page, suddenly self-conscious about his writing abilities.
Arthur,
A basic start.
Do you have Merlin? Is he safe? They hurt his wings. Did they heal?
Mordred grips the pen in his hand, struggling to find the words to encompass the chaos running through his head. He doesn’t know what he needs from Arthur other than to know if Merlin’s okay.
What’s the plan?
He thinks this is good. Arthur is much better at plans. Better than Mordred and certainly better than Merlin. Mordred doesn’t want to write anymore. His hand is weighed down with the heaviness of the reality that even if Merlin is rescued, their haven is gone. Everything will change.
Keep him safe. I will practice my sword.
What else can he do?
-Mordred
Good enough.
Gwaine still seems to be writing, his brow is furrowed, and his knuckles are white where they grip his pen. Leaving him to his business, Mordred gestures Olive over and looks for a string. She lands in front of him, leg extended. That’s when he sees it.
There’s already a note tied there.
Pulling the string with unsteady fingers, the paper bounces on the stone floor. He unfurls the paper, holding his breath.
Morgana has returned.
He sounds the words out, hardly believing them.
“What did you say?” Kilgharrah asks, his eyes are zeroed on the small piece of paper.
“Morgana has returned,” Mordred repeats, louder. “That’s all it says, from Arthur.”
Lifting his head from his writing, Gwaine looks between them, “Does that change things?”
“Maybe,” Kilgharrah says, eyes unmoving.
Mordred shrugs, unable to decipher the puzzle of feelings sprouting inside. “Merlin and Arthur are weird about.” Mordred feels weird about it too, but it's too much for words.
Gwaine stares for a minute, nods, and goes back to writing.
Later, after they’ve sent Olive out with their letters and Gwaine is in his bedroll next to Mordred and the dragonlings, the boy rolls onto his side and asks the question that’s been on his mind since Gwaine dragged him to his feet in the clearing, “How long are you staying?”
Turning to face him with a groan, Gwaine rests his head on his arm, “However long you want me to, kid.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Mordred whispers.
“Why?”
“I’m bad luck.”
Gwaine forces a sigh through his nose, eyes pinching in what can only be concern. “I don’t believe that for a second. And you know who else doesn’t?”
Mordred doesn’t answer. He knows who Gwaine means. Instead, he rolls over to hide his watering eyes in Riessorth’s side, ignoring Gwaine’s soft ‘goodnight’.
It must be an adult thing to make up routines. Merlin had a routine for the den, and now Gwaine is coming up with a routine. It hasn’t even been a day. He made Mordred wake up and get out of bed when all he wanted to do was lie under the blanket until mushrooms started growing on top of him. Gwaine had Kilgharrah carry them down to the clearing with the pond, and he made Mordred take a bath while he went out to find breakfast.
He would never admit it, but Mordred felt better when he was in fresh clothes.
After breakfast, Gwaine had him run drills with his practice sword.
Beating Merlin was easy, and Mordred is realizing it’s because his guardian really is shit with a blade. Gwaine is like nothing he’s ever seen. It’s captivating enough to distract him from watching for a familiar pattern of feathers. In the afternoon, he has Mordred reading.
“I don’t want to read ahead,” Mordred says, shoving Balinor’s journal back at Gwaine, irritated that he would even suggest reading more without Merlin here.
“Okay, then start from the beginning. I need to catch up,” he pushes the journal back into Mordred’s lap with a gentle smile.
— —
On the third day, there’s still no sight of Merlin or Olive. He knows it’s still too soon, but Mordred can feel his hope wilting.
Gwaine has him running drills, his arms feeling the strain of the work, when Kilgharrah’s attention snaps to the woods. The humans lower their blades, turning their attention to whatever grabbed Kilgharrah’s. Mordred’s heart pounds so hard in his chest he feels it in his ears, at the back of his throat. He inches towards the dragon, just in case.
When Iseldir steps into view, something inside him dies just a lot.
“What are you doing here?” Mordred spits, already in a foul mood.
“Hello, Mordred,” Iseldir smiles his stupid, idiotic smile. “We’ve heard what’s happened. It’s time.”
“Time?” Gwaine steps up, positioning himself in front of Mordred. “Time for what?”
“For Mordred to rejoin the druids.”
“Not happening!” Mordred shouts, anger boiling in his gut. He can feel the spark of his magic start to charge under his skin.
