Arthur clenched his fist. This could not be happening.

Only moments ago, everything had been fine. Normal. He'd taken Merlin on a ride through the woods, nothing dangerous or special. Just something to ease the boredom.

He did not understand how everything could have spiraled so out of control in so little time.

He hadn't seen the ambush until his horse pranced, throwing him off without warning. For a second, he'd lain on the damp forest floor, waiting for his brain to catch up and his lungs to start working again. A large gash in his left arm bled profusely, his clothing already warm and damp with blood.

He wanted to call out to Merlin, to make sure the boy was okay, but he found himself unable to. His brain caught up with exactly what was happening the moment a disgustingly filthy man pressed his cold sword against his throat. He sneered at the prince, his mouth half-filled with rotting teeth, and yelled something at his comrades.

Arthur's eyes darted to his own sword. Too far to reach. There was nothing he could do but watch and wait as the man lifted his sword to deal a killing blow.

Which never came.

The man's panicked eyes widened almost comically as he was yanked back by an unseen force. He didn't scream when his sword went flying, nor did he make a sound when he collided with a tree. Except for the dry snap of his neck breaking. He didn't move when he landed in a heap on top of a fallen comrade, both men staring unseeingly at the slaughter that was happening.

At the clumsy servant with his hand raised, his eyes on fire as men went flying around him.

Arthur blinked. Once. Twice. Shook his head.

But Merlin was still standing there, surrounded by fallen men. Slowly, the younger of the two men lowered his arm, his posture tense. Both men held their breath as he turned to face the fallen prince, the fire in his eyes making way for naked fear as they stared at each other.

Arthur clenched his fist. This could not be happening.

His servant was a goddamn sorcerer.

"Arthur…"

The dark haired boy he no long knew unfroze and stumbled to where he lay. He seemed to be at war with himself, both wanting to hurry to help his prince and to run as far away from him as humanly possible. Eventually, the first urge seemed to win and the boy crouched beside him. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch his bleeding arm, his face pale as he refused to make eye-contact.

"Don't touch me," he snapped, pulling his arm back with a pained hiss. He pressed his hurting limb against his chest, his good hand trying to stem the blood flow. With his heels pressing in the forest ground, he tried to push himself away from the sorcerer.

"Arthur, please," the warlock begged, his eyes briefly flickering to the prince's face, "You're hurt, let me help you."

"Do. Not. Touch. Me," Arthur growled in a threatening voice, "Or I swear to God, I will strike you down where you stand."

The boy's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, tears welling in his eyes as he pulled his shaking hand back. He did not move away from him though. Arthur clenched his teeth together, desperate to get away from the evil in front of him. He faltered slightly as he wrestled himself back to his feet. From the corner of his eye he could see the sorcerer move towards him, his movements jerky and hesitant. He bared his teeth and turned away from him, no longer able to face this creature.

"At least let me explain…"

He froze, his eyes narrowing. His blood was boiling. How dare he speak of explanations. He had trusted Merlin, had considered him almost a friend. And all this time, he had been lying to him. Practicing magic, when he knew it was forbidden. To realize that the one person he had thought he could trust had knowingly betrayed him, hurt worse than the sharpest sword. It left him breathless and slightly shaking, his heart hammering against his ribcage, his blood pumping through his veins as if on fire. A growl was growing deep in his chest.

"Arthur…"

The hand that touched him was trembling, and for a fraction of a second he did not know who was most afraid.

"You betrayed me!" his roar echoed against the trees as he spun around. The boy flinched, "And you- you- you're a sorcerer!"

"I didn't choose to be!" cried Merlin, tears spilling over his cheeks, "I was born with it. I'm sorry, Arthur. I should have told you. I'm so sorry, I-"

His knuckles bruised as his fist connected with the traitor's jaw. Stunned, the sorcerer stumbled backwards, losing his balance and landing on the ground with a pained groan. Arthur could see his hand trembling as he touched his bleeding mouth, staring up at Arthur in shock.

