Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: ...Hi! It's been...what? Half a year since I posted this? *sheepish grin* As mentioned in my edit on the original one-shot/first chapter of this fic (it's been edited a bit, so you might want to reread it), I have finally decided, with the IMMENSELY helpful ideas and encouragement from bluespiritgal and servant123 among others, to continue AU'ing (yes, that's a word) the full episode and even do a little beyond that. I'm planning this to be a shorter-ish fic...maybe 5-7 chapters, at most.

That being said, since it's been a long time, I'm sorry if this chapter seems...off. This Arthur is significantly different to write than the Arthur I've been writing in Heart of Gold, which WILL be updated in the near future.

This fic, also, will begin to start deviating from the original episode a touch more, and I will add lines/scenes that I find necessary for more enjoyable bromance and drama/angst.

So, for those that never wanted me to continue this...I hope this doesn't ruin the original one-shot for you, and for those who did, I hope it was worth the wait.

Enjoy:

Scene 2: Identity Crises

"Sorry," Merlin muttered for the third time.

It was practically impossible for Arthur not to stare with utter disbelief as Merlin stumbled for the third time and as he, who was taking care to actually watch his feet as they made their way through the rough, rocky tunnels in pursuit of Gwen, Isolde, and Tristan, bumped directly into his servant...for the third time.

Considering what he had just witnessed in the caves, considering the fact that Agravaine's body laid slain by the very same clumsy idiot (who would have believed?) before him, it wasn't entirely surprising that he was staring instead of huffing in annoyance as he might have had under more normal circumstances.

But this was anything but normal. Just moments before, he had seen a dangerous sorcerer and a loyal defender…a powerful opponent—and one his enemies needed to be wary of. Now, there was little to no trace of that identity, and instead, there was just…his buffoon of a manservant.

Clumsy idiot? Dangerous sorcerer? Lazy servant? Wise advisor? Selfless companion? Who was Merlin, really?

The young man, none the wiser to Arthur's discovery, was tripping just as gawkily and frustratingly as always and possessed that certain unfathomable look of his, which, for all intents and purposes, looked like the misty-eyed, yet unwavering gaze of a man who was diligently contemplating the meaning of life itself combined with the gaze of a man who was off in one hell of a daydream (perhaps in this case, it wouldn't be a daydream so much as a living nightmare), and both of these were undoubtedly Merlin. The fact that Merlin was still there at his side—supporting him, holding him steady, despite the danger, despite his own failures and his mistakes and his unworthiness—as he had always been… and as he had promised to always be…That was Merlin.

However, the knowledge that Arthur now held—the knowledge of the power Merlin hid inside and of the multitude of lies he must have had to create—made it so hard for him to see who exactly it was that was really there in front of him.

His mind played tug-of-war with itself as Merlin's multifaceted identities, trying to reconcile their place in Arthur's heart and life, blended and blurred and sprung apart. Despite his acceptance of Merlin's not-so-evil magic and his utter conviction in Merlin's undying loyalty and friendship, he couldn't help but wonder which was false, which was true, which belonged, and which didn't.

Because somewhere amongst the lies was his Merlin, his friend. He just didn't know the whole story. He couldn't. No, not yet.

There was still a kingdom to win back, after all, and—no, that was even more painful to think about, and he forcefully pushed the creeping doubts away.

Well, at least he had made some progress. By the third stumble, Arthur Pendragon could confidently and assuredly say that it seemed that the clumsiness was far from false.

But if that part was true, it really made him reconsider…and wonder if Merlin's…magic really was powerful enough to counter Morgana's. He could admit he knew next to nothing about magic, but surely the goofy klutz before him would be a little more graceful if he had the reputation of this 'Emrys' fellow and had immense power Arthur suspected he held?

He wanted to groan in frustration. Another thing that hadn't changed: Merlin's tendency to drive him absolutely mad.

Gods, nothing at all about his thought process and this internal debate was even remotely normal.

