Disclaimer: I own nothing of this series.
Summary: A what-if canon divergence centered on a bit of illogic of season 4 episode 6, 'Servant of Two Masters': Why would Gwen ever keep this from Arthur?
Author's Note: Unconventional relationship. Merthur, from Gwen's viewpoint. A few lines borrowed from the show, as part of a scene to which I made minor changes. Edits: 11-2-2013.
Title is from the song "The Hand That Feeds" by Nine Inch Nails.
…
Brave Enough to See (Bite the Hand that Feeds)
…
Gwen looks at a horribly familiar plate, central to a barnyard death tableau, and a small something in her head clicks. Little cues of behavior pick themselves up and stack themselves neatly under the new and vibrant banner in her head. In curling script it reads Something Is Wrong With Merlin.
It began with his return: riding on a horse behind Gwaine without complaint as trot slowed to walk and then to full stop. Arthur fretted for many reasons—being forced to leave Merlin behind, their route betrayed to an unknown party—but Merlin's serious injury made even Arthur's hope falter. Frustrated, he rode out to the forest and accomplished what patrols and his best knights could not. When she approached Arthur in the courtyard, relief and worry battling in her as she clasped his hand, he told her, "I must have magnified the damage in my worry." And yes, that must be it.
It continued with Merlin's grimace as Gaius led him to the infirmary, the servant watching Arthur as the king walked away. Arthur did not look back to see the shine in Merlin's eye, the sheer longing in every crease of his frown. She met Gwaine's smirk with a raised eyebrow. The two of them glanced around the courtyard to confirm that no other eyes caught Merlin's unsubtle gaze. The knight patted her shoulder and whispered, "Just the stress getting to him." And yes, that would explain it.
It continued with Merlin's extremely out of character behavior that morning. Firstly, he should have come to Arthur's room first thing that morning and thus learned that his duties were lighter for the day. Having clearly skipped that step, the cook should have informed him. But he appears with a plate and his expression when he looks at Gwen is—if she didn't know better, she'd call it hatred.
And that is the second peculiarity, because he is one of three people in Camelot who knows exactly what she and Arthur are to one another. Her status with them was clear in the early days when she saw prince and manservant's attraction tightening to unacknowledged tension. Yet Camelot needs a queen and Arthur, heirs—so the bedroom remains private, the throne room public. In the absence of any nobility Arthur finds suitably trustworthy, turning to the gentle attraction he and Gwen feel for one another is only logical. He loves the queen he can see her be; she loves the king that shines within him. Even her love for Lancelot—and her heart aches so at the loss—would not have stopped her proposed duty.
They have had this conversation, still have it, particularly after the loss of a trusted knight and friend, Gwen's possible true paramour under the guise of duty to the kingdom. (Perhaps it is a little easier for her, this way, not to hurt Lancelot with the subterfuge. He was ever such an honorable man.)
Perhaps Arthur should gather his courage and make a gesture to Merlin. He's cautious, always, thinking of what is best for the kingdom and for her and especially for Merlin himself, a servant and friend Arthur would never wish to place in an unwanted position. He knows how clumsy he is with expressing private thoughts, let alone emotions. Gwen's assurances that his advances would be welcome do nothing to assuage his fear, or his concern that Merlin would feel it obligation or duty.
Merlin's reaction this morning concerns them both. Not even in the earliest uncomfortable stages has Merlin showed more than mild jealousy. And in the wake of their trust being placed in him, it seemed a quiet, private reaction easily soothed. Without saying a word on the matter, Gwen watched him relax again around Arthur, no longer tense as though betraying her friendship.
The scorn he directed her way hurt deeply, but like Arthur, bewildered confusion outweighed the pain. They looked at each other once he left, Arthur wilting, and Gwen grasps for an explanation. As she sank into a chair, she said, "He's trying to reconcile what happened," and patted Arthur's arm. "Being hurt and separated from you, then being alone. It's only his first day back." And yes, that has to be what it is.
But now, now she carries a plate with food from the royal kitchens which a pig gorged on and died by eating. It cannot be what it looks like, but yes, these were the foods Merlin had with him.
Maybe it's not the same plate he brought. Just a similar one.