"I don't ever want to see you again," hissed Arthur, spitting on the pitiable, sobbing figure at his feet. If he did see him again, he would have the sorcerer beheaded.

How could he have been so blind? His father was right. Magic corrupted the soul, making his servant blind to the evil traitor he had willingly become. The liar he had become.

The danger he had become.

He seethed as he raced back to Camelot. If he had hoped his anger would disappear by the time he'd reached his chambers, he was sorely mistaken. His head was filled with an endless mantra of 'Merlin is a sorcerer, sorcery is evil, Merlin is evil', making him stamp his feet so hard his knees hurt.

He slammed the doors to his chambers shut with a reverberating bang and paused. Everything was exactly as he had left it. The table was cleared of his lunch, nothing but a silver platter filled with fruit and a goblet waiting to be drank from left behind. There were a couple of scrolls waiting to be read. Probably reports from the knights. His clothes were neatly folded over a chair. His bed was made.

But he hadn't done any of these things. Merlin had.

The boy should have been nothing but an annoying, disobeying servant. He should have been nothing to him. But he hadn't realized how deeply his servant had become ingrained in his life. He hadn't realized what a deep impact the boy had had. Until now. When he looked around him, everything breathed Merlin.

And it hurt.

He screamed in anger and frustration. Everything was wrong! He tossed the silver platter across the room, fruit spilling everywhere as it clanged against the wall. He picked a chair off the ground and slammed it against the table again and again and again until the wood splintered and shattered.

"Fuck!" he roared, drawing his sword and stomping to the perfectly made bed, "Traitor! You betrayed me!"

Sweat ran down his face as he hacked at the bed. The wood splintered. The silk linens ripped. Feathers whirled around him and clung to his sword as he slammed it down until he could no longer feel his shaking arms.

"Milord!"

His head whipped towards the door, where a young guard was staring at him in alarm. Both men stared at each other, one pale, the other red in the face and panting loudly. The man yelled something at his comrades down the hallway, before tentatively stepping over the threshold and into the prince's chambers. Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Get out," he growled. The guard hesitated and flinched as Arthur moved. Much like Merlin had done after he'd struck him.

Merlin. His liar servant who'd betrayed him.

"Get the hell out of my chambers!" Arthur shouted, stomping towards the terrified guard, ready to shove him out. Perhaps beat some sense into him while he was at it. It was then that Gaius appeared in his line of vision, red in the face from running, a basket filled with medical supplies slung over his shoulder.

Gaius. The physician had shared his chambers with the sorcerer. He must have known.

"You," he snarled, his sword heavy in his hands as he pressed it against the old man's chest, "Did you know?"

Gaius blinked, his eyes briefly flickering down to the deadly weapon against his chest, "Know what, sire?"

"Don't lie to me!"

Because he must have known. You do not share your chambers with someone for years and not know a secret this big.

He had been lying. All these years. They had all been lying to him.

Who else was practicing magic behind his back?

Who else was betraying the kingdom like that?

It was a complot. It was treason.

"Move."

He shoved the old man out of his way, making him stumble into the guard. When they moved to go after him, he raised his sword threateningly.

"Sire," Gaius yelled after him, "You're hurt! At least let me have a look at your wounds first."

Though he tried to ignore the man, his arm started stinging again as he was reminded of the cut. Adrenaline was a powerful painkiller. Something he'd learned in battle years ago.

His nostrils flared as he marched through the castle. When someone glanced at him, he snapped at them, hoping they would rise to the bait. He needed to punch something. Someone. Preferably Merlin. But if he never saw that traitor again, it would be too soon.

The thought of gutting the traitor brought him great pleasure. And an even stronger urge to swing a few punches.

He roared as he slammed his fist against the rough, stone wall, again and again until he could barely breathe. Blood trickled down his hand, his knuckles bruised and scraped, already swelling. He stared at them. What had he done to deserve this.

