A/N: Okay! Next chapter. :D Percival's POV, some whump, some fluff. Hope you enjoy!

Meanwhile, back in Camelot…

Gwen lost her self-control at exactly fifteen minutes after noon, almost two weeks after the knights had left. After Arthur had left. After Merlin was given three weeks to live. Considering everything, she supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later.

Presently, she sat in the dark, alone in the armory with her knees to her chest, crying into her skirt. There was no one there to comfort her, no one to hold her tight and tell her things would be okay. But she was glad of it, in a way. She needed some time to let herself be miserable. Gwen knew she was strong, she'd known that even before she was captured by brutal men, banished by her lover. She'd known it, even before Merlin came, and told her she was. Deep down. But the past two weeks had been a living nightmare.

Everyday, she was asked by people, "Where's Merlin?" She would smile and tell them he went to Ealdor to be with his ill mother. She'd try to cover up for Arthur, too, saying that he had to leave on an urgent mission, whenever she heard people gossiping about it. She wondered if her smiles and explanations looked and sounded as fake as they felt. Probably, her brain supplied.

The sobs racked her body for a few more moments, until they reduced to mere hiccups. It felt good to cry. Two weeks of absolute torture, not knowing who of the people she cared about most were still alive. Everyday, her mind was bombarded with images of Merlin's pale skin, his widened eyes. She remembered seeing the pain he'd felt. And Gaius had said it would only get worse.

Gwen had wanted to leave with them. She'd wanted to be there, to do something. She was Merlin's friend, and Merlin was her best friend. The one time he might really need her, and she was stuck here fabricating stories, not knowing what he was suffering through as she did.

She knew Arthur and the knights would do their best to be there for him. But they were men, and tended to handle emotions like they're hot rocks. Gwen didn't like doubting them as she was, but it was like your world might be falling apart, but it's leagues away from you so you won't know for sure. She felt like she was being torn apart with worry and guilt and fear and…it was absolute torture.

Getting a hold of herself, Gwen finally stopped crying. She stretched her legs out slowly, which were no stiff from disuse. Her knees were soaked through where she'd been weeping into them. Sniffing, she tottered to her feet, feeling like an old hag and guessing she probably looked like one. She hadn't slept much in the past two weeks. Two weeks that might as well have been two centuries. Needless to say, her appearance was a bit less pleasing than she would have liked.

Steeling herself she swiped her eyes and dabbed her nose with the corner of her apron, and strode out of the armory, pulling her shoulders back and trying not to like she was being murdered slowly by her own anxiety.

Hang in there, Merlin, she prayed, just hang in there. I can't lose you.

….

Merlin gritted his teeth and squeezed the reins of his horse so hard he supposed he must have cut off circulation to his fingers. Each jostle of the mount sent waves of fresh pain through Merlin's torso. What had a week ago been a dull ache in his gut and chest was now a constant, sharp panging. When he coughed or threw up, it felt like a thousand hot pokers stabbing him from the inside. Sometimes, he fainted from it. Most of the time, he wasn't so lucky.

He knew he was learning a new kind of endurance. He'd felt pain before, of course, but this was different. It was always, always there. He occupied himself from it by counting things, trees or pinecones or whatever happened to be there at the moment. He catalogued different species of plants or animals, or asked aimless questions of his friends and tried to focus on their purposefully long-winded answers. Gwaine was talking now, about his childhood, and Merlin listened intently to every lilting note of his speech, every slurred letter, anything to take his mind off what was so noisily going on inside of him. The brutal, slow destruction of anything that happened to be vitally important to his body's functioning.

"So, when I was three years old, my mother finally told me that I had abnormally large pinky toes. As a testament to this, you can see my boots must be tailored so as to accommodate them. Luckily, I was never teased because of this for the first ten years of my life. But then I met Jessie Clearwaters, who beat me up for my swollen appendages. Don't ask me whether this fat vagabond was a boy or a girl, because I never did find out. I would guess, girl, perhaps, considering how she tended to wink at me after every brawl. Was quite disturbing, I might add. Now, back to my toes. When I turned twelve, and I was a handsome lad, mind you, I-"

"Gwaine!" Arthur cried from his place in the front of the group, "I never thought I'd say this, but I would much rather prefer your tavern jokes to this," The knights all mumbled in agreement, who had been listening to Gwaine's life story for the past hour and a half. Merlin couldn't even remember now what he'd asked to set him off.