But what if it is? Gwen answers herself. She cannot take the risk. With this possible piece of the puzzle, the earlier bits take on shades of not-so-innocent. Not so easily explainable.
Why doesn't his injury pain him? How could Arthur—experienced in battle, knowledgeable about wounds—have so badly mistaken the extent of it? Where has Merlin's subtlety, and open heart, gone? Why was he so angry at her? What happened to the food he brought—or, unthinkably: what did he do to it?
Her fingers clench around the plate. She has to know if there is more. If there is more, she is not paranoid. She can't be the only one to have seen something.
Gwen wraps the plate and remaining food in a sheet and tucks it into a basket, then piles day-old flowers atop it. She makes her rounds through the training ground, collecting the Knights of the Round Table—as they've taken to thinking of themselves—one by one, and leads them to her brother's chambers. She keeps an eye out for Merlin or Arthur as she goes, apparently none too subtly: as she closes the door with a last look down the corridor, Gwaine is the first to comment on the matter.
"You are jumpier than a doe in hunting season," he says. "Are we planning a coup on the Princess?" Despite his joking, his eyes are serious and piercing.
She places her basket on the small table. "Have any of you noticed—that is, has Merlin being acting strangely? Around any of you?"
She knows Elyan can see the stress lines forming around her eyebrows when he frowns at her. "I have yet to see him." Gesturing to Percival, he adds, "We just returned from patrol." It was a stroke of luck that they were walking through the training fields on their ways back to their chambers.
Gwaine lifts one shoulder. "When we were riding back, he seemed quieter than normal. I thought it stress. He was pretty tired."
One place she was not present. "Did he say anything unusual?" He hesitates, a flicker of his eyes. "Please, just say it. Whatever it is."
He grimaces, but admits, "He told me to shut up. But I run at the mouth—"
"This is Merlin," Percival breaks in. His few words say a lot: Merlin's patience, his good humor, his kind nature, all such a large part of him. His friendship with Gwaine is strong, and he's one of the few who can listen to the knight's yammering for hours without a single harsh word.
She glances at Leon, who frowns. She watches and waits, letting him come to his words, and he finally asks a question of his own. "Has Arthur been less…sensitive than usual?"
Even Gwen has to snort at the thought of Arthur being anything but obtuse about treating another person gently. He means well, but defaults to punching shoulders and threatening punishment (especially around Merlin).
Leon shakes his head and the quirk of his lips fades as fast as it appeared. "Let me rephrase. Has he irritated Merlin badly this morning?"
Gwen purses her lips. "No." Merlin's irritation was directed at her. In fact, Merlin expressed no affection or aggravation, no insinuated sliver of pain, no blame directed at Arthur for leaving him behind.
"Gwen." She looks at Elyan, at his growing frown and clenched fists. "What happened this morning to make you ask about Merlin?"
She sighs and tells them. About Merlin not seeming to know his duties were lighter that day, his irritation and lashing out. As she speaks, she removes the flowers and pulls out the sheet-covered plate, unwraps it, and tells them about where she found the food—and what she found it with.
The metal clinks on the table as she places it down. Any glimmer of humor has been sucked out of the room. When she looks at Leon again, his troubled expression has grown bewildered, a deep furrow between his brows.
"Earlier, in the armory," he says. "Merlin was looking for a crossbow. I thought he was joking, when he told me it was to kill Arthur."
And oh, that hurts, that hurts so much so deep in her heart. These were words uttered before on particularly bad days when Arthur's thrown his weight down on Merlin without mercy and they have a loud fight—but she looks at the plate under her hand and whips it back like, well, like it's poison.
"Gwaine," she says, her own voice echoing in her ears, "was Merlin injured when you found him?" When she meets their eyes, bristling with swords half-drawn at their sides, she sees confusion. "Arthur said he had been badly wounded. Before they were separated."
Gwaine shakes his head. "We were so relieved to see him. I forget it completely when he moved without pain." His eyes darken. "Do you think it might not be him?"
She shrugs helplessly. "I—I don't know. I just know that this," she pokes at the plate. "Is not Merlin."
"No," Leon says, his anger cooling to ice. "But whatever happened out there has been brought here. We must find Arthur and Merlin."