"Arthur?"

He slowly raised his head to face the king. His father stood frozen, staring at his son while seemingly trying to figure out what on earth made him behave like a crazed madman in the middle of the hallway. Arthur didn't know what to say. His entire body was trembling and he took a step back as his father marched towards him. He couldn't help but flinch as the man gripped his good arm tightly and lead him into the privacy of the throne room.

He had disappointed the king. He had failed him in his war against evil. He had been blind and a fool and by trusting the sorcerer, he had let evil poison the inner kingdom. This was all his fault.

"Compose yourself," his father hissed, "What are you doing? Where is your manservant? Merlin?"

He froze, hesitated. Hearing that name made his blood boil and his lips curl. It made him want to destroy everything within his reach. It made him want to scream and shout. Perhaps even cry.

"Merlin is a sorcerer," he breathed, his voice a shaky whisper. There, he'd said it.

"What?"

His father's grip on his arm tightened as he processed the words neither of them had ever fathomed to hear. The anger that had been burning inside him since the incident evaporated, relief washing over him instead. Followed closely by bone-deep exhaustion and grief.

His only friend had betrayed him.

"Merlin," he repeated slowly, a sob getting painfully stuck behind a lump in his throat, "Is a sorcerer."

His head was spinning at the full realization of what this meant. Of what telling this to the king meant. He sank down in a chair and let his face fall in his trembling hands. He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, forcing back the tears that were starting to well.

"I trusted him," he hated how pitiful his voice sounded, "And he betrayed me."

His words were followed by a moment of silence, as if everyone in the castle was holding their breath. His father was the first to break it, barking an order at the guards just outside the doors; "Find the boy!"

Except they would never find him. He had left him in the woods. Even he wasn't that stupid that he'd return to Camelot.

"You did the right thing, son," his father's voice was soft and praising, and Arthur shuddered as a warm hand rested on his shoulder, "You're hurt. Did the sorcerer do this to you?"

He wanted to deny it, but the words got stuck in his throat. Possibly trapped behind that sob that was still threatening to escape.

"Gaius needs to have a look at this," Arthur hissed as his father prodded the cut on his arm, "It's fairly deep and I'd rather not see this get infected. Ah-"

There was a lot of commotion as the doors to the throne room swung open. His father got back to his feet and stepped away from his son. Arthur lifted his face from his hands.

And choked.

In front of him was Merlin, being dragged in by two guards. He had never seen the boy so pale, his eyes red and swollen. Bruises discolored his face, at least one of them the shape of Arthur's fist. They threw him on the floor in front of them, where he remained with his head bowed so deeply it nearly touched the tiles. His shoulders were shaking as they waited for the king to speak.

"You are accused of using magic," he recognized the bitter hatred in his father's voice, "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

The boy slowly lifted his head, looking at Arthur with tears in his eyes, "I only ever wanted to protect you. I never meant any harm. I'm so sorry…"

Arthur found himself unable to breathe. His father sighed.

"You leave me no choice," the king said, "Merlin, you are hereby sentenced to death for practicing magic. You will be burned at the stake tomorrow morning. Guards, escort him to the dungeons where he will await his execution."

Time slowed down as they dragged the boy from the room. Arthur had half-expected him to make a run for it. Surely, a sorcerer must be able of such an act? But the boy didn't struggle as the guards lifted him off the floor and manhandled him out of the room. He didn't cry, or shout or protest.

He looked directly at Arthur, his eyes begging for him to do something.

Perhaps he hoped his friend would save him. Would stand up and run forward to free him, sword drawn, challenging anyone who even dared think of hurting him. But he didn't, and the doors closed.

The boy was gone.

That night, Arthur hardly closed an eye.

When his father had seen the wreckage in his chambers, he'd been furious. The servants had already started sweeping broken glass and torn silk out of his chambers, but it would take days to have everything back in order. His chairs were beyond repair, as were his bed linens. The silver smith would have an aneurism when he saw the dents in the silverware and they would need an incredibly skilled wood crafter to replace his bedframe.

