A/N: A much needed father-son chat is had. Merlin pouts about his shirt and ugly-cries about other things. Arthur is a sneaky Pratdragon. Balinor really wants to punch somebody.

Also, to address a "slight" problem I just realized: Freya dies in canon before we ever meet Balinor. Therefore, this is shortly before we meet Freya but everything else has happened according to canon. So, while Morgana is (presumed missing by Uther) off learning dark magic with Morgause, the boys are trying to save Camelot from a dragon and Freya has not appeared but is presumably about to get captured by Halig. Hope that'll clear things up as to the timeline. Also, this chapter is pretty dialogue-heavy, and I'm not sure if the characters are OOC or not, so I apologize in advance if they are. Have fun.

P.S.: Trigger warning for discussion of a suicide attempt. Because I apparently can't help making a certain warlock all depressed and angsty and shit. Also fluff involving Balinor trying to be a dad. And hugs, because Merlin needs hugs and no, Arthur, hugs are not "unmanly", now be quiet. (Completely unrelated side note: am I the only one wishing I could give season two Merlin a sandwich?)

Disclaimer: Me no own.

Four: Most of Us Are Heaving Through Corrupted Lungs.

Merlin woke up at a truly godforsaken hour, just when the sky began to bruise blue with the vague promise of dawn. Balinor was awake already, whittling the little dragon figurine he'd made two days ago (and had it really only been two days?), shaving carefully at the wings because something seemed a bit off about them. Arthur was passed out on his bedroll, sprawled out with his back to the fire and dreaming (a naked blade not far from his fingertips), ignorant of the fact that Balinor had usurped his watch because of the ancient need clawing at the inside of his rib cage to protect his boy, to make absolutely certain that he would be alright. The dried blood on his tunic did not help calm that urge in the slightest. It is nearly twenty years too late, his thoughts whispered, judging by those scars, all because I was too much of a coward; because I wasn't there. Balinor agreed silently with the whispers, even though a voice that sounded uncomfortably like her was telling him to get over himself because it wasn't his fault that his son turned out to be more reckless and self-sacrificing than he'd ever been.

Merlin woke with a soft keening noise dying quickly in his throat, a whispered word falling from his lips like absolution (Balinor's heart clenched painfully to hear it (philtate; most beloved) and yet he wondered how his son knew the words of the dragon tongue when he was too young yet to command his ancient kindred). He opened his eyes blearily, his unfocused gaze wandering from Arthur to Balinor to the fire to the surrounding trees. He gave a quiet moan as his vision cleared and managed to force himself to sit up, scowling at the campfire as though it had personally offended him. Balinor set his project aside, brushing wood chips from his trousers as he got up and edged around the fire to sit down beside his son.

"Good morning," Balinor murmured, shattering the silence. Arthur gave a strange cough, but otherwise didn't rouse from his sleep. Merlin made a noncommittal noise in his throat. Balinor thought, in a strangely distant way, that with the light from the fire dancing on his skin, with his somehow ancient eyes, that his son could in this moment be mistaken for one of the Fae Folk. (Neither of them know it yet, but ages later there will be stories that Merlin's father was a demon, an incubus. Merlin will someday chance upon them and think them at once insulting and ridiculous and burn every copy he can get his hands on.)

"Come on, don't be like that. Or do you not think it's a good morning?"

"It's too early to be morning," Merlin grumbled petulantly, slouching down further and crossing his arms over his bare chest, dragging the tattered edges of his tunic closed. Then, "I only have two, you know."

"What?"

"Shirts. I only have two." (Balinor did not mention that he himself owned five shirts, even living as he had for the last twenty years, and it struck him rather suddenly how wretchedly poor his son and almost-wife have been.) "It's not his fault," Merlin blurted out, looking like he very much regretted those words the instant they came out of his mouth. "Arthur, I mean."

Balinor, naturally, had a fairly good idea what his son meant, but decided to ask anyway. "What's not his fault?"

"This," Merlin replied, giving up his attempt to cover himself as a bad job and shrugging out of his ruined shirt entirely, all his scars on display. He stared at his hands for a few moments in silence before muttering, "I suppose you have questions."

"Anyone would, lad."

"Where should I start then?"

"How about the massive burn on your chest?"

"Er, well, remember Nimueh?"

