I...um.
I kind of...maybe...umm.
You will probably need a bucket for this chapter. Or...several. I found I'm kind of...majorly twisted.
I think I'll go change the rating of this.
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Arthur was drained.
That was really the only description that did justice. The emotions that had battered into him, the thing that had torn at his heart were all gone.
Until it reappeared at the expression of surprise on Merlin's face. It was fleeting, lasting less than a second, then it was gone. But it was still there, had still happened. Merlin was genuinely surprised at being thanked.
Thanked by you, a small part of him noted, he's surprised he's being thanked by you.
A smile tugged at Merlin's mouth. He looked more like...Merlin when he smiled. Today was one of the longest instances where he hadn't been.
Of course, the little voice piped up again, he probably wasn't happy when he was receiving those injuries. How many times was his smile fake because he was healing and in pain when doing his chores?
Chores...
Arthur blinked, another part of Merlin's secrecy becoming clear. "You never do go to the tavern, do you?"
"Ah." Merlin had the grace to look embarrassed. "No. Never, actually."
Gwaine frowned. "What? The tavern is your cover?" He stared at Merlin in genuine astonishment, then at Arthur. "And you didn't think that someone mentioning to me you supposedly spend all your time there would bring up odd questions? Because you don't, mate, and I would have said so."
"Gaius thought it up long before you came along." Merlin said.
"Still," Gwaine mumbled. Percival hid a smile.
Merlin hesitated. "What happens now?"
Arthur heard the forced casualness and understood what Merlin was saying with no words. What will you do now, Arthur? What will you do with Agravaine?
Agravaine.
The thought sobered Arthur immediately. He had, for a few minutes, managed to forget the revelation of his uncle's betrayal. Now, though, it returned in full force.
What should he do?
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The small man moved soundlessly through the trees. Living in the remote wilderness had taught him how to remain undetected. It was a useful skill for an assassin.
He was headed for one of his snares. If the servant truly was a sorcerer, it would be foolish to approach him weakened in any way, and skipping lunch would not be smart.
Utilising every ounce of stealth he possessed, the small man approached the snare. A good assassin was not noticed. An excellent assassin did not exist.
A faint sound caught his ear. There was something...
Ah. There was something in the snare.
Abruptly, the small man grinned. The smile stretched across his face, warping the otherwise unremarkable features. It illuminated a spark in his eyes.
A spark of insanity.
Usually, it was hidden. The small man kept it under strict control, and used it to his advantage in a cold and calculated plan.
Sometimes, however, he allowed himself to have...fun.
There was a deer in the snare. A buck, perhaps four years old. It had thrashed against the loop of twine around his neck, carving a bloody line in his throat. One of its legs was broken, grounding it.
The small man's grin widened. How fitting. Sorcerers always had an easier time clearing the way to run. But nobody could run with a broken leg. It was common logic, and the small man had figured long ago that removing anyone's actual ability to run improved his chances of keeping them under his control.
He do so loved when they couldn't run.
He pulled out a knife. It was a standard woodsman's knife, though it had been put to uses no woodsman would commit. The small man dropped to his knees beside the panting buck. It rolled its eyes in fear.
"You understand," the small man murmured, staring in rapture at the buck, "I have to practice." The knife twitched in eager anticipation.
The small man rested the tip of the knife under the buck's right eye.
The deer grew more agitated, and started to thrash.
"No, no," the man pinned it down. "None of that."
With no warning, he thrust the knife under the eye.
The deer screamed, it's pain overriding fear, and started to thrash harder.
The broken leg lay at an odd angle. The small man's face twisted with rage, and he stomped down on the other one, feeling the bones snap under his shoe. In quick succession, he also broke the remaining two legs.
The deer shuddered, and kept screaming pitifully, unable to move except to tremble and attempt to rock it's torso feebly.
The small man, who had not let go of the knife, started sawing around the frantic, jerky eyeball. Blood poured from the wound, staining the grass and running into the deer's nostrils. It started choking.
With a sickening squelch, the small man flicked the knife, and the eyeball flopped out. The socket was gushing blood, as if trying to replace the eye.
The man picked up the eyeball with his free hand and examined it. It wasn't completely spherical, and there were strings of bloody flesh attached to the back of it.
He shrugged. It would have to do. It wasn't like he was an expert in this field.
Although, he thought, as a grin spread across his face, maybe he should be. The act had sent his blood singing, sheer power thrumming through him at the knowledge that there was nothing the animal could do to stop him.
He hoped the boy wouldn't pass out. That wouldn't be any fun.
He looked down at the twitching deer, still whimpering.
Now for the best part.
The small man positioned the knife at the deer's throat, right over where he knew the jugular was. Lifeblood.
He thrust the knife in to the hilt, and pulled it out swiftly.
The copper scent intensified until it seemed as if the very air was bleeding. The deer began to choke harder as it's air was blocked.
The man swiftly dropped the knife and cupped his hands under the stab wound. Blood, thick and dark, rushed over the torn flesh into his hands. It pooled and spilled over the sides, falling onto the ground and watering the earth.
He lifted his hands to his mouth and poured the blood in. The warm liquid splashed down his throat, over his face, as he swallowed greedily. Finishing, he pressed his cupped hands again under the still-gushing throat of the deer.
Three more handfuls went the way of the first. The deer bled out by the second.
The small man sucked on his fingers, like a child who wants to taste the last remnants of his treat. His eyes were closed, and his whole body shuddered in ecstasy.
He stayed that way for several minutes, the carcass of the deer laying beside his kneeling form. Even from far away, it would be impossible to believe it was merely sleeping.
Only when the blood started to become sticky did the small man open his eyes. He looked at the deer, eyes unfocused, and shook his head as if to clear it.
He looked at his hands, at the drying blood on them, and a lazy smile crossed his blood-painted face.
He staggered up, grasping his knife as he did so. The eye he pocketed, strings of sinew hanging out over the top.
The insanity he locked up again, until it was the right time to unleash again.
The small man started to turn, then stopped to look back at the deer carcass.
"The boy better have more." he murmured.
Then he stepped away, nonexistent once again.