Gwaine looked affronted, and sputtered,

"I'll have you know that I have had very many fascinating experiences!" Elyan grumbled from somewhere behind Merlin,

"Then why don't you write it all down, and we'll get back to you?" he said. Merlin resisted the urge to laugh, because he knew it would hurt.

The knights all laughed at Elyan's comment, and Gwaine tossed his hair dismissively,

"Maybe I will. My own autobiography," he smiled, as if warming to the idea.

"It can be called…" he mused.

"The Gallant Tales of Sir Drinksalot?" Arthur suggested, "Or how about, the Riveting Adventures of the Curly Knight?" Gwaine grinned cheekily,

"And yours, sire: Princess Prat and the Fifty Sword Strokes to Stupidity,"

Merlin was starting to only half listen to their prattle, because he was starting to feel chilly. It wasn't the biting cold he felt when he had attacks. He was beginning to hope those were completely over with, since he hadn't had one in a couple days. It had been two, since the bloody river. He knew now that he'd imagined it, against his own will, of course, but still a product of his own mind. He'd had a few more hallucinations since then, small things that he didn't mention, but he knew the others noticed.

He guessed he must show his surprise in some way when a tree would randomly grow a face, or when his horse would decide to spout worms from its nostrils. Merlin had trouble keeping calm in these instances. A panicky, irrational feeling would envelope him. They were only passing images, though, gone in a fleeting second. They never lasted long enough for him to really react. Except, to jump, as his heart skipped a beat.

Through the pain and his mind playing tricks on him, all he could do was clench up and bear it. Arthur said they would reach Mercy by tomorrow.

Merlin sincerely hoped that this was as good a thing as he hoped. Despite the fact that Mercy held the key to his survival, supposedly, there still seemed to be this looming ominous feeling.

The landscape had been changing as they went, and Merlin guessed this might have something to do with it. Things had just gotten a bit dryer and less forested. It seemed more open, more vulnerable. It was hot, also.

Which was why Merlin was slightly confused by the slight chill steadily creeping up his arms.

Trying not to draw to much attention to himself as the knights continued their banter, he bent over and untied his cloak from its place tethered to the horse's saddle, and threw it on, trying not to move too suddenly so as not to upset his barely holding on stomach.

The knights continued to talk, but it was with a slight jolt that Merlin realized their voices sounded oddly muffled, and were continuing to get quieter and quieter. Merlin stretched his jaw, thinking his ears needed to pop, but nothing happened.

A sharp uneasiness took root inside of him. And he turned to see if the knights were simply whispering.

They weren't there.

The uneasiness turned to panic as Merlin whipped around in his saddle, scanning the surrounding area in search of his friends. Where were they?

Faster than was probably good for him, Merlin leapt from his horse onto the ground, and called out,

"Arthur?" his voice echoed strangely, as if he were in a cavern, his words repeating back to him mockingly.

The chill was intensifying, and raw fear seized Merlin as the world around him began to change.

The trees and shrubs seemed to thin and lose their dimension, the color was leeched from everything, an icy gray blue replacing the greens and browns. The ground seemed to start leaking, oozing bits disappearing into an endless darkness, strands of matter unraveling and falling into the abyss.

Merlin was having trouble breathing, panic seizing him in place, or maybe something else. Whatever it was, he couldn't get his feet to move.

"Arthur? Arthur!" he yelled, but no one answered. There were whispers now, inside him and by him, saying hateful, dark things, and intensifying the pain, "Please, someone!"

His horse was gone now too. He was there by himself. And the echo of his cry was endless, his own desperate pleas hammering him into the ground as he clutched the sides of his head.

There's no one there for you. They're all gone. You made them hate you. You did this.

And then…something else appeared, out of the dark and the cold. A phantom, living chill smothered Merlin. And he screamed.

"No, no! It can't be real," he fell to the ground, trembling and staring. There, appeared in front of him from all his worst nightmares, lay two broken bodies.

"Freya, Will," he whispered. And it was them. It had to be. They lay sprawled on the dirt, blood soaking through the ratty clothes resting on their ashen bodies. They stared, unseeing, with ghostly pale eyes filled with unshed tears, straight at Merlin, their faces permanently locked in grotesque expressions of terror and pain as if forever trapped in the moment that they died. Died because of him. A cry of anguish tore from Merlin's throat, a sound that shouldn't have been real.

The whispers intensified, growing louder and more condemning. This is your fault. It's all your fault, you did this. You made them suffer. The cold deepened, soaking into his bones and stirring up the pain inside until it became almost unbearable. And he knew he deserved it. All of it.

