A/N:

Evening all! Well, I'm still alive...no assassins sent to do away with me after I posted the last chapter, so I will take that as a good sign to carry on (and then duck and cover just in case).

Thanks again to everyone for all the awesome reviews...still blown away by all your lovely comments and how many there have been - including all of you signed in as guests. You chaps and chapesses are all the best!

Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin, I would also own an island somewhere, and I'd invite you all over, so we could live, breathe and eat Merlin. But since I don't, he (and anything else owned by Shine) is safe...

Chapter 6

The sound of his heavy breathing echoed tinnily off the slightly damp, grey walls of the tower, as Arthur slowed down from the two-steps-at-a-time jog he had started off with at the bottom, to a walk for the last flight of stairs. Surely he couldn't be this unfit, with all the training he did every day? Well, okay, maybe not strictly speaking every day now: being King had its down as well as up sides. One being that he - more often than not - was too bogged down with paper work, and council meetings, and supplications to hear, and treaties to sign, and contests to judge, and knighthoods to bestow, and speeches to give. But he did try and get out to train with his knights as often as he could fit it in.

And he was sure that the fact his belts were starting to feel a little on the snug side had a lot more to do with him getting older, and the laying down of more solid muscle - now he wasn't a scrawny young Prince anymore - and absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with having to attend so many banquets and feasts and so few patrols or practice bouts. And no, the fact that his recently-insular manservant was no longer teasing him about his healthy appetite and increasing waistline had no bearing on how out of puff he was right now. It was a very tall tower - tall enough to keep most of the castle staff, nobles and guests from bothering to go to the lengths he was to reach the top, just to find a silly, emotional maiden of a servant.

With no adornments on the walls or floor - this part of the castle was hardly ever used, so there was no reason to decorate it - his slowing footsteps seemed thunderous in volume. A small smile played with the corner of his mouth, as he thought about what Merlin would say round about now: "Told you you were getting fat!" Shut up Merlin! A line decorated his brow: since when had he started having one-way conversations with an imaginary friend? Friend? Merlin? Okay, maybe. But the ones they had in the flesh were more satisfying - if for no other reason than he got to throw things physically as well as verbally at his servant. And no, he wasn't going mad by talking to himself; just...reminiscent perhaps. It had been too long since he had heard this sort of banter from his serv...friend, so it was hardly his fault if he had to fill in the gaps!

Merlin, you'd better be up here, because I've just about given up on you, you know that? You've had me running ragged round this whole bloody place, and all because you're a stubborn so and so. All you had to do was sit and talk to me - or anyone for that matter. But noooo, you think it's fun to play hide and seek and make me come after you! Who's the master and who the servant, exactly? You're supposed to be at my beck and call, not the other way around. Not that you ever come when you're called though - lazy idiot! I'd have you in the stocks for this...if I thought it would teach you a lesson. But I think we've established by now that being pelted with rotten food just doesn't have the desired effect anymore in the punishment-by-degradation department. Feathery hats don't work either, and I'm starting to suspect that you actually like mucking out the stables, just so you have an excuse to fall asleep in the straw - smell or not!

No, I'll have to think of something more...imaginative. Just have to find you first.

Arthur paused at the top of the staircase, leaning on the wall to catch his breath. He could feel a thin rivulet of sweat tickle its way down his back, to be soaked up by the waistband of his trousers. At least this was the final destination of a very long trek. He had spent the last three quarters of an hour ascending and descending towers, running along corridors and walkways that connected the various parts of the castle's battlements, and was now feeling utterly exhausted. He made a mental note to use this route next time one of his knights needed kicking back in line. He had a funny feeling Gwaine would be the first one to test it out. And in the not too distant future, especially if he had been in any way diverted over the last hour, and had not gotten round to searching EVERY tavern in the lower town, as instructed.

Smirking with evil anticipation, the King opened the dark wooden door, cringing as the little-used hinges squeaked noisily. If Merlin was up here, he must surely have heard that! If he was up here. Arthur seriously doubted that his servant would have bothered to walk up all those steps, just to avoid a conversation. In fact, he wasn't really sure what had possessed him to come here himself. Some sort of intuition, maybe? Or was it just the odd tingling sensation that had passed through his veins, when he had stood at the bottom of the tower; wondering where else he hadn't tried to find his wayward servant. Or maybe it was simply that he would feel pretty bloody foolish if he reported back to the others that he couldn't find Merlin anywhere, and then the idiot waltzed out of the one place he hadn't looked, with one of those annoying smug grins on his face, saying, "Hah! I win!". Chance would be a fine thing, but at least he was making good use of the last few minutes before he was due back at Gaius' chambers.

