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Glimmering jewels illuminate Morgana's jet-black hair and matching ball gown. Gwen, who has offered the Princess her arm, looks equally stunning in the cream and red ceremonial uniform of the Round Table knights.
Arthur follows his twin sister and her beloved down the magnificent flight of stairs. The castle and the gardens on the small moon Nemhain V are of breathtaking beauty and the light of the red sun of the Annwn system bathes the whirling couples on the dance floor in an unreal light.
Uncle is already waiting for them at the foot of the staircase. He bows to Morgana, smile strained.
Not for the first time is Arthur glad that Morgana had allowed him and Gwen to accompany her here. Since Father has fallen ill and Morgana stepped up to his place on the throne of the Five Kingdoms and as the Head of the Senate, Arthur’s thought of Agravaine as a loyal family member, a helpful advisor. But as the attacks on Albion are getting more frequent and several members of the senate have vanished under mysterious circumstances, he isn't sure anymore where his uncle's loyalties lie.
And now he’s invited Morgana out here to this small moon at the very border of Albion’s territory. If Arthur were to set up a trap, he would do it here.
Agravaine is a good host, champagne flows freely at the feast and the orchestra seduces the guests to each new dance. For a few hours Arthur enjoys seeing Morgana and Gwen laugh and swirl around on the dancefloor. But something isn't right, Arthur can feel it. The threat is almost tangible in the merry atmosphere. It feels like the last feast before war or the last days of lavish decadence before a kingdom falls.
They are attacked by outlaws on their way back to the Avalon. Arthur should have known that Agravaine wouldn't expose himself by trying to harm Morgana inside his own castle. The three of them are running, Morgana firing behind them and Gwen clearing their way, Joyeuse deadly as ever. But they aren't going to make it unless...
Arthur stops and turns to face their attackers, Excalibur ready.
***
When anguished cries of his soulmate echo in his head for the first time, Merlin is flying along the glittering stardust forming the rings of Ealdor.
The beats of the mighty wings of his dragon form nearly falter as the fear and pain of his mate wash over him like a tidal wave.
He reaches out telepathically - even if his soulmate doesn't possess enough magic to wield a spell, he should be able to connect with him.
I’m here now. Tell me where you are. I will come for you.
Only silence and darkness answer him.
His flight falters then, and he would have fallen gracelessly from the skies if the laws of gravity applied here. Floating in the weightlessness of space, his trajectory merely reels.
It's like Kilgharrah prophesied. His soulmate is a dastardly knight of Albion. Only those have mutilated their magic enough to be unable to mind-speak with their soulmate. Merlin roars into the emptiness.
Another sharp cry.
He could cut the connection, abandon his soulmate. But he knows deep in his bones that his mate will die if he leaves him now. Merlin won't even suffer loneliness - he has his family, his friends, and there are enough people who would be willing to give everything to be the one at Emrys’ side. But he can't. The newly formed silvery thread, still so very small and fragile, tugs at his heart and he needs at least to have a look.
One look won't hurt.
It does hurt, oh does it hurt.
His scrying mind takes him to a cell on a slaver's vessel. There, a golden-haired human is chained up to the ceiling; his toes barely touching the floor. His muscles are trembling from the effort of holding himself upright. A blindfold covers his eyes, making it even harder to keep the balance. Merlin just knows that he has been kept in this position for hours, that he must be in horrible pain, his arms and shoulders on fire.
The vision blurs, and suddenly there is another man inside the cell slowly circling his mate.
“You know, I could leave you hanging like this for days, Captain Pendragon. Find out how long you can take it.”
“Fuck you, Cenred.”
All of Merlin's carefully crafted plans of how he’s going to ignore his mate if he’s from Albion collapse like a house of cards when he hears his voice, raw from screaming, but already so dear to Merlin.
Don't provoke him!
Merlin tries frantically to push through to his mate's mind, although he knows it's impossible.
The slave-trader laughs and grabs a whip from the wall.
“I will get a good price for you, but only if you learn to behave.”