So, in an attempt to retain some form of normalcy for Merlin's sake as well as his own mental health's sake, Arthur drawled half a beat late, "Merlin, I do want to catch up with the others today. At the rate you're leading…"

Arthur trailed off once he noticed the shadows in his usually sunny servant's countenance. There was an all-too-familiar haunted look—a look that Arthur had long since seen but had never truly noticed until that moment—about his stormy eyes, and they, older than their years, seemed to weigh heavy with self-disgust and pitying guilt for the lives he had taken…

But all of that disappeared in the blink of an eye as the darkness in Merlin's face dissipated into a look of incisive concern, and he, obviously noticing the hesitation in his master's words and detecting the half-hearted tone in which those words were said, cocked his head.

"Are you alright?" Merlin asked softly, his tone warm and voice gentle.

It was a tone that had once bothered him. In the beginning of his kingship, he, believing that he alone was responsible for Camelot and its people, hated hearing that tone from Merlin of all people, and because of the overwhelming stress, he had often been …impatient with and almost cruel to Merlin for it. Now he knew that, instead of opening up to his one true friend, whose judgment and advice was beyond equal, talking about his troubles, and getting the counsel he needed, he had become so narrow-minded that he had been manipulated by the little snake hissing in his ear.

He had been such a fool. It was a wonder that Merlin hadn't given up on him.

A hint of a smile graced Arthur's face, and a surge of affection washed over him. "Funny. I was just about to ask you the same question."

Briefly taken aback, Merlin, whose steely eyes once again raged with inner turmoil, blinked exactly as he had only moments before when Arthur had called him his only friend, and slowly, a pervading sense of peace and compassion—compassion for him—softened those eyes, and a genuine lopsided grin worked its way onto his face. With that, Arthur knew that Merlin's conscience, a conscience truer and more noble than any the young King had ever encountered, had somehow been appeased and that he would be alright.

"You didn't answer my question," the younger man teased with twinkling eyes.

"You didn't answer mine," the fugitive royal shot back immediately.

Pointedly and cleverly, Merlin retorted, "How can I answer a question that had never been asked?"

Arthur opened his mouth to respond with what was meant to be a very witty jab, but somehow, he ended up spluttering uselessly and muttering, "You…can't, I suppose. Answer, I mean."

Merlin's brow furrowed, and after the mischievous glint in his eyes was replaced by some strange, soul-searching gleam that made Arthur quite sure that Merlin peering directly into his mind. An unspoken conversation seemed to pass between the two, and Merlin said quietly, "Arthur, you can tell me."

Yep, reading his mind before he could so much as know his own mind himself.

With every fiber in his being, Arthur knew that he could tell Merlin everything and anything, but not this…Not now. He tried to convince himself, but the swirling chaos of confusion, hope, hurt, fear, and the damn, stalking doubt threatened to spill like vomit from his mouth. He desperately wanted to talk to him…to ask—to understand him…

Of course, there was the problem of actually saying it to him—this was a conversation he was completely unprepared for—and a small twinge of panic sparked in his chest.

"Merlin," he began slowly.

The sudden sound of shuffling feet, crackling torches, and mumbling whispers startled the young King, and jumping in surprise, he whipped his head around to the source and flicked the tip of his sword up into a guard position.

Merlin, too, flinched, and Arthur noticed his wiry body immediately tense and move into a more defensive position...in front of him. They waited with bated breath, but once the pair saw the forms of the two smugglers, one of whom leaded heavily upon the other and looked horribly fatigued—her eyelids fluttered and brow gleamed with the sweat of exertion—and Gwen, Merlin, allowing the twitching hand that had been hovering at his waist to fall back to his side, relaxed, and the fierce fire in his eyes abated.

Arthur, on the other hand, only became even more edgy when he saw the look of utter relief on Gwen's face and the smirk on Tristan's, and a fresh pang of panic stabbed him in the gut.

He had been gone far too long in his search for Merlin, and now that the privacy and the opportunity to reveal what he discovered had flitted by, there was no way in hell that he wanted anyone to know what he had seen—least of all Merlin, who would probably have a small heart attack if his secret was displayed before not one, but four other people.

Besides, it was neither the appropriate nor the prudent time to do so. They all had enough resting on their shoulders without adding Merlin's magic to the weight.

Desperately, before any of them could so much as call out, the King shot the threesome a deadly, narrow-eyed glare that warned and dared any of them to so much as ask why he—and Merlin—had been so delayed.

