Hidden Motives

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, lovely to read.

Just out of interest, is anyone else finding that their emails from are suddenly not arriving? I keep on logging into my account and it says that my email provider has marked them as spam so they're not sending them out, but emails have never gone into my junk folder, so I don't understand what they're on about. Just thought I'd ask.

Anyway, more Arthur in this chapter; I'm being mean to him, the poor guy.

Please review!

Chapter 10

Arthur waited with a sense of terrible helplessness for the traitor to come back. Since the previous night –or at least Arthur had assumed it was night-, when his captor had come in and spoken of Merlin's, now certain, execution, Arthur had fought against the chain that bound him; desperate to break free, desperate to reveal the traitor's deceptions to Camelot. Desperate to save Merlin. And yet it was to no avail.

His desperation increased as time passed; every second echoing in his head like the snap of a rope pulling taut. He had to get out. He had to get free. He had to stop Merlin from being his usual self-sacrificing self. That part of Merlin was one of the reasons why, despite years of friendship, Arthur could not bring himself to stop making teasing and sometimes –he knew- downright horrible remarks to his manservant. Because if Merlin acted with such devoted loyalty when Arthur treated him so terribly, then how would he start acting if Arthur treated him with the respect and affection that both of them knew were there? What sacrifices would Merlin make; what stupid and yet utterly humbling decisions would he take?

It was with those thoughts and revelations in mind that Arthur pulled at the chain, screaming in frustration at its futility, but he had to try. He couldn't just sit and do nothing; it wasn't in him to wait silently as a friend suffered; he had to be doing something to change it. So it was that Arthur carried on until his hands were covered in fiery blisters that screamed at him with each desperate pull on the chain. Around his waist, an angry line of red had seeped through the shirt of his night clothes.

He held firmly to the evidence of his struggles; it was proof to him that he was trying; that he was doing everything he could.

But it wasn't enough. As the time passed, that was the thought that kept echoing around the cavern in his shouts.

It wasn't enough. It hadn't been enough. Because surely, by now, it was too late. He could see no passage of time in here, there was no light source, aside from the fires that the traitor lit, but the deep fear inside of him told him that it had already happened. He hadn't done enough to save Merlin. But still his attempts at escape continued -more out of habit than conviction- while he struggled to push away the execution scene that was trying to form in his imagination.

The sound of footsteps managed to stop the picture from forming, but his struggle only increased. Because if the traitor was coming, then Arthur didn't want to be here to hear what he had to say. What other news could he be bringing aside from the one piece of information that Arthur was fighting against with every ounce of strength in him?

Around him, light, which until now had been coming from the small candle, flared through the cavern as the sconces were lit by magic. They cast illumination upon the marks of Arthur's fight. The blood on his waist seemed brighter, angrier; the blisters on his hand had disfigured his skin beyond recognition, but still he didn't stop, even as the traitor approached, confidence in his step, arrogance in his movement.

'Did you have somewhere you needed to be?' the traitor asked. Arthur didn't look at him, couldn't bear to see the malice in the eyes that looked like his own; couldn't bear to see that the words were coming from lips that were his own, given to him in a voice that was his own. 'What's the matter Arthur? From everything I've seen, you never really liked Merlin. Surely it saves you the hassle of having such an incompetent servant…now that he's dead.'

Arthur felt his whole body flinch as if something had startled him. It was such a small movement really, so inconspicuous, but inwardly, the entire world pitched and he felt like his very being was falling. Falling and falling into some blackness that was a thousand times more intense than the one he had been trapped in during the last few weeks.

Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Merlin.

The name kept on repeating around his mind like a whirlpool. This couldn't be real. This was surely the dream. He looked around. What could he see? The traitor smiling at him; it met all of his expectations, it was exactly as he would expect the man to react. Did that make it real or not? And he could see blood; evidence that he had been desperately trying to stop something terrible and horrific from happening.

What could he hear? The echo of the man's words around the vast infrastructure; the mockery in his tone. He could hear his own breaths; they had been fast before –his body trying to draw in air so that he could free himself from the chain-, but now they seemed more ragged, like his chest was grabbing at the air, fearful that it would not find enough. The in and out gasps seemed to match the beat of Merlin's name reverberating around his mind; adding impact to the word, drawing his grief deep inside his body.

