The Easiest Thing (5/8 +epilogue)

[latenightchai]

[ Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Epilogue ]

Stupid, stupid!

Merlin berated himself over and over; he'd rushed out of the Prince’s chambers but was having a hard time keeping himself going. His head was ringing with his cries and the consequences of his actions. Stupid, idiotic, how could you-?

He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but did it matter? He’d been wrong, he’d failed, and the Prince… oh god. How could he live with himself now?

And oh, what a scene he was probably making now, staggering down the hall, heaving deep, shell-shocked gasps, trying to control his breathing and failing miserably. He wanted to stop and curl up in a corner, like a spider at the end of its measly life. He wanted to fall down and melt into the floor until he disappeared completely, because a stepping stone would be of more useful than he was right now.

Stupid, stupid- he cried, and wished he was dead.

The sound of footsteps startled him, and the servant tried to straighten himself out from where he’d fallen against the wall. But he wasn’t quick enough, and the Lady Aerona had seen his pathetic display -as if his misery wasn’t still clearly written all over his face, in every catch of his breath.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her face as severe as he remembered it. She was cloaked in black again, and he thought it strange that she was here, for though they were no longer close to Arthur’s chambers, they were a far ways from the West Tower. But, it didn’t matter, she had asked him a question and he still hadn’t answered, he was so stupid-

But even as he tried to regain the air to speak, her expression softened -not quite into gentleness, because there was still something inherently cynical about her- but enough to show a hint of concern. “What’s happened to you, boy? Tell me,” she demanded again.

Merlin felt as if the words were dragged from him, and even then he had to stop between each to breathe. “I… was serving... the Prince, and he…”

“Oh,” she breathed, and then she swooped over to him, placing a gentle arm around his shoulders. “What did he do? Did he hurt you?”

Merlin, as grateful as he was for the concern of this woman, so far above his station, who had no need to have shown care for him, he couldn’t help but want to defend his Prince. Surely Lady Aerona was no threat, her concern seemed so real, but there was still a sharpness to her words…

“No, mi’lady,” he answered quickly. “I just… I made a mistake… he was right to-”

Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “No need to defend him, you poor child, you can tell me. Is he often cruel to you?”

Merlin shook his head. “N-no, it’s nothing that I don’t deserve.”

“I doubt that,” she sneered, but quickly schooled her expression. She drew a hand down the side of his face tenderly. “Each time I see you, you appear more gaunt than the last,” she cooed, an insipid sound. “I was concerned for you, do you remember that? I was worried this would happen, that the Prince would go too far.”

“But… he’s the Prince-”

“That doesn’t excuse him. Prince’s are supposed to protect their people, aren’t they?”

The servant swallowed thickly. “Yes…”

She let of him, turning to look his straight in the eye. Merlin ducked his head but she grabbed his chin and yanked up, her fingernails digging into his cheeks. Her smile looked wrong, too predatory, too strange on her face. “Poor, poor boy. Prince Arthur doesn’t deserve you.”

“Mi’lady-”

“He is too cruel, too childish…” Her hand drifted up to rest over her heart, over that strange, too-bright golden brooch. “I’m a mother, did you know that?”

“I didn’t…” he murmured, unable to look away from the brooch. There was something…

“No, of course you wouldn’t. Our dear Prince Arthur has seen to that. He took my love from me, as he has taken your freedom from you, and he’s given us nothing in return. Isn’t it time he paid the price?”

Merlin’s eye widened, and he tried to twist his head away from her grip without success. “W-What are you s-saying?!”

“In my brother’s kingdom, we take care to uphold justice. A criminal’s punishment fits his crime. A thief loses his quick hand, a traitor loses his traitorous tongue, and a murderer loses his wicked life-”

“The Prince is none of those things!” Merlin cried desperately.

“But he is!” she screamed at him, letting go and pushing him back. “He and those foul boys who called themselves knights - traitors and murders all!”

He fell back, gasping. “It was you who killed Sir Robin and Sir Lucan?”

“And it was nothing less than they deserved! Those vile creatures who dared to call themselves friend! My son… my Ifan…” her voice trailed off for a moment, and again she gripped at the brooch, seeming to find comfort in the object.

When she spoke again, her words were drenched in fury. “Ifan came to Camelot with them, all those years ago. All three of them came to be knights, and he should have been knighted with them! He was better than them -strong and fierce and righteous!- and they were jealous. They sabotaged him, and when he tried to exact justice, they turned on him and killed him in cold blood!”

That didn’t sound like either Robin or Lucan -nor any man who called himself a knight of Camelot. “But… the Prince-”

“The Prince!” she shrieked. “Your precious Prince Arthur stood by and watched! I’ve heard it from everyone - he knew what was happening, he watched as my son was struck down, and he never lifted a finger! He is just as guilty as them. I’ve waited many years to exact my vengeance, and in that time the Prince has proven no more fit to rule than the meanest tyrant. His life is forfeit-”

Merlin’s head spun with the implications. She was… she was planning to hurt the Prince. She was going to kill Arthur, the same way she’d murdered two men before him. This was too much… what could he do, he was… he was just a servant! But he couldn’t… he…

“I… can’t let you do that,” he whispered, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

“This castle is full of ill-deeds and old ghosts, the blood of the innocent victims of the Pendragons. Justice demands the end of this tyrannical line! Justice demands that my son is returned to me!”