Merlin clutched at his head and almost tore some of the hair out as he rocked back and forth,

"No,"

And then there were more bodies: Gwaine and Leon and Elyan, and Percival. Gaius, Gwen…and Arthur. And they all stared at him, dead and anguished and bleeding and still crying, still begging him to save them, asking why he didn't.

"No. Stop!"

And then Arthur was in front of him, gray faced and refused the peace of decay,

"Merlin," Arthur rasped, his voice thin with eternal pain and bewilderment.

Merlin was being torn apart, ripped to shreds from the inside out. And then Arthur's body reached forward, and grabbed his wrist, and Merlin couldn't pull away from the biting cold and pain and guilt. And Arthur's blood was cold.

"NO!"

….

"Merlin," Arthur said, grabbing at the flailing boy's wrists in desperation, "Merlin, it's okay. It's not real, you're okay!" Merlin must not have heard him. At Arthur's touch, his eyes widened in absolute terror and he struggled to pull away, screaming and kicking wildly. They were both on the ground, Arthur crouched in front of Merlin as Elyan held him from behind around the torso, and Gwaine, Percival and Elyan stood off to the side because there was nothing they could do to help. Merlin was having some kind of terrible hallucination. Terrible, to say the least.

He'd descended from his horse, suddenly, and called out as if he couldn't see any of them. Arthur had felt his heart try to claw its way out of his chest as Merlin called his name desperately. And even as they tried to snap Merlin out of it, shaking his shoulders and such, he'd made a horrible sound of pure sorrow and torment, and sank to his knees in the dirt, whispering something that Arthur didn't quite catch.

Any color had left his face, and wretched emotions of suffering and misery and agony had passed across his face, despite Arthur and the knight's fruitless, desperate attempts to wake him up. He'd grabbed at his head and shook and rocked back and forth and looked like everything that he was being tortured.

Arthur felt nothing less than a complete and utter failure. The helplessness was like a beating. A beating with a spiked mace.

Or an axe.

Arthur wondered briefly which one would hurt more, and which one he should purchase when they reached Mercy. Which one would best be suited for his meeting with Jacob?

And then, Merlin screamed,

"NO!" the wrenching sound was like a white hot dagger in Arthur's chest.

Okay, that was bloody good enough.

Though it pained him to no end doing it, Arthur reared back one arm slightly, and slapped Merlin hard enough the boy's neck snapped sideways.

There were a few breathless moments of shock and anticipation. The sound of Arthur's strike seemed to ring in everyone's ears.

Merlin, still held by Elyan, turned back, the fog seeping away from his eyes, and a look of astonishment and pure relief on his face.

He then promptly closed his eyes and passed out.

Arthur sighed. Good.

Okay, he decided, an axe. A slightly dull axe, with hooked barbs.

And on fire.

…

Percival watched the boy thrash and scream like a wild animal as their king tried to bring him back to reality. Percival used to think his nightmares were painful, memories of his family in pain rushing through his mind against his will. But from the look on Merlin's face, those were a picnic compared to whatever he was going through.

The fact of the matter was that this realization made Percival's skin crawl.

But it also made his blood boil, his gut swirl with rage, and his grip on the hilt of his sword so strong he was afraid he might break it.

It was when it made an ominous cracking sound, that he managed to let it go.

Suddenly, a resounding smacking sound reverberated through the air. Percival felt his jaw drop as he saw his king's outstretched arm. He had hit Merlin

He had hit Merlin!

Percival felt an irrational anger leap to life inside of him, and he almost strode forward to-to…to do something, but then Gwaine's hand was on his shoulder. Percival watched as Merlin suddenly became aware, again, and then fainted. Thankfully. Percival felt an ashamed blush creep up his neck. Of course Arthur had only been doing it to help.

Said king seemed to slump with fatigue, and rubbed his forehead for a second. Percival could see the lines of stress and worry there, and empathized with the man.

Percival was not a very affectionate person. He knew his friendship was hard to win, completely. He knew he came off as gruff, and sometimes, even simple to people who knew him little. But once someone became Percival's friend, there was this strange, protective loyalty that he tended to fall into at times.

Merlin, was often subject to this.

Percival was jolted from his thoughts, as Arthur spoke, filling the silence that had been hanging unsurely for the past minute or so,

"We need to set up camp. Elyan, go gather wood. Percival, set out our bed rolls. And Leon, don't forget-"

"Hang on there, Princess," Gwaine spoke this time. And his voice was uncharacteristically…gentle, somehow, "I don't know about you, but I'm filthy. Having a quick wash sounds good," he gestured vaguely at his state of dress, and then pointed accusingly, "And Elyan stinks,"

"Oi!"