He trails the whip softly over his mate's face and exposed chest, making him flinch.
“I serve Albion and no one else,” his mate grits out.
“We will see about that.”
Merlin swears to himself that he will be the one to kill Cenred as soon as the first strike connects with his mate's golden skin.
***
Arthur carefully shifts in his restricted position on the cell floor. He tries to sit up a little straighter, but the chains holding his arms in an unnatural angle behind his back and the collar around his neck won't let him. He can only move a few inches, trying desperately to lift some pressure off his abused arms and not getting choked in the process. But he can't find any give, there is no way to free himself.
His back still hurts like hell from the whipping Cenred had inflicted on him. At least somebody came to him afterwards to pour some stardust over the wounds, which probably have closed by now. Cenred may have realised that he can't sell him with his back covered in scars. Small mercies.
Arthur has lost track of time since he was separated from his crew in a heroic and stupid attempt to protect his sister and Gwen. He’d saved his friends, his ship, that's all that matters. But now he must find a way back. He can't leave Morgana to fend for her own, with the weight of the whole of Albion bearing down on her. But his captors are relentless, and Arthur can’t bring himself to give in and play the docile slave for them. In the beginning he told himself that he only needed to survive long enough so that the Knights could find him, but when he was captured on Nemhain V they were already at the border of Albion’s territory. By now Cenred could have taken him anywhere and the galaxy beyond the civilisation that is the Five Kingdoms of Albion is a dangerous, lawless place.
***
They’d made him wash the sweat and blood from his skin and put on a fresh pair of trousers. Arthur is dizzy with pain and exhaustion, but he can’t give up. He must stay alive; he must get out of this.
To his dismay they haven’t removed the collar around his neck. Cenred’s pulled the blasted thing just a bit too tight, so it chafes Arthur’s throat raw and restricts his breathing enough to be a constant, uncomfortable reminder of what is going to happen to him if he fights. On the first day of his imprisonment, he almost succeeded to overpower the guards when he managed to attain a blaster gun. But then somebody sent a shock through the collar around his neck, bringing Arthur to his knees immediately. He had clawed at the metal desperately, the stinging pain of the shocks worse than the whip.
He grits his teeth to keep the unbidden memory at bay and imagines the familiar and now hated face of his uncle. He won't let him win.
Black dots dance in front of Arthur's eyes as he is shoved inside the Fyrien's wardroom. Cenred entertains guests tonight, putting his prisoners on display for the assembled scum.
Arthur takes in the proceedings with the efficiency of a practised tactician, mapping every possible escape, searching for the face of an ally amongst his foes. His heartrate picks up and adrenaline floods through his veins. On the seat of honour thrones a dragon in humanoid form with black-blue scales covering its body and impressive horns crowning the black curls on its head.
Although Arthur has never seen one of his kind, because nobody has seen them in centuries, this can only be a Draconian; the diabolical nemesis of the mythical founders of Albion. It's a legend, a fairy tale. But there the creature sits, taller than Arthur, golden eyes glowing in the sparsely lit room. It possesses the beauty of an apex predator, making Arthur shudder. If this is a Draconian of the legend, a fabled Dragonlord, then Albion is in terrible danger.
To Arthur's horror his captors drag him towards the creature. He struggles against their grasp, but to no avail.
“Obey Lord Emrys or you'll like the consequences even less,” one of the men hisses into his ear, before Arthur is shoved to kneel between the Draconian’s legs. Arthur's breath comes in panicked little gasps. He wants to fight the inevitable, but his body is weak from days of torture and lack of food and water. He realises how badly he is shaking when the Draconian puts a hand on his shoulder.
Arthur wants to shy away from the touch but doesn't dare to with the creature’s deadly claws so close to his throat.
Pull yourself together! You are a knight of the Round Table , a protector of Albion!
You are safe now, alskær-min. The thought doesn't make any sense, even the voice speaking it in his head doesn't sound like his own. Where did this come from?
Arthur shakes his head against the feeling of dizziness. His thoughts are racing, and he feels the pounding of his head more acutely now.