She clutched at her brooch again, and Merlin could have sworn he saw light glowing through her fingers. Sorcery! What had Gaius said, about it, about vital energies…? Merlin couldn’t remember (and god, what an idiot he was: useless, useless idiot that couldn’t remember) but what would he be able to do against magic anyway? He knew nothing of… of…

“Stand aside, boy. You’re loyalty is born of fear, I see it-”

“No, mi’lady-” he said, still not strong enough to stop her tirade.

“-but no more!” she cried, voice rising in hysteria. She turned to Merlin. “All you have to do is stand aside, Merlin, and you will see what life should be like! Stand aside and say nothing, and your reward will be greater than you’re meager mind can imagine.”

Merlin heard her order and felt that pull to obey, but he also knew he couldn’t… he wouldn’t.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said, firmer this time.

She laughed nastily. “I’d like to see you try. I have more power than you know of!”

Merlin gulped. “M-magic,” he said, and she laughed again, confirming it.

“Oh, so you have some idea… but a servant such as yourself couldn’t fathom the power I have at my fingertips! I’ve taken the life of two men, and once I take the life of Arthur I’ll command the power of life and death itself! Their souls will be the very instruments that will return my son to me!” The brooch was surely glowing now, golden light that reflected in her eyes. But there was something about it that struck Merlin as wrong… she sounded so sure of herself, but he knew… it didn’t work like that… did it? He knew…

“I won’t let you do that.” Merlin said, trying to draw strength into his voice. He was shaking, from fear and nerve and…

She narrowed her eyes. “I will kill Arthur, rest assured. The only question is whether I kill you first. Stand aside-”

“No!” he cried, and suddenly, a wind blew through the corridor, strong enough to ruffle their hair and clothes. The Lady’s cloak whipped back angrily behind her, and she lifted a hand to her face. Merlin, too, lifted a hand, but only because he felt dizzy, enough that his vision had gone cloudy. Why… where did that…?

The Lady lowered her hand, her eyes wide. “You…”

Merlin shook his head and blinked, trying to dispel the blackness at the corner of his vision, but it only made his head hurt. The Lady Aerona was speaking, but he couldn’t quite hear her. “…no matter…you can’t… I’ll still-”

“No!” he cried again, and the wind blew once more. He didn’t understand where it was coming from. Was the Lady doing it? Was this her way of stopping him? Was it…

She was murmuring words under her breath, he couldn’t hear them but her eyes were gold and there was a dark light coming from her that just screamed danger, and all Merlin could think was that he had to protect Arthur.

“I won’t let you do this!” he screamed, and then there was light, bright light, and he didn’t know what was happening. He was just a useless servant and the least he could do was this, he could give his life, he would… but he still had to screw his eyes shut against the brightness, the way his head felt like it was bursting apart and his body revolted against the feel of this… this… magic and oh god, what was it doing to him?

The Lady Aerona was screaming, and it felt so loud, like she was screaming right inside of him, clawing at the insides of his skull, and as she resisted the light kept getting brighter and brighter. He cracked open an eye and he could see that brooch, that knot that had glowed so bright was now seared black, the center of a twist of flames that was growing, embers sparking, lighting on her cloak, her dress, her hair, flames rising up and consuming her, and why… why was it…

The light and the fire, they were too strong, they must be… this magic, it was killing them both… it was…

Lady Aerona stopped screaming, because she was gone, completely gone, and he heard the brooch fall and clink against the stone, but the light was… the magic hadn’t disappeared. Merlin was dropping to one knee, he was falling to the floor, and it was still bright, still agonizing, and Merlin thought, no, no-

And then it was gone. Silence, and pitch black, his eyes unadjusted the normal darkness of the night, and why was… was he-

But no, it was getting darker, and darker, and he was so… he was…

Merlin curled in on himself, and then he was gone, completely gone.

*

He is running through the forest and the trees are blue. They reach out with their blue branches and try and grab him, to stop him from reaching the place he is running too - they leave stains of blue on his arms, his face. The dragon flies overhead and mocks him, saying, Young warlock, destiny won’t wait for you! You can’t run so slow, and then the dragon coughs, and gold coins fall from its mouth and hit him on the forehead, and he says ow, that hurts but the dragon laughs and keeps on spitting them out, and-

“Merlin, Merlin! Wake up, Merlin-! God, he’s burning up. Go wake Gaius!”

then the dragon swoops down and picks him up in its mouth, and they’re flying over all the forest and the mountains, all the way over the ocean, and he says my destiny can’t be out here, but the dragon can’t answer because its mouth is full, and the women who live in the sea giggle and wave up to him, calling his name over and over again, and he wants to go down so desperately into the water-

“…come, come, put him down here. Where did you find him, Lancelot?”

