A/N:

Okay everybody-peeps, as promised, here is a confrontation. But before you read it, I have a small warning for you. This is the last pre-written chapter I have. And I am a very slow writer (I know I've been posting these quite quickly, but editing is so much faster than writing from scratch), as well as a procrastinator and a perfectionist. But have no fear - I will be continuing with the story, even though the updates will not be so fast and furious. And I have the rest of it all mapped out - on paper or in my head - so it will be going somewhere.

Disclaimer:

I don't own Merlin, because he's not for sale...much to my sorrow :O(

Chapter 11

By the time Arthur had reached the Court Physician's chambers, he had only managed to calm down the agitation that had been raised by the conversation with his Uncle a marginal amount. And so, as per those wise words of his weapons master, when he had begun his formal training in sword fighting - so long ago now - he took three deep breaths before knocking on the door. He gave enough time for an elderly man with rheumatic joints to cross the chambers before pushing the door open and curling his neck around the door; calling the name of his father's old friend tentatively. With still no sign of the wavy white hair or floor-length robes, he brought the rest of his body into the room and closed the door behind himself, flicking his gaze casually around the untidy chambers for any sign of an occupant - asleep, deaf or otherwise. His eyes lingered a little longer on the patient's cot, remembering with a pang of discomfort the last time he had seen it filled, before he forcefully shirked the image back into the library of memories he couldn't wait to forget. Marching purposely across the room, as if he could thusly prove to the pesky memories that they wouldn't dare provide him with yet another rough night's sleep, he reached the slightly-ajar door of his manservant's room, and carefully - so as to not announce his presence in the medium of creaking wood - he climbed the steps and gingerly widened the opening enough for him to squeeze through.

He did nothing to suppress the heavy, annoyed sigh on seeing that the reason for his visit was still not in a state of consciousness that allowed for anything other than a one-sided conversation. He had to concentrate hard not to stomp down on the floorboards, as he crossed the tiny space to the chair at the bedside. He cringed when on starting to sink onto its seat, his foot caught something by one of the chair's legs, and it clattered to the ground with a loud clinking sound. Looking down, at what he assumed must be one of Gaius' bottles - forgotten after administering a dose of medicine to the patient - he reached out to draw up a tankard, which still held the last dregs of the mead that was now snaking its way slowly across the floor under the chair.

Gwaine. He snorted at the man's gall for sneaking alcohol into the Physician's chambers. Gaius, having had more than his fair share of copious vomiting, top-of-the-lungs singing, and dealing with mothers-of-all hangovers (so that the Gwaine could show his face on the training grounds in the morning), had effectively banned him from bringing any sort of 'mood juice' into his rooms. Which the rogue knight had duly considered...and decided that in his case, it did not apply. It wouldn't be the first time that week that Gwaine had forsaken his usual drinking buddies at the tavern for a night of slurred reminiscing with an oblivious Merlin. Not that Arthur could blame him on this occasion. He had been drinking rather more wine than usual himself this past week - whether as an aid to bypassing the hours of tossing and turning in his bed at night, or to damp down the angry pit of fire that bubbled in his belly, whenever his thoughts strayed to his unconscious friend, he couldn't be certain. Likely, a bit of both.

Arthur's rump completed its descent to the rickety chair, and he placed the tankard on the table beside the bed; all the while, not allowing his gaze to move from the still body beside him. Scrutinising him thoroughly, he was relieved to see that a little more colour had returned to Merlin's cheeks - giving them the colour of a plucked chicken, as opposed to fresh curds - and, judging by the lack of a flush or perspiration, his fever had gone. So why doesn't the stupid idiot wake up? Just how long does he plan on taking to gain back enough of the blood he lost - well, personally drained away, if we're being honest here - to do something as mundane as raise his eyelids for more than a few seconds? Must you be so slow and hopeless at everything, Merlin?

Granted, Gaius had warned him - once his ward was obviously out of danger - of how close he had come to passing over, and had proceeded to bore Arthur for the next twenty minutes on the unnecessary details of just what losing that much blood did to the body (and therefore what the body had to go through to gain it back). He had, at one point, even experienced a rare pang of sympathy for his manservant, for having to endure - on a regular basis - a mentor in full-blown 'lecture mode'; complete with pictorial backup from several boring textbooks on human anatomy. Suffice to say that he wouldn't be waking up the next day, and probably not the day after that. But come on...seven days?

Arthur released a heavy sigh and was part-way to leaning the chair back against the wall, when he received what sounded like an echo from the direction of the pillow, and the chair's front legs slammed back down to the floor. His eyes honed in on the face beside him, breath held and fatigue forgotten, as he hungrily sought signs that the sound he'd heard would be followed up by something more animated.