"Gaius," Gwen says, reaching for the door. "Maybe he'll have an idea—if it's magic—"
"Has to be," Elyan mutters, one hand wringing the handle of his sword. The knights are furious with this trickery, at either the manipulation or death of a dear friend. Gwen slips out and down the corridor and vows that their Merlin will be brought back.
Gaius comes with her immediately, having his own worries paired up among others. She tells them of going to the Knights and when he bites his lip, assures him that they will find fake-Merlin, or enchanted-Merlin, before anything happens to Arthur. "I know that would be of greatest worry to him, too."
Only part of her is surprised.
When she and Gaius enter Arthur's chamber without knocking, they find a scene of chaos. Leon's plastered against the side of the armoire, off-balance like he threw himself at the door. Gwaine's picking himself up off the floor. Arthur's pinned to the frame of his bed by an arrow just under his armpit. Percival has Merlin by the arms and Elyan has a good grip on his legs as he writhes and twists in their grasp.
She wants to cry at the sight of Arthur like that, bewildered and angry and looking at Merlin as though his world has collapsed.
Merlin shouts abuse with a terrifying well of rage in his eyes.
When she and Gaius enter Arthur's chamber, every eye turns to them. Arthur's flicker back to Merlin immediately, as the manservant snarls, "Fantastic, more useless people!"
Gwen bars the door. Gaius steps up to his ward, eyeing Merlin as his struggles fade and he begins to sulk. Gwen is pulling the arrow out of wood and Arthur's shirt when Gaius says, "Merlin. Why are you trying to kill Arthur?"
Merlin looks at Gaius, tilting his head to the side, and replies, "Because I have to."
Arthur snorts. Gwen places her hand against his chest and stills him as Gaius retorts, "But why?"
His truly expressive eyebrow is raised, but Merlin's the one who looks as though Gaius is speaking a foreign tongue. "She said so."
She?
Arthur's body tightens further. Gwen tries to pat his arm, but he grasps her wrist and turns so she's behind him. His shoulders thrum tension. "Who the bloody hell is she?" His voice holds no warmth, nothing he regularly directs at his manservant-and-friend (and possible-future-lover). The voice of a king—in Uther's vein.
When Merlin's eyes dart their way, Gwen realizes his eyes hold something worse than a lack of devotion, of caring, of compassion. They hold no recognition. He looks at Arthur like he is a particularly curious animal that just began talking.
Gaius tugs Merlin by the neckerchief. Merlin yelps. Percival adjusts his grip, twisting the body in his arms, and Gaius tilts Merlin's head forward.
Percival's eyes widen in surprise. "What—"
Gaius' lips thin to a white line. He steps back. "Knock him out."
Merlin yelps in protest, but Gwaine surges from where he's been vibrating by the table and smashes an empty wine jug over his head.
Gwen huffs. Gaius turns his formidable eyebrow on the knight. Gwaine shrugs in apology. "Easier than punching him," he says, a tight grimace twisting his handsome face.
Gaius jerks his head. "Sir Percival, please take Merlin to my workshop. Sire," he says, turning, anticipating Arthur's angry huff of breath and soon-to-follow shouts, "Sir Leon can explain to you what we know of the situation. Guinevere, I may need your assistance."
She briefly hugs Arthur, unable to conceal her worry, and cuts him off before he can start yelling. "It will be all right."
Then she abandons Leon to the cause, only feeling marginally guilty for letting him bear the brunt of their king's confused, hurt wrath. Leon is just the type who would have volunteered for it.
Still, her footsteps pick up speed when the echoes of a smashing vase and shouting follow her down the hall.
Arthur has calmed by the time he enters Gaius' workshop, but his eyes narrow when he sees Merlin lying face-down on the table. Gwen sits near his head and tries not to look, preferring to watch Gaius pound plants to powder. Percival and Elyan guard the door, while Gwaine lounges on a chair with his arms folded in a proper sulk.
The three of them have been glowering at the walls like they have cast this spell over their friend.
Arthur's lips are tightly pressed against his rage—now, hopefully, directed at the proper recipient—and the aftereffects of thinking this was the worst betrayal imaginable. Leon is the one to ask, "Gaius, have you discovered anything?"