“He was in the East Tower… something bad happened, the entire hallway was scorched black…”

“…He’s feverish, we have to… was there sign of…?”

because the dragon’s breath is far too hot for him, it’s burning him and he can feel his skin flaking off, like how onion’s can be just peeled apart until there’s nothing left. He’s getting smaller and smaller, until he is a child again, just five years old and small enough to slip right through the dragon’s teeth, so that he falls and falls and when he lands he takes a look around and he’s in his old house, the one he and his mother lived in before he burned it down by accident, and his mother is talking with the village headman-

“Ay, I think it’s your fault!”

“How is it-?”

“We all agreed he should lay low… a noble’s hypocrisy…”

“Please, please… does no good… can’t…”

“Goddamnit, I had no idea…”

“…happened next to your rooms-!”

and he hates it when they yell, so he takes out the little dragon, the one that his father carved for him, except this one looks different. This one is alive and when he places it on his hand it lifts its head and snorts out little flames. It looks at him and says I really do hate the wizards in Camelot and he tries to tell it that he is a good wizard, that he’ll never let anything bad happen to it, but the little dragon flies out through the window, and he climbs out after it and finds himself in the forest again. He thinks he sees the little dragon, and it’s flying towards his father, and he calls out, Come back! Please, please come back-

“Shhh, shhh… it’ll be okay, breathe… wait one… here, doesn’t that feel nice?”

but no matter how loud he calls out, his father keeps walking away, and even when he tries to run the trees are holding him back, wrapping their finger-branches around him and covering him in blue so that he looks like one of the tattooed Picts, and everyone knows they practice dark magic and he tries to tell the trees, No, I can’t look like this, they’ll know I’m magic, but the trees just shove leaves into his mouth, and when he bites down on them they taste like gold-

“Watch, he’s going to be…. good God…”

“…what could… you think, Gaius?”

“…I….”

and they keep wrapping him up and painting him and everyone can see him for what he is, the serving girl who looks scared and the knight who shakes his head and he is sinking down, down into the trees until he’s becoming one of them, he’s becoming a tree, and he closes his eyes and so much time passes

then when he opens them there’s the mentor and the mother and the other knight who all look so so sad but can’t do anything, and it’s getting darker and darker like night, and the king is standing before him and screaming, pointing at him and condemning him to death while the witch smirks and tries to light a fire at the roots of his feet, and he doesn’t want to see or burn so he closes his eyes and it’s dark for a long time

and he opens his eyes, and there’s no fire but it’s still so hot and there is Arthur, and he says, Arthur, please and he tries to smile because he thinks he might be saved but then Arthur looks him over and sees the blue on his skin and the gold in his mouth and eyes and Arthur frowns and starts to walk away, but when he calls out again, Arthur!, Arthur turns around and runs to him and runs and runs and doesn’t stop until he’s put his sword right through his heart-

Merlin coughed. He coughed and choked and had just enough presence of mind to roll over before he was sick all over himself. He leaned to the side and barely had the strength to prop himself up, but it was enough that when his throat convulsed and he let go the contents of his stomach, he did it over the side of his bed. Merlin heaved and up came bile and blood and hard little clumps of a black something that tasted like leather and steel and scrapped the inside of him as they came up. He retched to try and dispel the taste from his mouth, to no avail.

“Hey, you’re awa… oh.” Guinevere.

He could barely hear her over the sound of himself. He tried opening his eyes, and was pained to see that a bucket had been laid beside his bed - he’d missed. He’d been sick all over the floor and he’d need to clean that right away, he thought, he had to, and yet… Each heave was more painful than the last, until he was sobbing for breath, his face wet with tears of exhaustion.

“Shhh, shhh… it’ll be okay, it’ll be over soon…”

A hand -Gwen’s hand - ran down the side of his face, and he flinched because it reminded him of that woman… that woman that had tried to hurt… but then, hadn’t he’d tried to kill Merlin. In the forest. He’d run Merlin through. Why had he…?

“Is there anything I can do?” Lancelot.

He didn’t hear Gwen’s answer, but he felt when she leaned over him, felt her voice tremble with sympathy and fear. “Oh, Merlin…”

“Wh… wha’s… hap’nin t’me?”

He didn’t hear the answer then, either, if there ever was one. Instead what the servant got was a second hand -bigger, stronger, Lancelot- on his shoulder, steadying him, lowering him back down when he was done. He’d given up and let his eyes fall shut, but he hated that the knight was having to take so much care for him… he shouldn’t… he didn’t deserve…. “S’ry.” His lips were chapped, and he coughed again.

“Don’t apologize, Merlin.”

“S’ry…”

A wet rag ran along the edge his mouth - he hadn’t even realized he was thirsty until he felt the moisture. “His fever’s down, but this sickness…”

“Not here.”