While a confused and worried Gwen, not understanding but accepting the message, faltered, closed her inquiring eyes, and exhaled a breathy, "Thank god. You're both alright," Tristan wasn't so caring…or observant—he would be the ass who would blatantly ignore the loaded look—and scowling, he greeted Arthur with, "What the hell took you so long?"

Thrown off balance and not prepared with so much as the flimsiest excuse, Arthur floundered for a millisecond before Merlin, his savior, flashed Arthur a sideway glance, winced imperceptibly, and blurted quickly, "Got lost." Giving them all an apologetic, goofy smile, he added, "Again."

Tristan's icy eyes flicked to Merlin, and forgetting Arthur, much to his immense relief, the smuggler teased with a mock-thoughtfulness, "With you leading them off on a chase, I can assume that the men supposedly tracking us are so lost that they are beyond finding?"

With a smile of good-natured humor that didn't quite reach his guarded, careful eyes, Merlin nodded once and responded simply, "They won't trouble us again."

Arthur's sapphire eyes widened, betraying his wild surprise at the easy and believable lie—no, half-truth that Merlin had used to cover his tracks (and Arthur's own, by extension) and at the meekness the servant, who had done his kingdom a service that would have naturally been very highly praised, rewarded, and recognized, had adopted, and the young King lowered them immediately, not wanting to give Merlin away. He was concerned that the joke might have unintentionally pained Merlin, but the servant was composed and revealed nothing, which was more than Arthur could say for himself.

The young King ran a slightly trembling hand through his blonde locks and took several deep breaths as the last of his panic at the close-call faded and as he struggled to force the remainder of his troubled thoughts—thoughts so turbulent it was as though a windstorm had wiped them into a blind frenzy—and the images of Merlin's multiple masks away.

He needed the time to think, but first, he must make the time to do so because the little time that he still had—that was needed for Camelot.

So, for now, it was just Merlin. He and Merlin. Together, as they always were.

Together, the memory of a brave man echoed in his head.

Gwen's gaze bored into him the entire time, and when he finally got himself under enough control to raise his own, he met her wide brown eyes, which studied him vigilantly.

He couldn't fool her, and there shouldn't have been a doubt in his mind that shewouldn't be the one to notice and persist in questioning.

It wasn't only him, though. Merlin was, after all, her friend too.

Gwen's eyes slowly drifted to the servant, who was now taking the time to tend to Isolde's wound at the request of Tristan and was chattering away, and then flicked back to him.

Arthur read the implied question, and sighing and feeling his still-throbbing heart sting callously, he shook his head once to deter her and turned away, saying, "We'll be safe here for now, thanks to Merlin—" he hadn't meant to put so much gratitude into his words—he could feel Gwen's intensely observant stare on his back—but he was glad of it when a flush from the praise colored Merlin's elfin face "—but once you're done, Merlin, and as soon as Isolde's rested enough to continue, we'd best be moving on."

Merlin's head bobbed absently, and even though Isolde herself smiled wearily and thankfully at him for his consideration to her health, Tristan, looking up from his lover, said with the subtlest hint of sarcasm, "As you wish, Sire."

~…~

Arthur squinted and blinked repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, and with his arm snaking to support his side, which had begun to bother him again on the last leg of their journey in the caves (an overreacting, paranoid Merlin had nearly commanded that they stop to check on his injury, but Arthur wouldn't hear of it), he surveyed and, after a moment, recognized his surroundings.

"Where now?" Tristan, who was still aiding a weak Isolde, asked from his left.

For a man who hadn't wanted to be dragged into this war and had insisted that he had wanted absolutely nothing to do with Arthur, he sounded very much…an active participant—one who indisputably belonged in their group. Indeed, even though the King had been less than pleased to ally himself with smugglers, he couldn't imagine fighting alongside any other (in this situation, at least) and was almost….happy that both Tristan and Isolde's paths had crossed with his, Merlin's, and Gwen's.

After a moment's pause and deliberation, Arthur pointed and said slowly, "To the…plains beyond the mountains."

"You sure?" Tristan asked, his eyes sliding to Arthur's over Isolde's head. The young King was moderately stunned that the small hint of irony and condescension in his voice morphed into seriousness when he continued, "That's Lot's kingdom. He's no friend of the Pendragon."