A blast of air ruffled his hair, and Arthur stood for a moment, enjoying its cooling effect on his hot face. This breeze would have been most welcome earlier, when he and the knights had been sweating away in the training field, but as was common at this time of year, the only relief from the heat of the day came when the sun had just about passed below the horizon, when most people had retired indoors for the evening. Already, the blood-red swirls in the sky were being chased away by the descending indigo darkness, making it hard to see much on the heavily shadowed crags of Camelot's battlements. The walkway at the top of the North tower was not as large as some of the others, but it had a good view of the city below. Arthur rested his crossed forearms on the edge of the wall and leaned forwards, so as to see the courtyard below. There was the slightest possibility he might spot the object of his search slipping back into the building, after waking up in the stables, yet again, and realising he was late to deliver his master's dinner? But the courtyard was empty, except for a couple of guards on their evening patrol, and one or two other non-Merlin servants, hurrying on whatever errands servants hurried on at this time of the night. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled the lateness of the day.

Arthur sighed and stood straight again, glancing round the area in front of him. All appeared quiet and empty; another fruitless end to a futile mission. Oh well, better get back and see how the others got on. One of them must have had more luck than me - there are only so many places a man can hide, even in a city the size of Camelot. He was just turning round to head through the door when something in the corner of his eye made him pause; his fingertips already brushing the smooth wood. Arthur squinted and turned back. He took a step towards the wall that circled the inner part of the tower. There, where the wall curved round, what was that? Is it...a boot? He took another step. The closer he got, the more familiar the footwear looked.

"Merlin?" he called tentatively.

No answer. Another step.

That definitely looked like Merlin's boot: brown, wrinkled leather, and worn, unpolished buckles. If only he put as much effort into his own appearance as he does in mine! Not that he would ever tell him that - have to keep him on his toes, after all - but still, he's the King's personal servant, and he really should try and look the part! But what would his boot be doing up there, unless...it was attached to his foot?

"Merlin?" he called, a little louder and firmer. Surely that would wake him up, if he's fallen asleep up here? Though why he would choose to do that there rather than in his own room, or..well, anywhere less 'stony', Arthur couldn't fathom.

Still no reply. Another cautious step forwards.

Something on the ground flashed: a glint of silver. There, at the side of the boot, is that...a knife? Arthur froze, his heart skipping a beat, as a spark of sixth sense flashed through him. He leaned forwards and to one side, to get a better view. A brown-trousered leg stretched on its side out of the boot, and draped over it, fingers dangling towards the knife - as if trying to either grasp it or cast it away - was a slack, pale hand.

Arthur's breath hitched in his suddenly-dry throat, and his stomach felt like it was trying to digest a shard of glass.

"Oh Gods!" He rushed to cover the last few steps round the corner, wanting desperately to see who was there, and at the same time dreading the discovery he was about to make. He came to a stop and gasped.

Merlin lay - or rather sprawled - on his side, his back against the inner wall, as if at some point it had supported his weight, but now no longer could. His head rested on his left shoulder; eyes shut, face deathly pale, and lips slightly parted.

The King followed the line of Merlin's left arm, as it curved from where his head leaned, and came to rest in...

"Oh no! No, no, no, no, NO!" He felt the blood drain from his face and shook his head in denial at the crimson pool that cradled the still man's forearm and hand. An alarmingly large crimson pool, that had not ceased expanding.

The blond-haired man crashed to his knees; his shaking legs all but failing to support his weight. His limbs suddenly felt so heavy and his muscles weak. His pulse quickened as he leaned over the prone white form below him, to grasp the leaking wrist, and lift it clear of the sticky, red puddle; red streaks tracing a hotchpotch of lines on parchment-coloured skin. His thumb pressed down hard on the ugly, dark crack that shouldn't have been there. It did little to stop the steady stream of shocking redness that continued to streak down the limp arm; soaking into the already saturated blue sleeve, and dripping to join its brethren on the hard stone floor, with a horrendous plop, plop, plopping sound.