The physician turns. Gwen bites her lip at his grave expression. "Yes. It is his body, but his mind is not in control."
"How do you know?" Arthur asks. His voice bears the consequences of shouting long and loud.
Gwen reaches forward, tugging the edge of Merlin's shirt collar down a little further. Just enough to make the horrid sight more obvious.
Leon's mouth tightens and he pales when he sees the moving black lump under Merlin's skin. Arthur recoils, then forces himself closer. His fingers reach out and brush the skin just underneath it and he withdraws almost as quickly. Three lines in his forehead smooth. "What is that?"
Gaius gestures with his nearly finished poultice. "I have narrowed it down, sire. In a moment, I will be sure." He pours oil and some water into the powders, picks up a wadded cloth, and approaches the table.
The workshop's air thickens as he applies it to the skin. The solution goes on clear.
And the writhing thing in her friend grows still. Gwen presses a hand to her chest, breathing deeply for the first time in a long while.
"Is it…dead?" Elyan asks. Gwaine rests a hand on her shoulder and she slips hers over it, squeezing for comfort.
When she looks at Gaius, her heart falls to her feet. "No," he says, placing the bowl on the table. "It is merely paralyzed."
"You know what it is now." Underlying Arthur's statement is the demand to know that answer for himself.
Gaius retrieves the book. "I believe it is a serpent, a fomorrah, sire." He needs no prompting to continue. "Or rather, one of the creature's seven heads. High Priestesses of the Old Religion used them long ago, but even in the recent past such a practice was reviled." He taps one finger on the picture.
Turning and pacing away from the table, Arthur asks, "What is it doing to him?"
"The Priestess would implant one of the serpent's heads in the victim and give it a single command. The person would then become puppet to the enchanter's will, obsessed with fulfilling that one desire."
Gwen grasps Merlin's shoulder, wishing she could reach him. Her horror is compounded when she realizes that this dagger goes deep past the heart—it strikes at the very soul of Camelot, ripping at the friendship between a king and one of his most loyal subjects. At a deep bond between two men who call each other by name despite supposed station. This enchantment has twisted and warped one of the foundations of Camelot, forcing one most loyal to betray his very sense of self.
Arthur bows his head, back to all of them. Gwaine pats her shoulder and pulls away. Percival asks, "Can you remove it?"
"I can," Gaius says. He gathers a small blade, a numbing solution, and scraps of cloth.
Percival and Elyan remain in the workshop once the slippery, bloody snake's head goes into the fire. Arthur stays only long enough to see the wound closed before storming out. Gwaine follows after him, twitchy and brimming with energy. Gwen knows they have gone to work out their anxiety and frustration on the practice field.
Arthur's last command was for not a word of what happened to leave the room. And, when he makes a point to mention his uncle by name, Gwen remembers his fear of a traitor—that the route was known only by himself, Gaius, and Agravaine.
She does not want to think about that. Just as she does not want to see the blatant which no one has yet said aloud, but which every mind must have thought: that 'High Priestess' triggers a particular 'she'.
Attempting to take Camelot once wasn't enough? How far has her first love, first mistress, fallen—that she would do such a thing to one who was once her friend? To make him be the hand to slay her brother? This would have destroyed them both: Morgana knows that. The cruelty is astonishing.
Leon returns to his duties and will ensure Percival and Elyan will have plenty of time to rest. They been unable to since the day before their departure, though neither is willing to stand down while Merlin remains unconscious. Not until they know for certain.
She hears the story from Elyan as he brings her back to the workshop. How Merlin woke up, manic and eager, and Gaius was bemused enough at his behavior not to call for help until he had already been knocked over. Displaying evasive skill previously unknown to their clumsy friend, he evaded both startled knights at the door. Percival saw a writhing dark spot under the hastily re-tied knot of that silly neckerchief.
What followed was a roundabout chase through the corridors, rounding up the other Knights and attempting to apprehend him without alerting anyone else in the castle. This secrecy allowed Merlin to resume his duties, taking over from another servant who was dragging up water for Arthur's bath.
Leon hit him this time, but not before he did something to the bath—
"Wait," Gwen nearly halts in her mad dash at her brother's side. "It did what to the blade?"