Damn it all.

As his heart sunk and as he, scrabbling for possibilities and flicking through a plan that hardly existed, he cast his gaze over the wilderness, and from his peripheral vision, he saw Gwen lean around Merlin to suggest, "Maybe we can find somewhere here—a house where we could rest."

"We're fugitives," Tristan reminded matter-of-factly, causing Arthur's brow to furrow. "A danger to anyone who harbors us."

"He's right," Merlin agreed. "We must travel back towards Camelot."

In a way, the idea made sense—they needed to keep an eye on the enemy and try to find what knights had fled the city—but Arthur was not willing to take so dangerous a risk...not without a flawlessly solid, sturdy plan. A plan that would not fail. A plan that would reclaim all that he had lost.

No one else would get hurt because of his mistakes.

He shuffled his feet uselessly and protested, "No, we need to keep going."

"If we hold up in the Forest of Ascetir, we'll be safe…at least for awhile," Merlin explained quickly.

His resolve faltered, and he breathed, "No…"

The forceful wisdom in his servant's soft voice turned Arthur's head, and he looked him in the eye for the first time since they had last spoken in the caves. "If anyone survived this battle, that's where they'll be hiding," Merlin said astutely.

"I know what I'd do," Tristan interceded slyly. "You're the King, Arthur," he added suggestively. "You're our leader—"

"Alright!" Arthur interrupted sharply. From under his eyelashes, he saw a small smirk on Tristan's face, and the shadows of self-doubt that he had been trying so hard to ignore away began to clog his thoughts once more. "Forest of Ascetir, it is."

~…~

They stopped to camp a few hours later, and on a nonverbal consensus, everyone, with the exception of Isolde, who was ordered by an overprotective Tristan to sit and relax, divvied up chores.

By the time Tristan returned with some fresh water and Arthur returned from scoping out the surrounding area for signs of dangerous animals and bandits, Merlin had collected enough firewood to start the fire, and as Gwen sat by Isolde to carefully set up the fire pit and as Merlin wandered off, Tristan began to collect more wood to last through the night.

When Arthur joined him, the smuggler smirked and said with the air of a childhood bully, "Well, well, well, look at you."

The young King crouched and briefly looked at Tristan before turning away with an internal sigh, and intending to ignore the man's taunts, he continued his task.

"First you go back to rescue your servant. Now you're getting your hands dirty," he said in mock surprise. "But then again…why shouldn't you? You're just like everyone else. Nothing special—" he nearly hissed the word "—about you, is there?"

The words stabbed him like a dagger. He had always strived to be the best he could possibly be…for his father, for his kingdom and his people, for Guinevere and… Merlin, and to hear those words directed at him—he who dedicated his entire life to sweat, bleed, and cry for Camelot—with such contempt was agonizing.

The worst part was that Tristan was right.

His best wasn't good enough.

The temper he had inherited from Uther as well as the desire to end Tristan's quarrel with him as peacefully as possible flared within him, and he stood abruptly and responded passionately, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't deserve to be King."

"Well, that's alright 'cause you're not." The smuggler flipped a stick into the air and caught it lazily. "Not anymore."

With the dagger twisting deeper into his heart and Tristan's cutting taunts sucking the remaining energy, hope, and life from him, the fugitive King lowered his eyes and felt the irrepressible need to be alone…to just let the shadows swallow him whole.

He couldn't fight them any longer, and he hated himself for it.

Arthur had expected Merlin to follow him, and when it was not his friend's but Gwen's voice that called his name from behind and Gwen who tried to take his hand, it was just too much.

To have her see him as a mere shell of his former self… and to have her see him at his most vulnerable again… to have her witness the rolling, overflowing, raw emotion again…

She had already taken so much from him that he couldn't and wouldn't let her take more. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear her.

"Don't," he cautioned.

Arthur's composure nearly slipped as Gwen's tender chocolate eyes flashed with hurt, and regretting his emotionless tone and the need for it, he continued, "What happened in Ealdor was a moment of weakness."