What could he feel? That was the questioning of his reality that stopped his systematic process of determining the truth, because of all things, it was what he could feel that was shaping reality around him. A deep and gnawing ache in his stomach; a physical weight and pressure that was hammering into his chest. A howl that was vibrating through his mind. There were no more answers that he could give to shape a reality of his choosing.

It was real, so real. So heartbreakingly real.

'It was quick, you'll be pleased to know,' the traitor continued as if he was oblivious to the Prince's grief. He couldn't be of course; Arthur could feel his body beginning to tremble; the man must be able to see. Arthur fought to control his reactions; he was a warrior, trained to deal with pain. But not like this, not this inner pain that threatened to tear him apart.

The traitor continued, evidently having no intention of stopping. Arthur allowed Merlin's name to ring louder in his head, trying to drown out one pain with another; he couldn't bear this, he couldn't. 'He kicked for a bit, like they do. You could see his hands clawing at the air.' He laughed quietly to himself as if remembering a slightly amusing story. Arthur clenched his fists; clenched them as hard as he could. 'I don't know who he was reaching for; there was no-one to help him.'

Arthur felt the pressure of his nails on the palms of his hands; imagined the crushing force of the rope against Merlin's neck. He felt his breathing becoming even quicker and shallower; the trembling in his body beginning again, but try as he might, he could no longer control it. He felt power surging through his body and muscles, urging them into action –violent action- anything that would take the pain that was swelling and writhing and twisting through his chest and force it onto the man behind him.

Slowly he turned and took several steps forward. A far too familiar face, full of amusement, met the fury of his own.

'You could see the fear in him from the moment he stepped outside.'

'Who are you?' Arthur asked him, his voice shimmering with rage.

'Pathetic really. I can see why you always told him he was an idiot.'

Arthur felt the jibe like a knife slicing through his chest. Every throwaway insult he'd ever inflicted on Merlin flashed through his mind and he saw each one winding together like fibres twisting to form a rope: strong and unbreakable.

'Who are you?' he demanded, louder this time, the fury building through his body.

'And embarrassing as well. You were better off not being there. To think you hired and kept such a coward in your service for so long.'

Arthur had meant to repeat his question once more; he didn't want to respond to the traitor's words; they were meant only to inflict more pain on him. But the slandering of Merlin's name sent protective instincts surging through him and before he could stop himself he found himself being lured into the man's game.

'Merlin is not a coward,' he hissed.

'Merlin was a coward, Arthur,' he said, shaking his head in feigned disapproval of the slip. 'Was,' he repeated. 'I really did think you'd be quicker on the up take. Merlin was a coward.'

'Stop it.'

'Merlin was your servant.'

'I said stop it!'

'Merlin was your friend.'

'Enough!'

'Merlin was alive.' With each sentence, the man stepped closer, and through his hatred, fury and pain, Arthur realised that the imposter was now in striking distance. Without another second of delay, Arthur pulled the chain to its limits and raised his fist, but an invisible force hit him full in the chest, sending him sprawling back, gasping for breath. He was slammed into the iron weight that held his chain and crumpled to the floor, barely able to breathe. The man was next to him instantly. Arthur tried to strike again, but his limbs would not move. The man's eyes were glowing gold and for a split second they looked like fire.

'And do you know what my favourite part was?' he whispered, as if nothing had interrupted their conversation, if it could be called that. 'My favourite part was when he looked at you and you made it clear by the expression on your face that you were happy to watch him die.' Arthur struck out, managing to dislodge the magical weight slightly, but then it crushed him further, lying on his chest like a pile of rubble; mixing with the pain that was already there. The traitor leaned closer, his mouth next to Arthur's ear. 'You should have seen his face. He wasn't stupid, Arthur. He knew. Oh, he definitely knew. And that's when he fought. Can you imagine,' he laughed, 'Merlin fighting against soldiers? You can imagine how it looked. How he looked. They had to knock him around a bit when he started shouting. The failure on his face was breath taking as they put the sack over his head.'