“Mordred”— He hates the way Iseldir says his name—“there are forces at play that are beyond your understanding. Prophecies waiting to unfold.” The druid man turns his face up at Kilgharrah. “Isn’t that right, Great Dragon?”
Mordred turns to look up at the gold dragon. He can say with a decent level of certainty that Kilgharrah likes him, is maybe even fond of him. But he hasn’t forgotten the way he resisted Mordred’s presence, brushed him off. Old fear is a nasty parasite.
“Not all prophecies are meant to unfold, Iseldir,” Kilgharrah’s voice carries levity that Mordred only hears when the old lizard is being very serious.
“His place is not at Emrys’ side,” Iseldir tries again, his pleasant smile cracking.
Kilgharrah takes a step forward, strengthening the blockade between the two druids. “It seems that Emrys feels differently about that and would not be pleased to find out that you’ve tried to undermine his choices at this time of weakness.”
“The prophecy—”
“There are greater things at stake here than a damned prophecy!” Kilgharrah snaps, sparks flying between his teeth. “Uther is playing a more dangerous game than prophecy ever could. Stop looking to create division at a time when we must unify against the greater threat. Mordred will stay with his family.”
Iseldir steps back, shock briefly breaking through his affable mask. His smile falls back into place, but there’s venom burning in his eyes. “We shall see how the Goddess feels about this.”
He’s gone like smoke.
“Druid elders,” Kilgharrah grumbles, standing down, “Always too full of unnecessary gravitas.”
Without hesitating, Mordred rushes forward and latches himself onto Kilgharrah’s arm, hugging it tight. “Thank you, ‘Gharrah.”
“Of course, little one,” the dragon grumbles in his ear, his breath ruffling Mordred’s hair.
— —
On the sixth day, Olive arrives. There’s no note on her leg.
— —
On the seventh evening, their Get Ready to Sleep Routine is interrupted.
The dragonlings notice it first, all three of them freezing, heads whipping around to look out of the mouth of the cave.
Kilgharrah is next, his eyes looking over every inch of the sky for something.
“What? What’s happening?” Gwaine asks, hands frozen where they’re rolling out his blankets.
There’s no response.
Time freezes in suspension, pressure building in Mordred’s ears like the first time he flew in Merlin’s arms.
Building, building, building.
Until they pop.
Merlin crashes into the den, Arthur astride his back in a saddle. There’s something in Merlin’s mouth. It’s only supposed to be on horses. Why is it on Merlin?
The den is slowly invaded by the repulsive odor of dark magic
“Shit, fuck,” Arthur scrambles to the ground, falling to his knees when his feet fail him. He’s mumbling something as he crawls over to Merlin’s head. Mordred creeps closer, feeling outside his own body, and he hears it. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”
Mordred watches, the taste of bile building in his mouth. He watches Arthur pull the bridle off Merlin’s head and throws it to the side. The Prince shuffles to the collar, pulling at it.
It doesn’t budge.
“Help me!” Arthur turns to face him. He looks terrible, is the only coherent thing Mordred can think. His eyes are red-rimmed with tears. There’s blood, dirt, and ash all over him. He reaches for his belt, and a pouch appears in his hand. It’s dark in every way. “Please, help me!”
Mordred keeps walking towards them.
When Merlin took him to market day all those months ago, there was a man with puppets. Their limbs were not their own, each move dictated by unseen forces.
That’s how Mordred felt. His feet keep pulling him towards Merlin.
Merlin looks like a puppet himself. Empty and limp.
He’s carried forward until he falls to his knees, the collar there before him. He sees them now, the bones of Merlin’s father. Balinor. The man in the journal who wants to learn everything about dragons and one day teach it to his son. His heart is sitting in the palm of the Prince’s hand.
Mordred reaches out, his magic already gathering at his fingertips.
No words come, only a demand.
The collar unbuckles, falling to the ground.
He grabs the collar with one hand, snatches the pouch with the other, and sprints to the fire currently surrounded by dragons. He looks up, locking eyes with Kilgharrah as he drops them into the hot embers. He steps back, cherishing the combined heat of four dragon fires burning away the evil from his home.
Turning back, Merlin is curled up in Arthur’s arms, wearing the same clothes Mordred last remembers seeing him in.