“It’s just…”

Just what? Was this his punishment? Did they know he’d spoken to a magic-user? Did they know he’d…he’d…

“r’thr…”

“Shhh… it’ll be okay…. be okay…” Gwen didn’t sound like she believed herself. Merlin didn’t believe her. He’d done something wrong, so wrong, and…

“…back to sleep.”

Merlin couldn’t resist the order even if he wanted to. He was sinking down, down… into the darkness, so dark it was like night and the flames of the candles are like stars, except it’s really all embers straight from the dragons mouth, along with Where is your destiny now, young warlock? and he knows, and he turns, and he is running through the forest and the trees are…

*

When Merlin woke again, it was because the inside of his eyelids were too warm. His dreams had tapered off into even sleep, and sometime after that he’d rolled himself onto his side so that he was facing the bright patch of sunlight let in by the window. He groaned and became aware of his sore throat, the wet rattle deep in his lungs.

When he pushed himself up, his arms shook - his whole body shook, once he was upright. Blood rushed to his head, his vision went dark and his stomach rolled. His hand flew to his mouth, and he tried to fight against the feeling of sickness. He coughed once, twice, and when his hand came away it was covered with flecks of blood and black.

That wasn’t right, he thought. That wasn’t right at all.

He turned about desperately, ignoring his protesting body, hunting for anything to make his hand clean -and when he came up with nothing, ended up wiping it off on his shirt. Only once he was done he grimaced, realizing that now he’d made a mess of his sleep shirt. He only had one, and look at what he’d done to it… he was sweating heavily too, or had been, and he felt filthy. Merlin thought he might have been lying here for a long time.

How long had he slept? How much work had he missed? It made his head hurt, one more ache to add to the list. How could they have let him sleep? Sick or not, Merlin would have managed to do his work somehow, somehow…

He clutched at his shirt, wanting to tear it off - but he’d have to get water first, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t go outside without a shirt, couldn’t wear one of his regular shirts when he was so dirty. It would be improper. Maybe, maybe if he asked Gaius, he could fetch someone.

Pushing off the bed was a monumental effort, and his legs gave out on him more than once. He tried not to make a sound - Gwen and Lancelot had been here earlier, hadn’t they? He thought he remembered that, thought it was hard to pick apart the memories from the dreams… and strange, strange dreams they were. He resolved to forget about them instantly.

His head throbbed at the thought, and he bit his lip against a cry. He didn’t want them to hear his pain and think him too weak to work.

He was fine. With wobbly steps, the servant made it from the bed to the door. See? Just fine.

Merlin leaned hard against the closed door, resting his forehead against the cold wood and attempting to settle his stomach. He was thankful Gaius had left the window open - he was hot, and the cold air felt far too good.

It was as he was recovering, however, that he heard the voices. His hand had been fumbling for the knob, but when he heard his name, and then the word ‘magic’, he froze.

“…his fever has broken, he’s stopped vomiting, but he is not recovering. It must be the curse lingering in him,” Lancelot was saying.

“Certainly it appears so,” Gaius sighed. “His body.... He’s refused food and sleep for nearly a week, which is unhealthy enough in any case. But now, after such a display of magic, he’s used up more energy than his body has: his very life force is being drained.”

“And the curse…?”

“Normally, his magic would recover quickly and be able to compensate. I’ve never met a faster healer. He’s trying to heal his ills, but with the curse rejecting his ability to use his magic… he’s rejecting himself. It’s a vicious cycle…”

“It’s killing him, isn’t it, Gaius?”

“Yes, Lancelot,” Gaius said, and he sounded so, so weary. “Yes, it is.”

“So how can we find a cure?”

“I wish it were so simple. The Lady Aerona is dead… if it were just a case of a curse, then the magic should have worn away when she died. But Merlin’s magic is different. He’s not just a sorcerer, Lancelot. He is magic… the boy has more power than you or I will ever know.”

“Then why-?”

“Because to him, it is almost completely instinctual - I can no more predict Merlin’s magic than I can predict any of his behaviors. Once enchanted, his own magic could have absorbed the spell, or twisted it without his knowing.”

“So,” Lancelot paused, and his next words held all the gravity of his trepidation, “so you’re saying, it’s possible, what’s happening now…”

Gaius finished for him: “That this is something he may have done to himself.”

And Merlin thought, is that all? He’d had a hard time making out most of what they’d said, but the Lady Aerona, she was dead which meant someone had caught and punished her (and good riddance to evil sorcery). And it meant the Prince was safe. But Merlin…

His hands trembled where they were pressed against the door. So he wasn’t fine. He was dying.

For a second he allowed himself to feel the enormity of it all -the enduring pain, the finality, the irrelevance of his life- and he thought of giving in. He’d worked so hard to do it right, but he’d messed it all up in the end, hadn’t he? The Prince…

He could go back to his bed. Every muscle in his body, the heavy, tormented parts of his brain screamed with the desire to turn back and lie down, and let sleep and infirmity carrying him through to his final moments. What else was there for a servant? He would die and life in the castle would go on, just as it should be.