"Dissolved it."
They have to figure out where he got the acid from, but at least Arthur tested the water when Merlin showed up unexpectedly in his chambers. At least Leon saw Merlin from down the corridor, and entered the king's chambers unannounced. Merlin was unaware until struck from behind.
She runs into the workshop, slipping past the Knights with her eyes intent on the prone form of their friend, the rigid line of Arthur's shoulders, and Gaius dabbing at the back of his ward's neck again.
When he lifts the cloth that horrid black mass is frozen underneath a recent scab. Gaius raises his eyebrow at it forebodingly.
Arthur bites out, "You took it out. We saw you take it out and burn the damned thing."
Sighing, the physician places the rag back in the solution. "A fomorrah is a magical creature, sire. If one head is cut off of the serpent, another grows in its place. Apparently…" He gestures to Merlin. "I heard of such stories in the past but never thought they were true."
"If it keeps re-growing, then how are we to free Merlin?" Gwen asks, reaching both hands out. One rests on Merlin's shoulder, and the other twines with Arthur's.
"For the moment, it is paralyzed again. He should be himself." Gaius looks up at Arthur with a question in his eyes.
She does not follow his gaze. The answer is clear before Arthur says, "Wake him, then."
She squeaks when Arthur backs up, pushing her behind him, and really, she is not the target of this enchanted Merlin. The Knights cluster, not fully between the servant and the king but close enough to stop him from lunging off the table.
From somewhere in his shelves of medical supplies, Gaius produces a small container. He moves it under his ward's nose as a smoky vapor drifts out of the open top.
With his next natural inhalation, Merlin's body jolts. Coughing and flailing his arms, he scrambles to his knees. One hand rises to the back of his head and he squints, disoriented, squawking, "What is that?" She breathes easy at the tone—disgruntled, bemused, but coupled with recognition as he glares at Gaius. Then he adds, "Arthur's socks?" and she stifles a hysterical giggle. Arthur snorts, though the set of his shoulders has eased a fraction.
Merlin seems to notice, then, that he is nearly surrounded. Dazed eyes take in the forms standing near and around the table, the angle of the light coming from outside, and his forehead creases. His hand stills against his temple. "What are you all trying to do to me?"
Gaius snaps, "Trying to stop you from killing the king!"
Merlin's hand falls, as his confusion surrenders to flashes of horror, fear, and guilt. A queasy, hysterical kind of breathy laugh escapes his lips as he looks at Arthur. She starts when he wavers, a sudden wobble in his legs—kneeling though he may be—causing him to rest a hand on the table.
But it is Merlin's sweet, confused voice as he struggles against Arthur pulling him off the table. Merlin's hesitant gestures as he rubs his own stomach. Merlin's wide, dewy eyes looking back out of his pale face.
Apparently, a fomorrah is so obsessed that it cannot feed its host body.
Merlin stares as they tell him the story they know, popping fresh berries into his mouth like they will run out of his bowl. His elbows rest heavily on the table and his shoulders slump lower with every word. The misery in his eyes is compounded with anger.
Leaning on the table, Arthur turns the conversation. "Slow down. You'll choke if you inhale that any faster."
"Starving," Merlin grumbles, but his hand slows as he obeys.
"You need to tell us what happened and you can't do that while stuffing your face. What do you remember?" Arthur's jaw clenches. Gwen squeezes his hand.
Merlin pauses in his hasty feeding. His eyes flicker from side to side as he rifles through his memories. "Soldiers in the forest, a rock-fall," he says, a faint crease between his eyebrows. "I was hurt." His free hand presses there, seeking something, and his body goes rigid while his eyelids flare wide. "Morgana."
The name comes on a pained exhalation, illuminating the unspoken thought as solid truth. Gwen's eyes shut briefly, a moment of mourning for a loss.
Merlin bites his lip, anger and confusion in the lines around his lips and brow. He looks only at Arthur, apology in the slump of his shoulders. "She healed me. Told me what she was going to do before she conjured the snake, then—" His hand brushes the back of his neck and stills, feeling that lump. His hand turns into a fist and he lowers it to the table.