Gwen, her brow pinched in obvious disbelief at his words, caught the lie immediately because she, too, had felt something more in that reunion than 'weakness,' and with the echoes of Merlin's confident prediction that they'd find each other again ringing in his ears, the memory of the servant's shining, proud eyes when he turned Princess Mithian away in favor of his banished, peasant-born lover, and the warmth of Gwen's last embrace imprinted on his skin, he cringed internally and repressed the full truth of the matter.

He still loved her, and yet her betrayal—it could not be overlooked, and in his distress, he could see no way that it ever could be overlooked.

He saw her tears, remembered her excuses, and relived her kissing him.

How could the joys of the past ever compare to any future with her after what she had done?

Over Gwen's shoulder, he saw Merlin fussing at the spluttering campfire, and he sighed mentally, Seems you were wrong, this time, my friend.

"What you did to me…" his voice broke, and he swallowed heavily. "Everything I cherished between us; everything we had—it's gone…That'll never change."

Struggling to withhold tears, she pursed her lips in understanding and self-disgust, and her face crumpled.

"I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes, and one tear fell.

And he let her walk away.

~…~

Merlin had once called Arthur the Once and Future King (1).

Arthur might not have known that it had taken Merlin nearly a decade to share their bonded destiny with him in this way, but the significance of that moment was not entirely lost upon the King.

Then, the words had somehow struck him deeply, making his whole body vibrate like a drumhead. It had felt as though…the words—the title, was his and his alone…as though, for one fleeting moment, Destiny herself had breathed upon him, blessing him with something great and unimaginable.

In that one moment, he had no doubts, no worries. In that one moment, he had never been more certain and more proud of who he was and what he was meant to do in this world.

Though he could not understand why it had had such a profound effect on him, he did know that there was a tone of fierce pride in Merlin's deep voice that he would never forget. Nor would he forget the way those kaleidoscopic eyes—both cheeky and wise—seemed to shimmer with indescribable joy and unyielding faith when he said those words.

But now, as the young fugitive stared into the flames of their meager, rather pathetic campfire, the title mocked him and felt more like a poisonous curse over the land than the glorious, golden hope it was supposed to represent.

Once and Future King, he snarled sarcastically at himself. For what I've done…for what I've allowed my people to suffer for me…

It might have been written for him, but he did not deserve it.

Destiny had chosen the wrong man to be her hero.

He didn't hear Merlin approach him until the servant smacked him amicably on the arm, and sitting next to him against the tree, he said, "C'mon. I'll take watch."

Not knowing whether to be grateful that Merlin had come to talk to him or whether he wanted to talk at all, Arthur did not answer. However, the moment Merlin's eyes locked onto his face and the moment he asked kindly, "Arthur, what's the matter?" he knew that he needed Merlin there.

He couldn't and wouldn't push him away anymore. Not when he was the last one—secrets aside—that he could trust. The one he should have never doubted or questioned….imprisoned or threatened with exile….the one who had to watch wordlessly as he displayed loathing for magic over and over again…

His only, true friend. Despite all that.

"Don't listen to Tristan," Merlin continued gently. "He doesn't know you."

He wasn't surprised that Merlin had read that much, but that was only a fraction of what was bothering him. When he finally tore his eyes from the fire and looked at Merlin, whose familiar eyes shone with fraternal love, he found himself saying, almost apologetically, "I trusted the wrong people."

Without hesitation and without breaking eye contact, Merlin said, "They betrayed you. That wasn't your fault."

It was Arthur who turned away. "No," he exhaled, shaking his head and raising his eyes to the sky.

It was his fault.

"I was a fool," he admitted. "I misjudged everyone." You, above all. I should have listened to you, Merlin. I should have seen. "My uncle…Morgana…Every decision I've made has been…wrong."

Merlin leaned forward and said with a stern tone, "You're being too hard on yourself."

"I should be more discerning," Arthur disagreed. I should have known. This would have never happened had I been the King they deserve. "Wise… A statesman. A King!" He shrugged weakly and began to shake his head. "Tristan's right: there's nothing special about me… I'm just like everyone else."

"You're not," Merlin said with serious eyes. It was really incredible at how much the servant truly believed in him, but that pure-hearted, loyalty brimming from those comprehensive, shining eyes only reminded Arthur that he had not only failed himself and his people but that he had also failed Merlin. "You're a worthy King."