And yet he also knew that such fatalism was selfish. He would make himself a burden to the others -because though he’d done his best to make himself as insignificant as possible, he’d failed to make them disregard him completely. Lancelot and Gaius were talking about him now, weren’t they? He’d heard them, felt them care for him when he’d been stuck in the haze of sickness.

For whatever strange reason they’d feel obligated to take care of him. And he would never allow himself to be so egotistical; it rebelled against his very nature. He’d already been such a disappointment… he couldn’t let them, the Prince, down again. If he worked to his dying breath, he’d prove to them that he was a good servant, through and through.

He’d prove it to them.

***

Arthur slouched in his chair, leaning heavily on one elbow. He was at his desk, staring at but not actually seeing the great spread of reports that he’d had to put aside for the councils… and even though the last of the visitors had departed Camelot that very morning, he couldn’t bring himself to focus and return to work.

His mind, as it had been for the last week, as it always seemed to be, was on a completely different part of the castle… to wherever Merlin was.

Two days.

Two days Merlin had been unconscious. He’d woken intermittently in that time, but had been too ill or incoherent to be considered truly awake… or so Gaius told him. Arthur wouldn’t know. He’d only been back to the infirmary twice.

The first time, it’d been the morning after they’d… after that. He’d spent the rest of that night slipping between madness to melancholy, drunk and tipsy and sober by the time the sun graced the sky. There had been sleep, somewhere in there, but it had been fleeting and insubstantial.

He still didn’t know what had possessed him that night. It couldn’t have just been the wine -wine was no excuse, and Arthur had to punish many knights for using such weak reasoning. At times he wondered if it was sickness that had come upon him. He thought that that he, too, must have been under a spell. He tried to tell himself… he tried… but none of it fit. He knew exactly why he had acted so, and it was shameful, so shameful that he had approached Merlin -that he had abused him like that. Merlin was weak and bewitched- he was defenseless against his Prince, and what Arthur had done…

Arthur was a lot of things, but he was honorable first and foremost; he’d known he must somehow make it right, and swiftly as possible. Chivalry demanded that he go and seek Merlin out. Maybe then, he could have helped heal the wounds that he had inflicted.

(And yet, a small, guilty part of him hoped that there were no wounds at all -that Merlin’s enchantment smoothed over any hurt or memories of mistreatment, and that when this was all done and over, Merlin wouldn’t even remember it. That they could.... start again. Somehow. He hoped, he hoped, he hoped.)

Arthur had planned to go early, before full dawn, but even then he loitered in his room, moreso than necessary -because it hard, knowing the task that lay ahead of him. But finally he braced himself and left his rooms, heading for Gaius’, only faintly noticing how quiet the castle was, until he’d come upon…

From his room, at that moment, if he strained hard enough, he could hear the sounds of the stonemasons working on the damaged walls. He tried to tune them out.

The hallway had looked as if it had been the victim of some great fire, though Arthur knew there had to have been nothing of the sort- he’d have heard it, wouldn’t he? But the evidence was there: the hallway was black with soot, the floor covered in ash, the stone walls melted to the point that the molten rock had bubbled and slid down their surface, leaving them warped, as if they were covered with strange, grotesque reliefs.

Whatever had happened, it could not have been natural -and, for some reason that may or may not have made sense, Arthur’s thoughts immediately went to Merlin.

He’d all but bolted to Gaius after that, hoping that he was wrong, that Merlin was there sleeping or, more likely, working himself to death- but that he’d be there and though he’d shy away from Arthur and Gaius would glare at him, Merlin would be there and be alright.

Merlin hadn’t been alright.

He’d rushed in and Lancelot and Gwen and Gaius were hovering over Merlin’s emaciated, shivering body, and Arthur’s heart crawled into his throat and killed his voice.

His mouth opened and closed. He let out a sound that could have been the start of a “What-?”, but it resembled the word just as much as it resembled a brittle exhale.

Eventually Lance had to come over and put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him aside so that they would be out of the way of the physician and his make-shift assistant. Lancelot told Arthur all he knew: he and Gwen had wanted to talk to Merlin, but when they realized he’d gone with Arthur, and he had yet to return, they went to meet him halfway. They found him like this, in that hallway, and he was… very, very ill.

The stones had been cool. Whatever happened, it’d happened long enough ago to let the heat seep from the walls - hours and hours, it couldn’t have been long after Merlin had left Arthur’s chambers… and yet he’d only been discovered a few hours ago. Merlin could have lain there all night, and Arthur would have been none the wiser. Lancelot had to know this, yet he spoke with such a gentle, sympathetic tone… he was consoling Arthur, when Arthur knew he deserved nothing of the sort.

He’d torn himself away from Lancelot. “I- I have to go. I must find out…”

Then he’d run. It was neither honorable nor chivalrous nor befitting a Prince, but he’d run because he didn’t think he’d be able to bear it if Merlin were to… were to… and the last time he and Arthur had been together was…

It was too awful to even think about.