Arthur frowned wearily, contemplating, and then nodded,

"Alright. But quickly," his gaze then softened a bit, almost dreamily, "Being semi-clean will be nice," he stood, and then looked down at the prone form of his manservant, with an almost tenderness around the eyes, before turning to the others, "Someone has to stay with Merlin,"

Percival saw Leon start to step forward, but found his mouth moving of its own accord,

"I'll stay," Arthur raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, but Percival didn't wait for questions.

This time without any misgivings, Percival walked forward, and wordlessly slipped his arms under the warlock, lifting him with ease. With far too much ease. Percival fought not to gasp at how light the boy was.

He was careful to be gentle as he walked over to a spot where he could make a fire, and lay the boy down. He was so small, to Percival. He was all thin bones and too big clothes.

He looked so…breakable.

Percival listened to the retreating footsteps of his comrades, and began gathering some kindling for a fire.

Merlin was shivering slightly, and Percival was determined to end that within the next half hour or so.

…..

Percival watched the ashen bit of his stick crumble off and fall into the fire as he stoked it. He wasn't really concerned with the fire, though. Despite his mind telling him it was silly, he found his gaze resting on the raven-haired warlock bundled up in Percival's cloak near the fire a few feet from him. The other knights weren't back yet, but it had only been around twenty minutes and Percival didn't mind. It was quieter without them, and quiet meant a better chance of hearing danger from afar.

He jumped a bit when Merlin suddenly moaned and shifted in his sleep, and wondered when he had become such a mother hen.

Percival was a naturally protective person. He would give up his life for any one of his friends, and would fight alongside them to the end. But he had a natural camaraderie with him. They were knights, like him. Men who lived simply, who ate and drank and fought and told stories of battles that had most likely never actually happened. Percival had granted them his friendship, and that was how he'd always known how to make friends. Percival never made an ally, or got close to someone without knowing it.

That is, he thought he did. But then, there had been Merlin.

The gawky young man had somehow managed to weasel his way into Percival's heart without his consent. This was disconcerting, but Percival couldn't bring himself to complain. He'd never met someone so genuine as Merlin. The boy puzzled him. Merlin had been kind to Percival from the very start, smiling and joking with him despite Percival's own indifference. Percival shielded himself because he knew that people had ulterior motives. Everyone had their own agenda, and a real friendship was built upon years of slow steps taken.

Merlin was the exception.

He was naturally accepting, instinctively inclined to find the good in anybody. He'd met Percival and was bright and witty and kind and so completely unguarded that Percival knew he could get close to that boy and hurt him so easily, without hardly even trying.

Maybe that was it. The fact that Merlin had trusted him. Had put his faith in Percival, and trusted that he wouldn't hurt him. He gave Percival the opportunity to be noble, with disregard to the risks this put upon himself.

Percival had decided not to squander this chance.

He started again as Merlin made another groan, and then opened his eyes blearily. Percival tried for a smile, but knew it hadn't worked out so well. Merlin pushed himself tiredly off of the ground, and settled into a seated position, looking above all things like he'd just woken from a nightmare. He didn't take notice of the cloak, and it slipped off of his hunched shoulders into the dirt. Percival couldn't quite bring himself to care, as he was too busy trying to watch Merlin intently without being too obvious about it. He supposed he must be failing.

And then something strange happened. Merlin drew his knees to his chest, and stared into the flames of the fire, and the look of terrified reflection in his eyes reminded Percival so much of himself that he caught his breath,

"Merlin…" he began, sure that the boy must be remembering whatever he had seen earlier.

Merlin refused to look at him, but the pointedly avoiding eyes were now filling with unshed tears, flicking about wildly. Percival felt his heart wrench, and only hesitated a moment before quietly shimmying his way over to sit by the young warlock. Without a word, this time, he put one arm about the boy's shoulders, and pulled him a bit closer. At any other time he might have been embarrassed. With anyone else, he would have let them have their privacy, and would have been too afraid to act.

But this was Merlin, who'd trusted him to be noble. And so, as the lad seemed to collapse against his will into Percival's embrace, and began softly weeping for the first time while coherent, Percival was completely unashamed.

Because Merlin had earned so much more than Percival's friendliness.

He'd earned his love. And Percival was determined to give as much back as he'd gotten.

A/N: Theeere ya go! Okay, Okay, I know it's taken awhile, but I promise. Next chapter, they reach Mercy! DUNHDUNHDUNH! Please REVIEW!