"...Yes." How could I forget the woman who gave the Prince of Camelot life and was indirectly responsible for starting the Great Purge?

"She threw a fireball at me."

"She what?!" Balinor snarled, his fists clenching so hard his bones creaked and bloodied crescents bit into his palms.

"It's fine," Merlin waved away his father's concern with a half-shrug and a fluttering of pale fingers, far too nonchalant about almost dying at the hands of a High Priestess for Balinor's taste, "I exploded her with lightning, so she's not exactly about to hurt anyone else." Arthur made another strange noise from the other side of the fire, and they both tensed before concluding that the prince was still asleep. Balinor struggled to get ahold of his emotions, anger and pain and guilt and confusion and shock smashing through him with all the force of a dragon's talons, and he had a hard time reining them in to return to the task at hand, trying to convince himself there would be time for the full story of that encounter later.

"What about your shoulder? That shiny patch?"

A beat of silence, then, "Will lit me on fire."

"…What?" What the hell is with this boy and fires? And who's Will so I can hunt him down and punch him in the face for displaying such spectacular idiocy as to hurt my son?

Merlin sighed, "we were fourteen and stupid and stole some mead from Old Man Simmons. Will splashed half a tankard on my arm and shoved me into the fire pit. I think that's why it looks different than a normal burn scar. Mum was so furious at me she didn't speak to me for a fortnight. She also gave Will a black eye for being a bad influence. He was a good friend, despite that. He's dead now, y'know. And I'm not allowed to mourn him because Arthur thinks he was a sorcerer."

Ah, so, can't hit him then. Well, at least Hunith got a good whack in. …Say something, you fool!

"I'm sorry to hear it. He sounds like the sort of lad I'd've liked." Aside from the lighting-people-on-fire bit, at any rate.

"Yeah."

"Right then, what about the whip-marks on your back? Those look like they were fairly serious." Please tell me I can hit someone this time…

"I got caught poaching once when I was about sixteen. It was during a particularly bad winter. The forest around Ealdor is technically owned by Lord Dafydd, but he never really pays attention to it or the villagers. The only reason I got caught was because he was hunting the buck I took down. He was a complete ass about the whole thing; he took the deer back and sentenced me to sixty lashes. I think I passed out around forty, but my memory of that day and the next few weeks has always been rather unclear. Gaius helped patch me up afterwards, I remember that much. Probably why the scars aren't worse."

"Is he dead? This Lord David?" Please say no.

"Dafydd. And no, he's still alive, which is surprising considering Will clouted him in the head with a frying pan." Arthur mumbled something incoherent and twitched. Father and son paid the prince no mind.

"And your throat? Who did that?" I'm going to kill the sick fool who dared it, I don't care who it is. Arthur twitched again.

Merlin shifted, squirming nervously with a strangely guilty look on his face. Stammering, "I uh, well, erm, thing is, I wasn't…"

A sense of foreboding crawled up Balinor's spine. Oh, please, no. Tell me it's not what I think, please. "Merlin?" he rumbled. A few beats of silence, "son?"

Merlin turned his head to look at his father for the first time since this conversation began, tears glistening in his too-bright eyes (and Balinor was reminded sharply of his little brother (Gaheris, his brother's name had been Gaheris), of a similar self-inflicted wound, except his brother's midnight eyes were both too-bright and dulled, his brother blood-drenched and lifeless and gone, and his heart broke all over again in such a way that he wondered if people could really die from it), his skin deathly pale but for that angry red scar on his neck. "I-I-I d-did," he whimpered, his hands trembling.

Balinor reached out and dragged his son to him, cradling the boy (he had never done this with his brother, and he couldn't help but think that was why things turned out the way they had) as they both wept. Merlin sobbed wretchedly, repeating over and over, "I'm sorry, Da, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as Balinor drew great shuddering breaths, murmuring vaguely reassuring things with tears streaming down his face, his hands gripping just a little too tightly (and hells, the boy really was too thin for it to be healthy), neither of them giving a single damn about the body on the other side of the fire.

A/N: TADA! I'm back you guys! Sorry it took so long, but real life happened and then I got a puppy, so… Also sorry that not much happened as far as plot (or a certain Druid), but I feel like this conversation needed to happen. Drop a review and let me know what you think!