So he’d alerted his knights and his father and threw himself into finding out what happened. Now that they had outright evidence of sorcery, there was no need for subtlety -Arthur was on the hunt.

They rang the bells. They upended every room in the castle. They turned out the visiting nobles in their bedclothes, and if they tried to resist, Arthur was quick to assure them that was a bad idea. Few protested after that.

And Camelot’s knights -Arthur’s knights- were nothing if not efficient. Within an hour they’d found, stuffed into a closet in a rarely-used room at the top of the West Tower, hidden in the back of a tapestry-covered alcove used for storage, covered in a muddy ditch out by the pig troughs, the bodies of three servants -all bearing Lord Torryn’s colors.

And Torryn himself was nowhere to be found.

“He’s fled,” Uther scowled when he heard the news. “Torryn, a magic user… I’d have never taken him to be so spineless.”

And Arthur cursed himself, because he knew there had been something suspicious about Torryn, yet he’d done nothing and now, when he wanted more than ever to get his hands around the man’s neck, he’d slipped right through Arthur’s fingers.

Except Torryn hadn’t slipped so far as Arthur thought -in fact, right before the noon hour the guards spotted the missing Lord riding back through Camelot’s northern gates. He surrendered himself immediately and was brought to Arthur for questioning. As much as Arthur wanted to put him in chains and let him rot in the dungeons for a few days, he was impatient, and had to settle for offering Torryn his most uncomfortable chair and sneering as meanly as he could.

“What is the meaning of all this, Torryn? Explain, and the King may consider sparing your life.”

Torryn had only sighed. “No need to threaten me, Arthur Pendragon. I will tell you as much as I know.”

And so the truth came out: it was not Torryn who held a grudge against Camelot, but his sister.

“I knew she held no love for Camelot, but I never thought…” he rubbed a hand across his brow, his wrinkled hands shaking ever-so-slightly. “When we arrived -I knew her illness was feigned, but I indulged her behavior anyway; I didn’t even question it… she’s my only remaining family, you see- I have no heirs of my own, and my nephew, her son, was killed some time ago.”

“Killed? Here in Camelot?”

Torryn nodded gravely. “Young Ifan came to pay homage, along with his friends Lucan and Robin.”

It was only then that Arthur remembered the boy. He had been spineless- too young, far too spoiled. Ifan was selfish and immature, and Arthur knew there would no place for him among the knights of Camelot (and, to be frank, Arthur had seen too much of his own young arrogance in Ifan… maybe for that, he’d been extra hard on the boy).

Arthur had made Lucan and Robin knights of Camelot, but planned to send Ifan away, to be knighted in his own country, but the boy had flown into a rage - or maybe tantrum was a more appropriate word. He’d immediately challenged his two companions for their place among the knights. A duel to the death- and Robin, a little foolishly, had taken up the offer.

Arthur had reluctantly presided over the duel. He recalled how, at the time, Ifan and Robin were well-matched in ability: Ifan fought viciously but was too impatient, and eventually Robin’s superior strength brought him to his knees. Yet despite the conditions of the duel, Robin had spared his friend out of compassion- and it was this act that confirmed Arthur had made the correct choice.

But Robin was still green, and after delivering his mercy to Ifan, had turned his back to his opponent. Ifan surged forward to strike… and Lucan, who had been watching close, had stepped in his path.

It was a quick parry-thrust, done before Arthur could do much to intervene, and the boy was struck down. It was obvious to anyone young Ifan was as good as dead -though if Arthur remembered right it had taken him a few hours to pass on.

Arthur had felt no remorse at the loss of the boy- he’d made a coward’s move and died a coward’s way. His only concern was consoling Lucan and Robin, who were truly sad to have killed and lost a childhood friend.

Torryn told the story much the same, adding, “But my sister, she would hear nothing of the truth. She railed about injustice and lies, and in my own grief I did not try to too hard to change her mind. You must understand, the boy was a fool, but he was still kin.”

Arthur bit his tongue.

“And eventually she grew quiet, and I thought she’d given in to reason. But… it seems her hatred had only festered. And when you came to tell me of the news, I knew…”

“Yet you said nothing?”

“No, and more the fool am I. When I heard those two young men had been killed, I was much aggrieved, but there was nothing I could do, and I thought she had extracted her revenge -the matter would be done. Last night I discovered her to be missing and rode out, thinking she had already run. I found nothing… but then, when I heard Camelot’s bells…” he sighed. “I knew she must have inflicted further damage. I presume, since you are still searching, that she is missing… Or is she dead?”

Arthur could still throw him chains. He could still condemn him for aiding a sorcerer, and watch him burn. But he looked so weary, so old- and Arthur knew what the betrayal of a sibling felt like. He swallowed, and had to look away.

“We have found no body, specifically, but there was this…” He held out a wrapped bundle, pulling back the cloth to reveal the black-burned brooch. “Is it hers?”

The intake of breath told him all there was to know. “Yes. May I…?”

Torryn took the brooch with careful fingers- “No need to worry, it is not dangerous anymore,” turning it round and round- “My mother practiced the Old Religion,” he said softly. “I rarely had time for her stories, her practices, but my sister…”

“So you know what it is?”

