"I don't think I'll ever get that image out of my head. Lancelot, smiling as he faced death. And it was such a waste. It shouldn't have happened. It should have been me."

Merlin's words had been echoing through his mind ever since Arthur had first heard them, and he'd spent the afternoon desperately trying to recall the events of the terrible journey that had led Lancelot to his death. A huge part of the problem, of course, was that Arthur had been out cold when the climax of their quest had occurred. Surprisingly enough, Arthur found that he wasn't as angry about that as he should have been. It was just so typically Merlin for him to render his king unconscious, and with apparently no hesitation. It served to remind him that, even when Merlin was sorcering (Arthur could think of no other word to describe Merlin's magical doings), he still had no respect for the courtesies that were generally favoured upon royalty, and that somehow made Arthur feel a little better. At least some things hadn't changed.

The biggest problem with remembering that dark time, though, was somewhat more unnerving. Apart from Lancelot's death, which had been traumatic enough, the strongest and – he was forced to admit to himself – most powerfully upsetting memory of that time was when Merlin almost died from the Dorocha attack. Merlin had without thought, without even a second's consideration, thrown himself into the path of the deadly spirit, and had swiftly and effectively saved Arthur's life.

This was not the action of an evil person, yet Arthur was painfully aware that he had, for the most part, allowed himself to accept that anything related to magic was evil. It made no sense.

"It should have been me."

Again, his manservant's words echoed loudly in his mind, and the king still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Merlin had intended to take his place. He just couldn't believe it. It was impossible. He was mistaken. It had to be impossible. Almost as impossible as the idea that Merlin had magic. Magic was... evil. So Merlin was... evil? But that couldn't be right. Why would someone who was evil save Arthur's life? Or anyone's life, for that matter. There was a fault in his logic somewhere, obviously. But if that was the case, what exactly was the fault?

His head was spinning, and he sighed with frustration. It made no sense.

Arthur lifted his eyes and watched his manservant cautiously. Merlin was just a little ahead of him, leading them towards a clearing. He had his head down, and was clearly lost in his own thoughts. The king, despite his turbulent feelings at the moment, couldn't help but roll his eyes. Merlin was wearing his usual clothing – the outfit that had never varied in all the years they had known each other – but all Arthur could picture was the old sorcerer's robes from the previous day, and so of course he immediately had the somewhat startling image pop into his head of Merlin draped in flowing red robes. It was odd to feel amusement as such a time, but Arthur reasoned that it wasn't altogether surprising. Merlin had the knack of causing amusement even when he wasn't trying to make people laugh. He was always so ridiculously...well, ridiculous.

Maybe he was becoming delirious, because surely he should not be feeling amused at the current situation. Yet amused he undoubtedly was. Despite everything. He wanted to put the feeling down to concussion, but his head was annoyingly free from injury.

A few seconds later, Arthur's amusement fled. Merlin had obviously decided to camp down for the night, and the excruciating pain in his chest seemed to increase tenfold when his manservant helped the king down from his horse. Now, to add to his already spinning head, he also had little black and red dots dancing in front of his eyes. And his chest was on fire. It was burning so much that he found himself checking for actual flames, a little nonplussed to discover nothing remotely akin to fire anywhere within his vicinity. By the time Merlin had settled him against a tree, Arthur was close to passing out. He'd never been in so much pain; never. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to think. It just hurt.

And then he saw Merlin gently squeezing his shoulder, and though he couldn't physically feel the gesture, his heart recognised the significance of it. For he remembered doing the same thing himself, just after Merlin had been attacked by the Dorocha. He remembered the feeling of hopelessness as he'd entrusted his manservant into the care of Lancelot, and had watched with despair as Merlin and the noble knight had ridden away. Then he remembered the astounding relief when somehow, by some miracle, Merlin had returned to him. Alive, fully healed, and smiling his characteristically goofy grin, even as he offered to take Arthur's place as the sacrifice.

Flashes of memory burst into Arthur's brain all at once, muddled and fragmented, but somehow creating a fully formed picture at the same time. Merlin, drinking poison for him; Merlin fearlessly standing up to the bandits when they had been captured near Ismere; Merlin pulling him from despair when Agravaine had betrayed him, and restoring the king's faith in himself. Most of all, Merlin leaping into the icy embrace of the Dorocha...

"I'm happy to serve you until the day I die."

And then he admitted to himself what he had known deep in his soul almost as soon as Merlin had made his astounding confession. The magic itself didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have. It was dangerous, obviously, but it was not evil in itself. Deep within the recesses of his mind, he'd never been comfortable with the strict laws that faced the magical community. There were too many grey areas for it to be considered wholly evil. He'd known this for a while; it had been preying on his mind ever since he'd overseen the brutal butchering of a particular Druid camp all those years ago, but he'd been too weak to do anything about it. He'd felt it would have been be an act of betrayal to undo his father's life's work. He was already painfully aware of Uther's disappointment in him, and though he knew it smacked of cowardice, he'd never been able to bring himself to do something that was so openly in defiance of his father's regime.

Even now, Arthur tried clinging to his father's convictions, because to admit otherwise would mean he'd have to face up to the real reason why he felt so betrayed. Merlin had started off being an irritating thorn in his flesh, but over the years he had morphed from a lowly manservant into his friend. His best friend, in fact. His most trusted friend.

He could probably forgive the magic. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he already did. He wasn't so sure he could forgive the lies, and it was that, more so than the fragment of blade that had been so wickedly wielded with betrayal, that was killing him.

He didn't know how long he sat there mulling over his stunned conclusions, but eventually he realised that dusk had fallen, and while he had been thinking, Merlin had been busy. A camp had been set up, albeit a small one, and Merlin was currently in the process of trying to start a fire. Arthur watched for several minutes as the man tried, and failed, to catch a spark from the flint. His manservant looked subdued, and even in the fading light of the day, Arthur could see the shadows under his eyes.