Unfortunately, this meant Arthur wouldn't be able to sleep in his own chambers for at least a few nights. He probably should have thought about that before he let his rage consume him. The beds in the knight's chambers were nowhere near as comfortable as his own. His back ached and his arm itched underneath the bandages. He wondered if Gaius had put some sort of itching herb among the healing ones. To punish him.

(He probably deserved it.)

But worse than the itch and the burning of his back was the stabbing pain in his gut every time he let his mind wander to his servant. It left him breathless, squirming in an effort to shake of the nagging doubt.

He tried to convince himself he had done the right thing. That it was for the best. After all, magic was evil and dangerous. It corrupted the soul and poisoned the mind, consuming the sorcerer from the inside out until he could no longer tell the difference between right or wrong.

And yet, he couldn't help but prick up his ears, hoping he'd hear the alarm bells chime. Whenever he heard something that sounded remotely like them, he bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest, only to be disappointed when he'd realize it had been only the wind or a guard.

Long before sunrise, he gave up on trying to sleep. Instead, he sat by the window and watched the guards build the pyre. He wondered if his servant could see them as well. It would have been unnecessarily cruel to put the boy in one of the cells looking over the courtyard. Unnecessarily cruel, and something his father enjoyed doing to imprisoned sorcerers.

Once or twice, Arthur stood up from his seat by the window and found himself standing at his door, his hand on the knob. But he couldn't. Visiting his servant in the dungeons would only make him angry and upset. Or it might give the boy false hope. Gaius was probably with him anyway; the boy was like a son to him.

A son Arthur had condemned to death.

"It's for the best," he whispered to himself, but even to his own ears his words sounded hollow.

Not long after sunrise, a guard knocked on his door, ready to escort him to the execution site. Never before had he been so anxious about an execution. He dragged his feet as they moved through the castle, dreading the inevitable. From the balcony, he could see that many villagers had already assembled around the pyre, whispering nervously among each other. A lot of them had known Merlin, or knew at least who he was. Near the front stood Gaius, looking pale and desperate, probably still hoping for a miracle.

Next to the prince, Morgana was gripping the balustrade so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She had a grim look on her face as she stared at the crowd. His father leaned forward to get a better view as they brought Merlin into the courtyard, nodding to himself, muttering something.

Arthur held his breath as they strapped the boy to the stake. Never before had he seen him look so pasty white. He half hoped his servant would look up to him, that they would catch each other's eye. A last sign of respect. Perhaps an unspoken goodbye. But he didn't. Instead, his head hung low as the guards checked to make sure the ropes were sufficiently tight.

He wondered if someone had sent word to the boy's mother.

Arthur started trembling as the executioner lit his torch, looking up at the king for that speech that warned the people about what would happen if they ever even considered resorting to something as horrible as magic.

He drew in a sharp breath as the executioner brought his burning torch. He bit the inside of his mouth and clenched his fists until he could feel the scrapes on his knuckles pop back open, blood welling from them. He'd seen the executioner do this a hundred times before; he knew what was coming. The kindling was already smoking, small flames dancing over the twigs and branches. Consuming them. The fire spreading and growing until it veiled the bounded figure in thick black smoke.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

Merlin was supposed to escape from the dungeons, as so man had done before. He should have stolen a horse and be halfway across Camelot by now, far away from the deadly grasp of the kingdom. He had magic, for crying out loud, surely he should have been capable of escaping?!

It wasn't until the flames licked at his servant's clothes that he boy started struggling, desperate to get away from the all-devouring heat. The smoke was thick and sharp as it danced all the way up to the prince, smothering him as it curled into his nose and poked at his brain. He coughed, his eyes and throat burning, his lungs craving fresh air. He choked on his cough when the most terrifying sound he'd ever heard reached his ears.