"Merlin," the King forced a whisper around the lump that threatened to totally block his throat, swallowing convulsively, "what have you done?"

Silence.

His heart lurched further still in his chest with dread, and he felt his whole body cool down another degree or two.

"No, you're not...you can't be..." I won't let you! his mind screamed. He pushed the bolus of bile back down into his clenching stomach, then still grasping the bleeding wrist as tightly as he could, he leaned his head down until his ear touched the frail chest. After a moment or two, Arthur breathed a small sigh of relief: Merlin was still breathing, though the breaths were unhealthily shallow. He grasped for the uncut wrist and fumbled with trembling hands for a pulse. It took a few heart-wrenching seconds to find, but it was there: weak yet steady. Arthur bowed his head, allowing himself to catch his breath, trying to force his own heart to slow to a less hectic pace. He hadn't got there too late. But there was so much blood on the floor; too much blood. How much could a man of Merlin's small stature and poor health lose, before his heart ceased to beat?

He took in a lungful of air, to yell for the guards to come and help him - to carry his friend or get the physician or...something, damn it! - but then remembered where he was, and the air whistled back out through his teeth. No-one would hear his calls from there, and no patrol was likely to bother coming that far up the tower; if at all. No, the only one who would be able to do anything was him...and Merlin needed Gaius immediately.

Shit! Gaius wasn't there. Shit shit SHIT! Why did that bloody woman have to go into bloody labour tonight, of all nights? Couldn't the babe have waited another 24 hours? Or been less troublesome in its entry to the world, so the midwife could have handled it herself? Why, for that matter, did Merlin have to choose tonight to do this, and find the remotest part of the castle to do it...and be so bloody accurate with the blade as to hit the artery? Arrrghhh! Why was everyone conspiring against him? Bloody traitors, the lot of them!

He knew, somewhere, in a distant and easily barricaded part of his brain, that he was being irrational and thoughtless, but right now, he didn't have the wherewithal to care. His friend was dying, and he had a right to take his anger out on the world. He was the King, for Gods' sake, and could say or think what he fucking well pleased! Anything to prevent the full-blown maelstrom of panic from bursting out of his very bones at the sight of...

He closed his eyes, hoping that perhaps this was all just a bad dream. When he woke up, he would be in his cosy bed. Merlin would be bustling around the room - making a racket as he allowed the breakfast tray to clatter onto the tabletop, while he chattered inanely - and Arthur would most certainly not be at the top of the bloody tallest tower, with no physician available and a man spilling his lifeblood out on the stones beneath his feet. The King's eyelids hesitantly lifted, and his heart sank back down to his stomach.

No more time to waste on wishful thinking. He grabbed the crimson-splattered knife from the ground and tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt, which he wrapped as tightly as he could around the gaping, red slash. Merlin didn't react at all, as he tied a knot in the strip of cloth: not a good sign. That should have hurt. Arthur stared down at the innocent-looking knife in his hand, and the patches of blood that had stained his skin: Merlin's blood. He had a strong impulse to throw the cursed thing as far as he could over the castle wall, as if it was some evil-imbued artifact, created by a Gods-forsaken sorcerer, and had instigated this whole nightmare itself. But he gritted his teeth and stopped himself. That would be churlish and dangerous - no telling where it might land. And besides, he needed undeniable evidence, if he was to confront his manservant later.

If? If?! NO! Don't think like that! He tucked the knife into his own boot, in the same sheath as the one he always carried there.

"Merlin, can you hear me?" Arthur called, shaking the man's shoulder firmly. Merlin's head rolled with the momentum on the stone floor, but his dark, sunken eyes remained closed, and no sound came from his grey lips. "You can be so difficult sometimes, Merlin!" Arthur huffed in exasperation, though his voice cracked on his friend's name. Then placing one arm under the man's knees, and the other under his shoulders, the King hefted his friend up on unsteady legs. His stomach gave another horrified twist. "Gods, Merlin, when did you last eat? A five-year-old has more meat on it than you!" Merlin's head was flung back over his left bicep, his mouth gaping a little further open, but there was no response to the barbed comment.

Somehow, Arthur managed to get the door to the stairs open, and he began to make his way down, leaning against the cold stone wall whenever he came close to stumbling. All the while, trying to provoke a response from the silent form in his arms.