From where he lay on the floor, Arthur felt each word like a darkness burrowing into him. He tried to forget what had been said. He tried to ignore the tone of mockery, but he couldn't. In his mind, he saw each terrible second of Merlin's last moments as his imagination took the details and transformed them into a nightmare from which Arthur couldn't escape.

He saw Merlin's face as he realised that he'd been tricked, because of course Merlin would realise. He knew Arthur too well. He saw his friend's face pale; saw the horror creeping into his eyes and then watched as he tried, as hard as he could, to escape the grips of the soldiers. But of course he couldn't. There was no doubt that Merlin was strong, but not in that way. Merlin's strength lay in his character, in his determination, in his loyalty and morality. In fact, every strength that Merlin possessed would have been raging against the situation that he had suddenly realised he was in.

Arthur heard the kicks and the punches of the guards as they tried to subdue Merlin's sudden aggression. They did it easily of course, but he could see Merlin fighting the entire time; heard him trying to call to the knights or Gaius or even Uther, only to be beaten into silence as his face was obscured by the sack.

Arthur saw it all unfolding in his mind; saw the way Merlin's body fell and jarred to a stop. Saw his limbs straining as he ran out of air. Could almost hear his desperate thoughts as those last few seconds trickled away. Arthur was in no doubt that Merlin's last thoughts had been over his Master's safety; the last ones that went through his mind before the desire to survive blocked out all other reasoning. He had died feeling like he'd failed Arthur; the Prince knew that full well.

As the traitor moved away from him, Arthur felt the tears slide silently down his face. They felt hot against his cheek. He rubbed them away frantically as the traitor walked back outside the circle of freedom that Arthur had, but they were still falling. He turned away. He could not let the man see what his words had done; he couldn't show that weakness to his captor. Several seconds passed and he filled his mind with battle strategy and training moves, until the tears ceased.

'Who are you?' he asked, not looking at the man. 'Tell me.' His voice was even, emotionless. Numb. He imagined that he was negotiating with a foreign ambassador. Give and take, gentle persuasion, small questions, small reactions. Nothing to alarm, nothing to show feelings or emotions. Just facts. It was all Arthur could cope with at that moment. The traitor seemed to like the change in his attitude. He answered quietly, matching Arthur's tone in an eerie duplicity.

'My real name is Sythe, but you have never known me as such.'

'And why are you doing this? Are you working with Morgana?' This time the man did let some amusement overshadow his words.

'The sorcerer half sister; that was a favourable turn of events…but no,' he continued, 'I am not working with her, nor does she have any knowledge of me. Not yet, at least. But I have been biding my time for years, learning who you are, what power you can command. Your sister's…revelation just enabled me to finally decide that the time to act was now.'

'And your reasons?' Arthur prompted.

'My reasons are the same as any other sorcerer's: to stop the blood shed of our kind. What better way to do that than by putting one of us on the throne?'

Arthur didn't know if he meant himself or Morgana, but either way, Arthur was finding it difficult to hold back the emotions that he had managed to momentarily suppress. Even the fact that he had discovered the man's –Sythe's- plan was not enough to press them back. He needed the man to leave; needed to be alone; needed to disappear and not think and not hurt.

Whether Sythe realised this or not, Arthur wasn't sure, but the light suddenly disappeared from the room and the man's footsteps headed away from him.

'You must excuse me,' he said quietly. Arthur could hear the edge in his voice; knew another verbal attack was heading his way. He tried to throw up barriers against it, but they crumpled instantly as he spoke. 'The King has ordered the body to be put in an unmarked grave. I need to go and make sure that neither you nor anyone else will ever know where it is.'

Arthur didn't even reply. The fight had gone from him. He had used all his energy fighting to free himself and save Merlin, but he had failed, his energy was expended and his heart felt dark, so very dark. The words buried themselves deep inside his mind. He had said no goodbyes to Merlin; had done nothing but order him around and snap at him the last time he had seen him. And now he wouldn't even know where his body lay. If Arthur ever did escape, he would not be able to go and tell his friend just how sorry he was.

He lowered himself to the floor and let the darkness cover and consume him.

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