Merlin.

It started softly at first; quiet yelps of discomfort and fear. As if he didn't want to draw attention to himself, but couldn't stop himself from crying out. However, it didn't take long for them to morph into shouting, and then full-blown screaming. The fire had reached the boy, the flames wrapping their burning tongues around his skinny legs, setting him ablaze like a star. Melting away the magic and his skin.

He couldn't breathe.

Merlin's screams filled his ears and his heart, echoing, bouncing, multiplying until they consumed his entire being and he couldn't breathe. His heart was hammering against his chest. Too fast. Too hard. Trying to break his ribs. Trying to get away. Stabbing him from inside-out like a well-trained knight going rogue.

His entire body was on fire. Screaming at him. Like Merlin was. Merlin. Merlin was on fire.

Merlin was on fire and screaming and it hurt.

The smoke was thick and cruel, wrapping its blistering hands around his chest, squeezing, squeezing, until he choked, sweat dripping from his skin like ice-cold rain. Smothering him. Thick with the smell of burning flesh.

Time seemed to slow down, the world spinning around him, making him want to vomit. His ears were filled with Merlin's frayed howls and his own rasping gasps, breathing in nothing but smoke, ripping through him like daggers, leaving him dizzy and wheezing.

"Stop," he choked out, the world spinning so madly that he lost track of which way was up and which way was down. He stumbled forward, gagging, tears streaming down his face. Someone caught his injured arm to pull him back before he could tumble down the balustrade, and everything went white for a second, "Make it stop. Please."

His friend was burning because he had been foolish and scared and hurt. This was entirely his fault. He had done this.

"Make it stop…" he begged, his body trying to sink to its knees. He cried out in pain as the grip on his bad arm tightened, hauling him back into a somewhat standing position.

"Calm down, Arthur," his father hissed, shaking him roughly, not caring that he was hurting his son, "You're in public. You're the crown prince and supposed to set an example. Stop making such a show of yourself."

Laughter bubbled from deep within him, high-pitched and hysterical. He was making a show of himself? His best friend – his only friend – was being burned alive because of him. Right in front of him. The one person that would always be there for him was dying a slow, painful death, because of his actions. But he was making a show of himself?

A sharp slap to his face left his ears ringing. He stared up at his father, shocked that he would lay a hand on him in public. And then he realized something.

He could no longer hear Merlin screaming.

Everything around him slowed down to a full stop as the realization of what that meant slammed into him with the force of a lance.

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. No.

It was as if someone had paused the world, while the weight of his guilt crushed him. Punched him in the face and in the gut. All color blinked out of the world as someone stuffed his ears and head with cotton, the frantic beating of his own heart the only thing he could hear. He swayed.

His father's hands slid from his shoulders and the king's mouth sagged open. It was as if he were about to say something, but had forgotten what. His eyes were wide as saucers as he turned away from his son. Someone was screaming. Not Merlin. A woman.

The world shifted as his father was no longer holding him upright. He was falling, the stone floor rushing up to meet him.

And then everything faded to black as his head slammed against the tiles.

"This is completely unacceptable. How is this possible?!"

Arthur found himself waking up somewhere warm and relatively comfortable. His body felt heavy and weak, a dull beat throbbing in his head. Someone had tied something rough and itchy around his head. Bandages. He could hear someone pacing over the crackling of a fire. For a moment, he did not understand how he had gotten here, or why his body felt so uncomfortable. Then he remembered, and he shot up with a strangled gasp.

Merlin.

His stomach churned threateningly and his whole body was wrecked with violent shivers as he remembered the silence after the screams. All those times he had wished for his friend to just shut up and be silent for a while, this was not what he had meant. His eyes burned.

His friend was dead.

"Oh good, you're awake," Gaius was suddenly at his side, fussing over him. The man was pale, but a small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. Arthur didn't understand. How could the man be smiling after what had happened. After what he had done, "You gave us quite a scare, sire."