Torryn nodded. The brooch was enchanted to hold and contain magical power; the knot symbolized its ability to twist that power, to give and take. “The darker it burns, the darker the magic held inside it… She was going to try and bring Ifan back from the dead.”

“You know this for certain?”

“I can guess easily enough,” the older man smiled bitterly. “I knew my sister. Life for life, it’s justice at its finest, is it not?”

“So what went wrong?”

He kept turning it, considering. He asked Arthur the damage it had done, and Arthur told him. “The magic must have been tapped too soon. It was let out without direction, a purely destructive force. Such power would have consumed her,” he answered.

“And what would have set it off?” Arthur pushed. If Merlin had been there, had crossed her path… what had he done? How had he survived? How did it all add up?

But Torryn shook his head. “I do not know.”

And that was that. Torryn was to be confined to his room until he could be escorted back home- where he would be also confined to his castle, without protest, as a sign of good faith. It was the best Arthur could do, when he already had to edit details in his report to his father to ensure Torryn wouldn’t pay the price for his sister’s evils.

And so the sorcereress was dead, the threat to Camelot passed, and the negotiations -somehow, for everything that had happened since seemed so surreal to Arthur- came to a successful close.

And yet.

Two days had since passed, and Merlin was still unconscious. Little felt right in Arthur’s world.

The only other time he’d gone to see Merlin was the night after he’d spoken to Torryn. He’d hoped he would be able to see Merlin alone, but along with Gaius he also found Gwaine, taking his ‘turn’ to look after Merlin. Gwaine didn’t hesitate to snipe at Arthur again, making clear his displeasure at Arthur’s long absence, his presence now, everything. And when he did… he looked at Arthur like he knew what Arthur had done (even though he couldn’t possibly), like it was all Arthur’s fault - and it was enough to once again spark the anger that had seemed to be always beneath the surface these days.

The… discussion that followed quickly resulted in both of them getting kicked out of the infirmary. It happened so fast Arthur barely had a chance to see his ailing manservant.

The next day had Arthur signing treaties and seeing their visitors off and bringing an official end to the negotiations. Camelot had come off the better in many ways, and the alliances Arthur had made (not Uther, and everyone knew it but the King himself) would strengthen the realm for many years to come.

But now he was left, here in his rooms, trying and failing to tend to his normal Princely duties, head full of thoughts and getting next to nothing done. Arthur didn’t know how long he’d been sitting like this… long enough to make his back ache. He shifted in his seat, grunting in discomfort.

When the knock on his door came, it was a welcome distraction. “Enter,” he called out.

It was Lancelot -and Arthur resisted the urge to ask how Merlin was doing. He waited for the other man to speak first, though Lancelot seemed hesitant to do so. He was frowning at Arthur, as if he was looking right through his Prince and knew exactly what he was thinking, and disapproved. It was unnerving; sometimes the man was too upright for his own good.

“Merlin is awake,” he finally said, and Arthur couldn’t contain his reaction, this time. He leaned forward, legs braced to jump out of his chair. But… Lancelot still looked far too grim for the news to be all good.

“What is it?”

Lancelot couldn’t meet his eye, and Arthur swallowed around the thickness of his throat. “You… you best just come see him.”

“Lancelot-”

“He’s not-” the knight stopped him from voicing whatever he wanted to say, for which Arthur was almost grateful, but the weariness in Lancelot’s voice was no comfort. “He’s… you just better come.”

Arthur didn’t even glance twice at his work. He stood and followed Lance out the door, all the way to infirmary, a solemn procession at odds with the usual noise and goings-on of the castle. Arthur was preparing himself for the worst - but was unprepared to enter Gaius’ workroom and find Gwaine there, as well.

“What are you doing here?”

He hadn’t seen Gwaine since their argument. It was an impulsive fight, born of frustration and fear, but that’s the way they were. Gwaine was a laidback character, but he could be as hot of blood as any man when it came down to thing he cared about.

As if in proof of that fact, Gwaine scowled, shooting Arthur a dirty look. “He’s my friend, of course I’d be here.”

It rankled still, but this time Arthur held his tongue. It wasn’t worth it, not when he could hear the worry sneaking through the usual swagger of Gwaine’s voice. They weren’t enemies, and to let their frustrations get the best of them now would be of no help to Merlin. Arthur had had a lot of time to think, these past two days- more than enough time to see where his priorities should lie.

So instead he bowed his head briefly and asked the room at large. “Where is he?”

Gaius answered, pointing to a corner of the room. “Over there, sire.”

Arthur felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Merlin was whiter than he’d ever seen him, which was saying something considering how pale the man was. His skin was looked almost translucent, blue-black (and that was a little strange, wasn’t it?) veins matching the deep bruising around his eyes, which were sunken and red-rimmed. He wasn’t crying, but there was sadness about him, in every line of his body. He was sitting on a stool, cleaning glass vials as Arthur had seen him do many times before, but he had to lean against the wall just to stay upright. His fingers were sluggish but steady as he moved a wet rag in circles over the glass. He coughed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving behind a smear of dark red.