The Draconian loosens its cloak then, and suddenly Arthur feels the midnight blue fabric slide over his bare shoulders. Only now does he realise that he isn’t kneeling on the hard floor but on the same soft furs Cenred's guest are sitting on. He looks up at the Dragonlord and his gaze is met with intelligent, golden eyes and a lifted eyebrow. The clawed hand strokes gently through his hair and something warm and soothing washes over him, leaving his body in less pain and his mind clearer, not hazy like on pain killers.
Magic, he thinks with equal measures of awe and trepidation.
Arthur’s vision blacks out for a second and he slumps against the Draconian, too weak to hold himself upright. His head falls against the Dragonlord’s thigh. Arthur should feel embarrassed, but he is just so tired.
Goddess, what have they done to you, my mate?
Arthur blinks sluggishly, waiting for the next level of humiliation or pain, probably both. But to his surprise, the Draconian holds a goblet to his parched lips.
Drink, alskær.
He can't resist opening his mouth- Cenred's men had barely given him enough to survive. Fresh water runs down his throat, tasting heavenly. The creature, oh who is Arthur fooling, the man takes care that he drinks slowly, but doesn't take the water away, allows him to drink his fill. Arthur closes his eyes again, shifts a little closer to the alien.
He can't believe that he is grasping at this small kindness, hoping against hope that he might have found an ally in all of this madness. But there is something about the man that makes Arthur feel drawn to him. A feeling of connection he can't explain.
The Draconian rearranges his cloak over Arthur's shivering form, and the body heat alone, radiating from the dragon, makes him already more comfortable.
The minutes stretch, but all the Draconian does is pet Arthur's hair and hand-feed him what is likely most of his dinner. He hasn't even the strength to feel humiliated.
Feverish thoughts tumble through his mind as the banquet around them turns to a buzzing noise in the background. Arthur’s head rests on the Draconian’s thigh, the black fabric of his trousers soft against his cheek. His eyes slowly drift shut, the position more comfortable than it has any right to be. After he was obviously satisfied with feeding Arthur, the Draconian cupped Arthur's jaw in his large hand. Nestled between his legs like this, Arthur is sure it looks like he is sucking the man off.
He makes it look this way on purpose, Arthur thinks, confused.
A thousand scenarios tumble through his head as to why the Draconian is here, what his intentions might be. But without further information there is no way to tell. Arthur tries to calm his swirling mind, breathes through his nose, forces his body to relax. He needs to regain his strength if he wants to stand a chance of escaping and he will use any reprieve he can get.
***
Arthur wakes, startled by Cenred’s voice. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he was just so tired and the warmth and gentle touches of the Draconian had lured him into a sense of safety. But now he will surely regret that, as only more pain awaits him.
“Are you satisfied, my Lord? Do you want to sample something else?”
I will sample your blood as soon as my mate is safe for what you have done to him.
Again this alien voice inside his head.
“I'm quite satisfied with this one.”
Arthur winces as he hears the Dragonlord’s voice, deep but not overly so, almost alluring. It’s the same voice he hears inside his head, the voice speaking the tumbling thoughts. The Draconian holds Arthur still with a firm hand, as he starts to shift nervously.
“Name your price.”
Arthur tenses, feels new waves of fear claw at his gut. What does a creature like the Draconian want with him? The fairy tales of Arthur's childhood say the magical Draconians were the source of all evil, bloodthirsty beings conducting horrible rituals, scorching down villages and drinking children's blood.
“10.000 Imperials," Cenred says without a beat.
Arthur can't help the snort and oh, now he has practically breathed warm air over the Draconian’s groin. Arthur grins, slightly hysterical. Cenred must be delusional. Nobody will ever give away this much money for him, his own father surely wouldn't have.
“You don't mind if I pay in gold, I presume?”
“Not at all. Do you want to take the slave to your chambers until your ship picks you up or shall he be brought to his cell?”
“My chambers.”
As if I would let you put your hands on him ever again.