He was not disappointed. Merlin took a deep draw of air, and his adam's apple bobbed, almost in slow-motion, as he tried to moisten a mouth that had to be dryer than a tavern's cellars, after a visit from Gwaine during the winter festival. One of the most frequent 'treatments' Gaius had had to administer over the past week was nothing more complicated than water; to replenish the young man's dangerously low fluid levels, he had said. But by the way the skin around Merlin's eyes screwed up, the old man had not done so for a while, and Arthur had a fleeting compulsion to find his friend a cup of water, which was just as quickly dampened by his desire to not be absent for the moment he had been waiting for, for too long.

His stubbornness was rewarded a few seconds later, when the pale man's forehead scrunched, then his eyelids fluttered feebly, before slowly parting. Arthur held his breath subconsciously; waiting, wanting to say something. Encouraging or derisive, he couldn't decide, torn as he was by the need to both throttle and hug the dark-haired man that had caused him and his friends so much misery, and then left them hanging, their hearts in their mouths for a whole damn week. After opening and closing his eyes several times, Merlin - still staring at the ceiling - frowned, as if not quite sure what he was looking at.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but it was as if that moment, someone had filled it with salt, and he could push no words past his parched larynx. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard, before managing to push out a gruff, "Welcome back."

Merlin gave a small gasp and turned towards him. His eyes took a moment to change, from the shock they had registered at the sudden sound, to recognition of the one who had made it. And then his facial expression morphed again, into something Arthur had not expected, and certainly didn't welcome.

Disappointment.

Then the same, dark mask, that his manservant had been wearing for the past couple of months, dropped down over his features, and he turned his head, so that he was looking back at the roof overhead.

Arthur felt the base of his stomach crash to the floor, and suddenly all the words he had planned on saying to his friend, the first chance that he got, dribbled out of his head and slunk into the shadowed corners of the drab little room. Why? Why had Merlin looked at him that way? His first thought was because, perhaps, Merlin had been expecting someone else to be in his place at his bedside: Gaius or his mother, maybe? But he quickly dismissed this idea; surely they had each woken up from an enforced sleep to the sight of each other's faces on enough occasions by now for it to not be an unpleasant surprise anymore? But the exiling of this thought left a much harder one to bear in its place; one that made Arthur's heart clench in understanding and fear.

And before he could register that it was happening, the young King's own feelings of sadness were bowled aside by the rampaging animal that had appeared out of nowhere: rage. He felt his blood pumping harder and faster through his veins in response, and tightened his jaw and fist; his brow creasing, as if forming a barrier to hold back the scream that wanted to throw itself in the pale man's face.

"Yes, you are still here." A hiss was all the King could manage to squeeze past his clenched teeth. He felt a momentary hint of guilt at the flinch that flitted across his servant's face, but it was easily squashed out of existence by the visions of the many confused and saddened faces he had seen, and the broken-voiced conversations he had heard, over the last few days. He saw the tears streaming from Gwen's beautiful eyes; her face scrunched by fatigue and sorrow and empathised pain for her friend, who had turned away from her every time she had tried to help him; as he had helped her, so many times in the past.

Then there was Gaius: his already-aged features pushed forwards another decade or two by undeserved guilt and shock at having failed to fulfil his duty as a guardian - gods-damn-it, a father! - and protected his son from whatever drew him to do...that...and all those. Not to mention Gwaine, and to some extent, Percival, Elyan and even Leon; all who had sat where he did now. Thinking. Waiting. Hurting. Because they had thought they were close enough to their friend to share his fears and protect him from them, but had been proved so very wrong.

No, if anyone had a right to feel disappointed, it was not Merlin. He had forfeited that, the moment he had selfishly decided to close everyone off from his world, and prevent them from coming back in, despite repeated attempts and heart-felt entreaties.

Merlin's gaze remained straight ahead; his face so still, Arthur had to check his chest was still rising and falling, to be sure he had not been deluding himself of his friend's return to consciousness; a side-effect of his perpetual state of wishful thinking. And the King felt a fresh rush of anger flood his veins.

"Why the fuck did you do that, Merlin? Why?" he shouted, glaring daggers at the younger man; daring him to voice all the excuses his own mind had dreamt up, in those endless hours of wakefulness each night. Readying every counter excuse, to ram it down his throat, in retaliation for all the time he - and all his friends - had spent worrying, pacing and self-doubting, instead of attending to their own lives. And according to his Uncle, many tongues around the castle had been wagging at the King's dereliction of duty for the sake of a mere servant; albeit it one who had not left his side for so many years. Another flinch was all the reaction his words elicited, and it was like an alcohol-soaked rag being held to a sparking flint. The fire burst forth from his chest in a ravenous flame, and he slammed his fist down on the bedside table, hard enough to make two bottles on the desk at the other side of the room clink together in an admonishing chime.