"I'm good with a sword," he joked half-heartedly. "That's all."

"Your people love you."

"Most of them are dead," Arthur said bluntly. "Thanks to me."

"No, most of them escaped," Merlin corrected. He gestured with his hand. "They'll be here in the forest; I'm sure of that."

"If they are," Arthur said roughly, "they'll have to find themselves a new King."

Merlin's eyes flicked back to him with a look of disbelief and bewilderment, and when Arthur detected a hint of disappointment, he tossed the stick that he had been fiddling with earlier from his lap and stood.

"Arthur," Merlin called almost angrily as the King, without once looking back, left him by the tree. "Arthur!"

Both relieved and saddened that Merlin did not follow him, the King laid down for the night, and he felt Merlin's solemn, concerned, steadfast gaze on his back even after Gwen, unable to sleep herself, crawled over to keep him company an hour later.

~…~

Merlin really needed to learn the meaning of silence, and being a secret sorcerer living in Camelot who should have already known—no, more than known—he should have been able to epitomize the meaning of silence…

It really was bloody miracle that he had survived this long.

The King had only just managed to slip into a fitful sleep when he was jolted awake by the young man, who stomped and crashed about like a skittish, untrained horse, before setting off oh-so-suspiciously into the woods.

Even though he was in no mood to move, Arthur couldn't not follow the idiot—it would be just his luck if Merlin got himself hurt—and only awake enough to acknowledge that his mind wasn't awake enough to be doing much more than ditzy somersaults, he grumbled about sleepwalking sorcerers and sprained ankles under his breath as he staggered through the underbrush after the servant, who had chosen to begin to run and then yell.

He had a death wish, Arthur was convinced. If enemy patrols didn't kill him, he was going to.

However, after getting slightly lost and finally reaching Merlin, he saw, from behind a tree, the dragon—Merlin talking to the dragon...

What. The. Hell? He must be mad! Absolutely. Mad. Arthur had half-a-mind to storm into the clearing, grab the idiot by his ridiculously over-sized ear, drag him back to the campsite, sit him down, and glare him to death for his complete stupidity.

Of course, he did no such thing…even though it was very tempting.

Instead, after his eyes widened to the size of saucers and his jaw dropped to the ground, he blinked once, groaned, threw up his hands in defeat, and turned around to stalk back to camp.

Magic, Gwen, Camelot…and now dragons? He couldn't deal with this right now. Nope. He was going to forget that he saw what was supposed to be a dead dragon—perhaps it was a different one… or was it too crazy to assume that the dragon he himself had killed had been reincarnated into a very similar looking dragon? How would he know?—and the strange moron being chummy with it, and he was going back to bed.

Yes, bed sounded very good right now. There were no mentally insane servants or massive fire-breathing dragons there, after all.

What Arthur didn't see when he turned away was a legend being made.

He didn't see Merlin's stormy eyes glow with hope when brilliant inspiration struck him and when the very idea that would change the young King's life forevermore formed; he didn't see the deep, dark golden eyes, glimmering with amusement and satisfaction, of the dragon flicker once from his Dragon-Lord's to watch his retreat.

Not that it would have mattered if he had seen it all anyway: by the time Arthur, who had finally ceased ranting, had curled himself up by the fire once again, he had convinced himself that the whole incident was a dream, and by the time Merlin shook him awake the next morning, it was nearly forgotten altogether.

Nearly.

(1) I think 4x11's the first time Merlin called Arthur the Once and Future King to his face. If I'm wrong, let me know.

AN: A little shorter than usual, but I like this length of chapter for this fic. I still am a little iffy about this because our poor Arthur is suffering from so many things and being pulled in so many directions that I could hardly to him justice... I just hope that the bit of humor at the end didn't totally screw over all the angst. *shrugs* I know I didn't go into as much detail as the first chapter, I think... I could read Bradley and Colin during these scenes fine, but I found it immensely difficult to find words that could really capture the exact emotions and facial expressions. Hope it was acceptable.

Updates'll be random. Heart of Gold's my priority at the mo, so please bear with me. :)

Oz out.