She sees a shudder run up his spine. Thinks, I would be screaming if I knew that thing was still inside me.
Something in his body language screams for him, for no one to touch him. He looks at Gaius, asking the question only with his eyes.
His mentor says, "The poultice will keep it paralyzed for one day."
Arthur's eyes are hunter-sharp. "The head cannot re-grow if the beast it grows from is dead."
Gaius nods. "I fear killing the mother beast is the only way." He lifts the book and places it beside Merlin. "It must be cast into a fire." He taps at the picture and Merlin looks at it.
Arthur does not seem inclined to research any further, judging by the way his fingers twitch. "Where can we find it?" he demands.
Merlin tears his eyes away from something that caught his eye in the book and makes a feeble attempt at an eyebrow arch. "Morgana's hut."
Arthur scowls. "Clearly. And where is her hut, Mer-lin?"
The manservant pauses in his berry-gorging, fingers of one hand pressing on the open pages of the book. "I could show you," he says. "She enchanted it. Only someone who has been there before can return."
She sees the moment Arthur's stubborn nobility rears its arrogant head. "You are not going with us."
"You should not go at all," he retorts. "She wants you dead, Arthur." This is the truth, and plain as day by the mind-controlling snake in Merlin's head, but saying it is still painful. Arthur winces and Merlin grimaces and they both look away from each other. Merlin adds, "You should be nowhere near me."
Arthur huffs and puffs up and snaps, "Gaius said that the poultice lasts until tomorrow."
"Besides, mate," Gwaine interrupts. "You are one rubbish assassin."
Merlin pouts, then looks confused, unsure whether he should be insulted or not. Arthur grabs a roll and lobs it at Gwaine's head. He ducks and it bounces into Percival's hand. The large man stuffs it in his mouth and looks pointedly at his king. Leon presses his hand to his mouth. Gaius forgoes subtlety and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
Elyan mediates. "Merlin, we can protect Arthur—but, sire, he has a point. Regardless of who goes, perhaps the question is truly how many. If we go in large force, we run the risk of her escaping with the creature."
That sobers the mood quickly. Gwaine scowls as his effort at jokingly easing the tension disintegrates. Gwen offers him an apple.
With their heads on strategy, the Knights agree that this situation calls for delicacy more than brute force. It would be nice to ride in and take Morgana, but they are not sure they can take on her magic. The option they are left with is infiltration, seizure, and retreat. Once the fomorrah is dealt with, they can try to capture her, if she remains in her hovel rather than leaving after being robbed.
The question they are left with is who shall go in this small group, and that is proving difficult. All have volunteered, but Merlin's twitching in his seat and adamant that he go alone. Arthur says he will go with him, everyone shuts the king down, and Arthur sulks and refuses to name someone else to go in his place. They reunite to refuse Merlin's repeated insistence that he be allowed out on his own. The conversation is circular and upon an already stressful day, Gwen thinks that Merlin looks ready to snap.
Still, she's startled when he shouts, "Shut up!" and clamps his hands over his ears.
Then she realizes that she was watching without seeing. His eyes never stopped twitching. His hands grew tighter and tighter around the edge of the table and the sleeve of his own shirt. His head occasionally turned to a sound that no one else heard.
Having removed herself from the masculine chest-pounding (bred of fear, and anxiety, and guilt, though none will speak it), she slinks behind him while the others still blink at him in surprise. Motionless, clasping his head, fingers woven in his hair: Merlin is a statue of stress and misery. She reaches out twines her hands with his, pulls them away from his scalp, hisses as she sees that he drew blood.
Arthur sinks to his knees, looking up at the servant's shadowed face. The king's eyes widen, flatten, and then grow determined. "The fomorrah is paralyzed," he says, "but is it unconscious?"
Her eyes widen in horror.
They assumed that the lack of movement, and the fact that Merlin was in control, meant that the fomorrah was dormant. Not in control and so it must be as if the creature were gone.
But Merlin grimaces and defeat lurks in his eyes. "No." He swallows. "It just hisses, and it refuses to be quiet or sleep or anything, it just keeps repeating—" He cuts himself off.
No one needs to ask what words are being hissed in Merlin's ear. The fomorrah's obsession is obvious.