The Draconian rises to his feet, pulling Arthur up with him, disoriented and swaying slightly on his feet.
***
The Draconian more or less has to carry an uncooperative Arthur to his quarters. He can't openly defy the dragon yet, but he won't easily submit to someone who purchases a slave as easily as a new pair of boots, either.
What in the name of the Goddess are you doing, alskær?
There it is again, the voice of the Dragonlord, but without any movement of his lips. It feels more like hearing somebody speak over headphones, like the voice is directly inside your head. Arthur shudders.
I wish I wouldn’t have to treat you like this, but Cenred has surveillance everywhere. I don’t dare to fight our way out of here, I can’t let you get hurt.
Arthur shakes his head against the onslaught of jumbled thoughts and feelings. As soon as they arrive in his private cabin, the dragon puts Arthur down unceremoniously on his bed and closes the door with a wave of his hand.
Oh crap, it really is magic.
Arthur scrambles back on the bed, unsure what to do, what to expect. He would love nothing more than to just curl up under the covers and sleep for a week.
But despite his dire situation Arthur can't avert his eyes from the Dragonlord. His face is beautiful - all bright eyes and chiselled cheekbones. His whole body looks lithe, strong and deadly. Arthur has to push down the impulse to run his fingers over the mighty wings on the Draconian’s back, like he would have wanted to pet a black panther at the zoo when he was small.
The dragon holds Arthur’s gaze while he pulls off his boots as well as his tunic and tight-fitting undershirt. Under any other circumstances Arthur would be aroused by the sight of lean muscles and smooth skin interrupted by gleaming scales.
“Take off your clothes," the Draconian commands.
“What?” Arthur yelps. “No! Never! Forget it!” He almost falls out of the bed in his hasty retreat, but the Draconian is by his side in a blink of an eye, holding him back.
“You don't have a choice in this,", he growls.
Please, alskær-min, trust me. I mean no harm.
Arthur blinks up at him, confused.
“Wha- what did you say?”
“Not your choice.”
“No, after that.”
Now they are staring at each other, disbelievingly.
You can hear me?
“You aren’t exactly quiet.”
Don't answer me out loud! Act like you can't hear me and take your damned clothes off already!
The Draconian surges forward and grasps the fabric of Arthur's trousers with one clawed hand, ripping it to shreds. Arthur makes a startled noise and tries to get away again.
There you go. Put up some struggle, but don't hurt yourself.
“Fuck you," Arthur hisses and throws himself at the Draconian.
It's a short struggle before the Draconian has Arthur lying naked and gasping under him, trapped and unable to fight back. Arthur tries to hold still then, to not panic, but he can feel his whole body locking up in fright.
It's okay, it's okay. You did so good.
The Draconian shifts his grip on him then, curling his body and his wings around Arthur.
Rest now, alskær-min, I will watch over you.
They lie there silent for some long moments. Arthur's breath easing out slowly. He gathers his thoughts, concentrates.
What do you want from me, Lord Emrys?
The Draconian’s flinch is almost as funny as the dumbfounded expression on his face.
How do you do that, knight of Albion? You don't have magic, right? Nobody taught you to thungusiarad, to mindspeak ?
No. It's just... You started it!
The Draconian looks at him, amused and maybe a bit fond.
I'm not Lord Emrys for you. Call me Merlin.
***
Cenred swirls the famous Excalibur experimentally, revelling in the feeling of victory. He is going to give the sword to Lord Emrys as another sign of his goodwill. If he succeeds in forging an alliance with the Draconians, he will be much closer to his goal to ascend the throne of Albion’s Five Kingdoms. Somewhere along the way he must get rid of the annoying Agravaine, though. The slimy little weasel has been useful so far, but they both have high aspirations, and it won’t be long before they get in each other’s way. Cenred certainly isn’t satisfied with the role of an advisor or a high-ranking member of the Senate and he won’t tolerate a traitor like Agravaine in his own ranks. He isn’t stupid.