"Damn it, look at me, will you!" And for a second or two, he thought he had been successful, as sunken, dull, blue eyes turned to meet his. But then, like a swimmer caught in a fast-flowing river, and who could not hold onto that overhanging branch any longer, they slipped away once more. Merlin's eyes closed, as if by doing so, he could make himself invisible; go back to hiding in his cave of solitude, where only his own dark thoughts were permitted entry. But Arthur was having none of it, not this time; the time for patience and 'leave-it-for-now-to-see-what-happens' had long since expired.

"MERLIN!"

"What!" was the quiet, sand-paper-voiced reply; eyes once again open, and a slightly annoyed look turned in his direction. Merlin swallowed hard and then coughed; his throat not happy to be called upon for noise yet.

Arthur glanced across to the desk, and was pleased to see a small clay jug and cup on it. He crossed the room in two strides, filled the cup half-way and returned to his seat, where he was about to hand it over to the parched patient, when he realised Merlin was still lying down. Arthur set the cup down on the bedside table, before gently lifting Merlin up enough with one arm to wedge a spare pillow behind his back with the other. He then lowered him back down and held out the cup.

Merlin looked at it a moment, as if trying to remember what he was supposed to do with it, and then lifted a slightly trembling hand up to grasp the cup and begin its ascent to his mouth. On seeing how much the limb shook (and therefore how unlikely the cup was to make it without spilling most, if not all, of its contents), Arthur tutted, rolled his eyes, and placed his hand over the frail, cold, white one; completing the cup's trajectory. Despite the loud and desperate slurps, he only allowed the pale man a few, small sips, before forcefully withdrawing the cup, and setting it down on the bedside table.

Arthur went back to glaring at his manservant, though perhaps with a bit less ire this time, but Merlin still would not meet his gaze; preferring instead to direct his to a nondescript point somewhere, on the patched and worn blanket covering him. Arthur was beginning to wonder how long they would play this non-staring contest, when the silence was broken by a meek voice, speaking this time with a little more moisture, but no more volume.

"Thank you, sire."

Arthur couldn't help the pang of disappointment at the formal address. Couldn't they just get past this, and back to the way things used to be, with him insulting Merlin and the dark-haired man giving as good as he got? But no, things...something had changed. There was still that huge whatever-it-was that had been forming between them for some time now, and until Arthur could identify what it was, there was no way he could blast it aside. And the only person who could do that was the one sitting there now, refusing to speak unless spoken to. Well, shouted at, anyway. How ironic that Merlin should turn into the perfect servant now, and keep his opinions to himself, when that was the last thing that the King wanted him to do. He snorted cynically.

"For what: the drink, or saving your life...again?" Merlin didn't answer, but Arthur decided to continue anyway; anything to fill the awful silence. "And for both, you're welcome."

Merlin still said nothing. His gaze moved from his covers to his hands, which sat relaxed in his lap. From there, it was a logical progression to his wrists; well, the bandages, in the case of his left one. Slowly, he turned his hands over, scrutinising every inch of the white linen, but if he expected to find the evidence of his crime there, he was a few days too late. Thanks to a combination of Gwen's stitches, Gaius' poultices, and frequent re-bindings, the bleeding had long-since stopped, and the wound was already 'knitting together nicely': Gaius' words.

Suddenly, Merlin stiffened. His eyes had automatically moved further up the limbs, and he'd realised that his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the bindings on the rest of his arms. One slightly shaking hand moved up to grasp at the gathered cloth of the opposite arm, so he could self-consciously begin to unravel the sleeve. Cover the secret that no longer was.

Arthur's anger roared back to life, and his eyes narrowed coldly. "Don't bother," he said, unable to curb the bitter bite to his words. "I've seen them." Merlin's eyes flew to meet his, filled with a mixture of fear, shock and shame. Arthur couldn't have stopped the sneer that creased his features then, even if he'd wanted to, as he continued to drive the nail into his manservant's personal shield. "All of them." The two points of red on Merlin's cheeks - the first colour they'd displayed since his fever had dissipated - only served to fuel Arthur's satisfaction, despite the fact that the dark-haired man ignored him, and slowly, painstakingly, unfurled both sleeves, until the frayed cuffs rested once again over the tops of his hands.