"What– ?"

But before he could translate his confusion into a sentence, his father was standing next to him, clearly not pleased. He glared at his son, his mouth pressed in a thin line as he impatiently tapped his foot.

"You swore, Arthur," he snapped, "You told me you'd killed it."

He shook his head in bewilderment. He didn't understand. Killed what? Killed Merlin? Killed his best friend? His only friend? He'd done that. His father had been there, he'd seen it. So what was he talking about?

"Sire, he must rest now," Gaius insisted, resting his hand on the prince's shoulder in an attempt to ground him as he grew clearly distressed, "His body and mind are recovering. A panic such as the one he experienced is not to be taken lightly. With all due respect, Sire, I must insist you question him later."

"Fine," his father glared at him, "We'll talk later."

Arthur's body sagged as his father slammed the door behind him, and he did not protest as Gaius gently pushed him back down. His mind was hazy, and he felt as if he was missing several pieces of a very important puzzle. But when he tried to find those pieces inside himself, he drew a blank. It scared him.

"Gaius," he was embarrassed to hear his voice crack. He reached out to the older man, weakly grabbing his sleeve as he moved to get away from him, "What happened?"

"A panic, sire," the physician said in a soft voice, sitting down on a chair next to, "Hysteria. You passed out."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, hiding his face in his hands. He tugged at the bandage wrapped around his head, "Gaius, it's all my fault. I've made a terrible mistake. I– "

"Deep breaths, Arthur," the man berated him, gently pulling his hands from his face, "There's no use getting yourself so worked up again."

"But– I– Merlin– " he shuddered, bile rising in his throat at the memory of the smell of burning flesh. He gagged, trembling.

He expected – hoped, even – that Gaius would yell at him. To tell him what a despicable being he was. That he did not deserve to be a prince. That he was a disappointment and he despised him. That it should have been him burning at that stake. But Gaius did none of those things. Instead, the man smiled.

Arthur had never felt more confused and desperate in his life. He had killed his friend. Murdered him In cold blood. Because he had been angry and foolish and scared. Less than 24 hours ago, everything had been perfectly fine. And now everything lay in ruins. Because of him.

And Gaius was smiling about it.

"Your father is very angry with you," Gaius said, "Seconds before you collapsed, the great dragon rescued Merlin from the pyre. The king was under the impression you'd killed the beast."

The old man's words echoed in his head and it took a while for him to understand what he had just said.

"He's– He's alright?" he finally choked out, tears welling in his eyes.

"I don't know," a cloud of worry passed over the physician's face, "He was in very bad shape when the dragon came. But at least there's hope."

He nodded, unable to find the words to express his relief.

Merlin was hurt, badly so, but at least he wasn't dead yet. He didn't understand how the dragon could have saved him – he had killed it, hadn't he? – or why, but right now he couldn't care less. The beast had protected him when he couldn't. Didn't. He owed it a deep debt.

"Gaius," he whispered, "If you see him… would you tell him I'm sorry?"

Gaius hesitated and Arthur's heart sank. The man didn't trust him anymore. He probably feared he would hurt his friend again. Arthur didn't blame him, but Merlin had to know. He had to know that he wanted to take it all back. That he understood why he had kept his abilities a secret. That he forgave him, and he didn't think any less of him. That he was the bravest man and most valuable friend he had ever known. And that he was sorry for ever doubting him. For making him suffer the way he had done.

"Please…"

Gaius looked at the prince and sighed. He nodded; "I promise."

Arthur breathed in deeply and sunk back into the mattress, closing his eyes. He hadn't killed his friend. There was still hope. Merlin would be okay.

Everything was going to be just fine.

I'm still not a native speaker and I don't have a beta reader, so please, if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out!

The story isn't perfect, but I think it's not too bad either? Your reviews and opinions are definitely welcome!

Also, is any of you interested in a second chapter from Merlin's POV? Because I'm still debating whether or not I should write that :)