Gwaine stands. "Enough talk."
Gaius comes forward with the poultice and Gwen moves aside to let him apply more in the hopes that it will help. Like the king he is, Arthur surrenders his stubborn resistance to staying behind. He finally agrees to send Gwaine and Merlin. The fomorrah is to be dealt with tonight rather than wait until morning. It may be dangerous, but none of them want Merlin to suffer any longer.
The others go to their duties and Gwaine goes to prepare the horses. Gaius agrees to delay the council a little longer.
And Gwen cleans, makes her hands busy, a veil of privacy for them. Phrases soaked in loyalty, in trust, and a little whisper of something private. A certain tension rises in the room that she can feel like a living pulse.
But it fades, and she turns as their typical camaraderie returns. She approaches them, silently cataloguing Merlin's determined expression. He gives her a hug and heads out the door, practically running away from Arthur for his safety—and running from what was said.
She looks at Arthur. He wriggles his fingers in their private gesture for 'Merlin's Not-So Secret Magic'. He told Merlin to do whatever was necessary to bring himself back.
"Will he?" she asks as they make their own way out of Gaius' workshop. "Even if he does not know what you really meant?"
"Especially because he thinks I have no idea," he answers. This not-so secret has been guarded jealously, and they both wait for him to trust them with it, but the law remains. A king can do many things, but not change the minds of an entire ruling class in the few months he takes up the throne. Especially when magical attacks are so common and dire.
The waiting game is one they know well. Letting Merlin come closer to trusting Arthur, with both his secret and his body, is like gentling a startled, wild animal. Arthur tries and Gwen offers advice but in the end they wait and watch and worry and wonder.
Gwaine and Merlin return the next evening at nightfall. Gwaine looks like something huge smacked him upside the head—and has the bruise to prove it—while Merlin is both relaxed and full of tension. A different kind of tension, though, and when she and Arthur and the Knights congregate around the returning horses in the courtyard, his smile is genuine.
Gaius hauls him off to remove the snake head—for the last time—and confirmation is quietly sent to the king once the surgery is complete and the patient awake again.
Later, when Gwaine's beat himself up enough on the practice field, he meets with her and Arthur and tell them about how Morgana caught them and blasted Merlin out of the clearing, then panicked in true fear at the appearance of the old sorcerer Dragoon. How, while Gwaine was still pulling himself off the ground, the old sorcerer blasted the serpent with magical fire and then chased Morgana out of the clearing. And how the two of them disappeared, leaving Gwaine searching and fretting until Merlin re-appeared from the opposite direction he was blasted in with no explanation, knowing that the fomorrah was dead.
Arthur raises an eyebrow and exchanges a knowing look with the knight and Gwen sighs and looks to the old chest in the corner of the room, which holds a charm Gaius handed to the grieving king with admonishments for his rash anger, and understanding because it is true that magic took his father.
But magic also tried to heal him.
Even in his grief, Arthur knew who his true friends were—a fact which illuminated for Gwen, yet again, how different her Arthur truly is from Uther.
She knows well the stories from outside the citadel, the knowledge of the people of Camelot who knew Uther asked for magic's help once and was burned by it. Rumor that it caused the queen's death, a consequence for demanding that which he should not have—though the demand itself is unclear. A tale no one ever speaks of near or to Arthur: he does ask about his mother and would hate to hear such stories about his parents.
Gwaine leaves and Gwen goes to attend to some duties. She approaches the king's rooms, her tasks completed, later in the evening and pauses before her fist touches wood. The voices she hears are stressed and torn, but there is deepness to them, tenderness. She peeks through the crack, only daring to inch it open a little bit more.
The shadows on the wall are close, yet two distinct bodies. Slumped shoulders on both, a bowed head—then a connection is made, a strangely thin arm tilting the lowered head. Her lips curl up as the shadows drift closer, that thin arm-shadow multiplying for a blade-balanced moment until two distinct body-shapes merge. She cannot tell precisely what it is: a friendly embrace for comfort or at long last something more. It does not matter.
She leaves the door as it is and retreats down the hall, to where the guards are stationed. As she passes, she tells them, "Let no one disturb the King tonight."