Merlin looked... broken.

Arthur had never been a man who dealt well with emotions, and he usually managed to say completely inappropriate things whenever he was faced with an uncomfortable situation. Particularly when his protective instincts kicked in, as they were doing at this precise moment. There was something so inherently wrong with the way Merlin looked... so of course, Arthur's mouth slid into action a few seconds before his brain could catch up.

"Why don't you use magic?"

Merlin jumped at the question, and Arthur knew it wasn't because it was the first time he'd spoken in hours. He wanted to call back the words immediately, but the flicker of pain that rushed across his manservant's face caused the king to pause.

"Habit, I suppose."

The words were flatly spoken, but there was a depth of anguish contained in them that utterly stunned the king, and when Merlin glanced up, his expression a curious mixture of fear and hope, Arthur could do nothing more than nod to the silent question that hung heavily in the air. This time, there was no spell or hand waving, but Arthur clearly saw the brief flash of gold in Merlin's eyes.

He should have felt disgust, but all he could think was that the flare of gold was somehow beautifully hypnotic. He'd always likened the golden eyes that went hand in hand with sorcery to the burning fires of hell itself, mostly because he'd only ever been close enough to one person who'd used magic openly in front of him. Morgana's eyes had been filled with hate and fire, and even the memory of them was enough to cause Arthur to flinch. Merlin's eyes, however, didn't flash in quite the same way. They still burned gold, but the fire behind them was gentler, with no apparent malice or evil intent. Of course, Merlin had merely ignited a small campfire, which, Arthur could only assume, wouldn't really need a lot of magic to accomplish. He freely admitted to an almost complete lack of magical understanding, but common sense told him that summoning a few puny flames was nothing compared to what he had witnessed Morgana doing. And as to the magic he had seen the previous day, well, a mere campfire was clearly a tiny magical act. The king found himself wondering how Merlin's eyes would appear when he was using stronger magic. His servant's eyes must have burned gold for a significant length of time during the battle, but Arthur hadn't been close to enough to discern anything more than the raw power of the sorcerer who had so quickly and efficiently defeated the enemy.

It was difficult to reconcile that power with the gentle pulse of magic that had flowed so briefly from Merlin a moment ago.

"It feels strange."

"Yeah," said Arthur, frowning slightly. It was strange. "I thought I knew you."

Merlin stood up and busied himself by rummaging through their supplies, his face averted. For a moment, Arthur thought he wasn't going to reply, but then his servant looked up and gazed earnestly at him.

"I'm still the same person."

Arthur wanted desperately to believe him, but all he could see was that image of pure, unadulterated power. It just didn't fit the person standing before him. He felt himself slump under the weight of bewilderment. He was just so sick of the lies. He'd been lied to and betrayed so, so many times, and knowing Merlin had lied for so long was eating at him.

"I trusted you," he said quietly, finally giving words to the deep pain that burned visciously along with the blade fragment that was embedded in his chest.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur closed his eyes. That was it? Nothing else? Two little words to excuse a decade of deceit? He needed more than that. He needed the truth. He needed to understand.

"I'm sorry, too," he said flatly.

The king was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice the small sigh that accompanied the weary expression on Merlin's face as the servant stood up and approached him. Arthur felt his boots being gently tugged from his feet and couldn't help the frustration that coursed through him.

"What are you doing?" he asked testily.

"You need drying," was the no-nonsense response.

Well, that answered him, the king thought ruefully, but this time he didn't say anything. In times past, he would have bantered back, possibly saying something that would point out the ridiculous obviousness of Merlin's reply, and he'd probably have accompanied the snarky words with the rolling of his eyes. That was how things usually worked, after all. But there was nothing about the current situation that remotely resembled anything to do with normality.

Suddenly it was too much, and as the king watched his servant with a frown creasing his brow, he found he could do nothing more than observe the way Merlin quietly went about his tasks.

It was surreal to watch as Merlin simply acted all ... Merlin-like. The man before him was performing the tasks he had done probably hundreds of times in the past, and there was nothing to indicate that anything had changed. Again, Arthur was struck by a stunning thought; if Merlin could act with such perfect... Merlin-ness... after what had happened at Camlann, how many times had Merlin done this before? How many times had he done something magical, and then continued to act like he was nothing more than what he appeared to be?

This time, Arthur knew exactly what he was saying when he said it, and he watched carefully for his servant's reactions.

"Tell me more about Lancelot's sacrifice," he said slowly. "Tell me everything that led to it. Tell me what really happened on that godforsaken island. And tell it properly, this time. I want to know it all. No more lies, Merlin."

Merlin's expression was again that strange combination of fear and hope, but this time Arthur could also recognise the underlying grief that lurked in his servant's eyes. It was a look, he realised with some shock, he had seen many times in the recent months - too many times - but it was only now that he understood exactly what it was.

And it was a terrible thing to see. How could one man carry so much grief?

Arthur saw the moment when Merlin shook off the weight of his emotions and replaced the grief with a flare of stoic resolution. It was astonishing how much strength he could sense radiating from the dark-haired man. He was possibly more awed by it than the magic.

Merlin inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly, and pierced his king with an unwavering stare.

"No, Arthur, no more lies."

That was quite difficult to write, mostly because Arthur's humor kept wanting to steal the scene, which really isn't appropriate to the overall tone of this story. Sadly, characters - even when they aren't your own - still manage to misbehave, even when you try to curb them. *sigh* Thank you for following and/or favouriting - hopefully you'll continue to enjoy the story! More over the weekend, all being well!

~ Ellessaria