He grins to himself as he walks down the corridor to Lord Emrys’ chambers. The Ddraigdu has already arrived to pick the Draconian and his prisoner up and delivered the promised gold. If he is honest with himself, Captain Morgause Gorlois freaked him out a bit, with her reptilian golden eyes and her unblinking stare. He has never encountered someone who is half human, half Draconian; didn’t even know it was possible. Also, her human first officer had looked upon Cenred like he was dirt under his boots. The Dragon Guard is as prideful as the knights of the Round Table are. Cenred despises the lot, but he will play nice with them, as long as they help him on his way to power.
However, seeing what the Draconian has done to Arthur Pendragon is going to lift his mood. He enters the Dragonlord's chambers after a polite knock. To his surprise Lord Emrys awaits him, already dressed. Arthur, however, is still asleep on the large bed. Cenred grins, he knows the knight is naked under the blue cloak he is wrapped into.
“The payment has been delivered.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but Cenred nods eagerly nonetheless.
“I bring the key to your slave’s collar as well as another gift.”
Lord Emrys’ expression is unreadable as he takes the key and looks at the sword and scabbard Cenred presents to him.
“Excalibur.” The Dragonlord’s clawed fingers close around the weapon, a secretive grin playing around his lips. “I will return it to its rightful owner.”
Cenred opens his mouth to try to talk about further collaboration, but Emrys has already turned away from him and towards the sleeping man on his bed. He sits down next to Arthur and touches first his hair, then his shoulder, gently waking him up. Cenred’s gut twist with unease. Something is not quite right about to whole situation, but he can’t put his finger on what is nagging him. But he can’t wait to see Arthur wake. He has thought about this moment with glee since he knew he would sell his prisoner to the Draconians. What is Arthur going to do when he realizes that the deal with Albion’s ancient enemy is sealed. Will he fight uselessly? Cry? Beg? Every scenario Cenred can imagine is more delicious than the last.
Arthur blinks up at Lord Emrys, sleepy and confused, and Cenred waits for his expression to shift into one of terror when he realises where he is. But Arthur’s face stays neutral. The knight fixes Cenred with a short glare before turning back to the Draconian, who reaches out and opens the collar around the prisoner’s neck. He seems displeased as he looks upon the chafed skin around Arthur’s neck, and with a flare of golden eyes and a touch of a clawed hand the injury is gone.
Is it Cenred’s imagination or is Arthur leaning into the touch a bit?
The Draconian and the knight lock eyes for an intimate moment, and then Arthur nods ever so slightly. Cenred clears his throat nervously.
Lord Emrys puts his hands on Arthur's shoulders, whispering a spell, then he offers the knight a hand up. Cenred is surprised when Arthur takes it without hesitation, and when the knight stands, he is fully clothed underneath the blue cloak. Cenred's mind is racing. Why this kindness? Is the Draconian manipulating his prisoner into a sense of safety? But to what purpose?
“You may lead us to our ship now," Lord Emrys says.
Cenred realises that the Draconian takes care to always stand between him and Arthur as though he’s protecting the Prince. Arthur follows the Draconian, wary maybe but obviously trusting him to some degree.
“You might want to be careful about this one, my Lord. I know Arthur from my time at the Citadel. It might be better to put the collar back on. He is dangerous,” Cenred tries. He has seen a footage of Lord Emrys in his dragon form battling a star ship and winning, so his notion is quite ridiculous, but he needs to know what's going on here.
Lord Emrys looks back at Arthur, amused.
“Are you now?”
“I am a knight of the Round Table. Of course I am dangerous.”
“I see. Come now.”
Lord Emrys fans his wing protectively over Arthur and leads him out towards the Ddraigdu.
***
Morgana’s heart melts when her twin brother is finally back on board of the Avalon again, wrapped in Gwen’s crushing hug. He looks a little battered, but far better than Morgana had feared, an unfamiliar dark blue cloak slung around his shoulders. Behind him stands a man, tall and slender, wearing dark civilian clothes and a sheepish grin.
“Meet Merlin…”