“Merlin, the Prince is here,” Gaius announced.

Merlin didn’t even acknowledge him.

Arthur found himself stricken -not with the sort of overwhelming sadness he’d become so used to lately. It was not a feeling of weariness that struck him to the bone. It simply… hurt. Arthur knew it would hurt, he was not surprised by what he saw- but he couldn’t quite accept it, either.

“Merlin,” he tried, and Merlin’s eyes flicked over in their direction, at their shoes.

“I… I’m working, sire.”

“I can see that,” he sighed. “Didn’t I tell you to stop?”

“I…” he hesitated again. “I want to work. Please.”

Arthur took a deep breath, and met eyes with Lancelot. His gaze was full of sympathy. “There’s been no change in his attitude, despite his illness. He came out and went straight to the bench, and no matter what we say, he won’t be moved.”

They all took turns at coaxing him. Gaius tried to tempt him with promises of working later, when he was more rested, but Merlin just mumbled, “Can’t. Too much to do.”

Arthur tried to be demanding, to force him to stop through various orders, but Merlin kept turning sad, imploring eyes on him, and each time Arthur couldn’t outright deny him. He threw his hands in the air and Lancelot stepped up in his place. He laid a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, but pleading with him, but the ragged servant shrugged the hand off. When Gwaine crouched down and offered a quiet, rueful joke (most likely at Arthur’s expense) Merlin glanced at him, but ended up shaking his head and working the glass the even harder.

Arthur watched Gwaine hang his head for a moment, and then push himself up, eyes closing as if in pain. “Damn,” he said under his breath, and Arthur echoed the sentiment.

“That’s it,” he said. They’d all been gentle -because there was no doubt that Merlin, in this state, was frailty at its worst- but at this point if they didn’t stop him, he’d do more damage to himself than any of them could. “Enough of this.”

He took the vial from Merlin; when Merlin’s hands followed it, he tossed it completely out of reach, silently apologizing to Gaius for breaking decent glass. Ignoring Merlin’s half-hearted protests, he scoped him up, one arm along his back and one under the crook of his knees. He didn’t know how it was possible, but Merlin felt even lighter than before.

“Sire, what-? No, please-”

“Shut up. Get the door,” he commanded, and someone opened Merlin’s door for them, he didn’t look or care to see who it was.

“I need to-”

“-Rest,” Arthur finished for him. “You can do the work the later.”

“No-” Merlin cried, struggling weakly, coughing again. “I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be,” he bit out, nudging the door shut behind them.

“I have to show you, I’ll make it up to you, I’m sorry-”

Arthur grimaced, glad that they were already in Merlin’s room and out of earshot of the others. They might not have known the full implication of Merlin’s words, but Arthur knew exactly what his servant was referring to. He laid Merlin gently down on the bed, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder to keep him down.

“You don’t have to apologize for what happened,” he said. “The fault is mine.”

“No, no, why would you say that,” Merlin protested. He looked like he was simultaneously trying to strain against and shrink from Arthur’s touch, a strange mix of jerking motions.

“You’re not well, Merlin,” he said, and every word killed him to say.

“I know, but I can still-”

“You can’t.”

“Please…” Merlin pleaded, and now he did look close to tears. “Please, Arthur.”

Hearing his name on Merlin’s lips was heartrending. Arthur’s throat closed and he couldn’t meet Merlin’s eyes. After a long moment, he sighed shakily, lifting his hand. Merlin didn’t move, but watery eyes tracked his every movement as he stood and searched the room for something suitable.

The rope was unexpected (why on Earth would Merlin keep it around? Did he even want to know?), but it suited his task perfectly. He wrapped it around the bed twice, laying it over Merlin’s chest, loose enough that the ropes wouldn’t chafe him in any way -only keep him down. Merlin didn’t so much as twitch the entire time. When Arthur was done, he sat down on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “I didn’t want to do that.”

“…sorry.”

Arthur was done trying to make him stop apologizing. “I’m going to find a way to fix you,” he said, and Merlin didn’t answer, so he wasn’t sure if he heard him. But when he turned, he found Merlin still looking at him, wide-eyed and gaunt and broken.

“Damn,” he said, and reached out a hand. Fingertips ghosted over clammy skin, slow around the curve of his face. Merlin stayed so still, except for how his eyes tracked Arthur’s every movement, and so Arthur let his hand drift down, to his shoulder, his arm, to the wrist that had, not a few days ago, been bound up tight.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, two fingers on his pulse-point.

“No,” Merlin answered dutifully.

“Good,” Arthur said softly, pulling his hand away and feeling like he was tearing himself in two to do it. He stood, knowing that if he didn’t go now, soon he might not find the strength or will within him to leave. He turned only at the last second, before he was gone from the sad sight Merlin made.

“…Rest, you idiot.”

[ onwards ]