"Why, Merlin?" Arthur said, trying desperately to cover the pleading tone in his voice with a more Kingly, commanding one. "Please, just tell me why." Okay, he failed. But now all he wanted was answers, and to hell with his image. He didn't exactly have a track record of achieving good results, with the unhappy young man, when he let image direct the questions.

For an agonisingly long pause, he thought that Merlin was going to continue his self-imposed vow of silence, but then, "You wouldn't understand," was the quiet, lumpy-throated reply.

Arthur huffed in exasperation, having to dig his nails in his palms, to stop them from digging into the shoulders of the man in front of him, and giving them a hefty shake. "No," he gritted out instead, "and I won't, unless you help me to. Talk to me. Make me!"

More silence, more frayed-cuff picking, and adam's apple bobbing and gulping fish impressions, until Arthur thought that perhaps the frail-looking man before him was telling him everything he wanted - needed - to know, through some kind of strange mime act that he couldn't hope to comprehend. His own fingers burrowed into the rumpled fabric of his court trousers; a physical rebuke for the message his friend may or may not be sending, and which he couldn't decipher. But his tongue could not allow his body to do the talking for long, and he took a deep breath, opened his mouth, rearranged the words he wanted to say, then...

...a single tear rolled down his manservant's face, and the words were instantly washed back in a tide of guilt. Did I do that?

Arthur swallowed, his cheeks and forehead stiff with compassion and a desire to bring relief to his friend. "Please, Merlin?" A cracked whisper broke forth, unbidden.

Another tear squeezed past eyelids that had shut out the world, and trailed lazily down the anaemic face; crimped with internal pain. "I...I can't," was the equally subdued reply. Quiet enough for the King to pretend he hadn't heard it, so he could bulldoze ahead with the million and one questions that were trying to cram their way out of his mouth all at once.

"Is it me? Did I give you too much to do? I know your duties have increased tenfold since I became King, but honestly, I didn't know. If there was too much, or you needed help, then all you had to do was say so. I could have shared your tasks with another: George, perhaps," he inwardly suppressed a shudder at the thought, and on a whim, made a try for lightening the conversation with a little derisory humour. "Although, if I might say, if you think you've got it tough, try being King for a day! You have no idea of the responsibility, the weight on my shoulders, I-"

A glance at his friend's face, turned aside to hide and halt the emotions that boiled and bubbled all over his expressive face, and Arthur's speech was caged behind his teeth, while a small frown marred his forehead. Was Merlin agreeing, empathising, or hiding one of his signature smirks? Because it looked - for one second – like a ripple of irony had replaced the grief.

The King shook his head to dispel the strange thoughts. "Well, anyway, you should have said. And in that, at least, I can help. Starting from next week, or whenever you feel fit to return to duty, I'm halving your chores. There's no need for you to struggle in silence-"

He cut himself off at Merlin's sudden head shake. "No, sire, it's not that."

"Then what...don't tell me Gwaine's right then? Is it a girl? Because let me tell you now, it may seem like the end of the world, to lose your first love, but really, in the grand scheme of things-"

"No, sire," Merlin bit the King's sentence in half, acidly; his own fists grasping at the rough blanket, though the pain in his face seemed to disagree with his words.

Arthur thrust two hands through his messy bangs; a huff of frustration sneaking past his control. "So what is it then?" he gritted out, with barely withheld exasperation. "We - the knights, Gwen, Gaius and I - we want to help you. You have no idea how much it hurt them to see what you did to yourself. Do you have any inkling how worried everyone has been about you? How close you came to..." He swallowed hard and shut his eyes, squeezing out the nightmare thoughts that had doggedly snuck back in his head again, despite him telling them how desperately abhorrent they were. It was something he knew his mind would retain for the rest of his life.

"What you did was very wrong, Merlin. It was not fair to those who care about you, especially when each and every one of them had done their utmost to help you with..." he shook his hand vaguely for want of an explanation that remained stubbornly absent, "...whatever is the matter. You didn't have to watch Gwen and Gaius cry over you as you lay there...dying...with all those-" He bit his tongue, hoping the resultant pain would prevent the tears and the sob, that were waiting in the sidelines of his throat and eyes, from bursting forth. "What were you... Why would you... How could you..."

A sob cut through his disjointed rambling, followed swiftly by an, "I'm sorry." But before Arthur could give a mollifying speech, the young man had rolled on his side, facing away from his master; shutting himself off once more.

Arthur sighed, reached a hand out to touch a jutting shoulder - to comfort or force Merlin back into the conversation, he wasn't sure - but at the last moment, his fingertips curled in on themselves; too ingrained in the habit of not allowing himself to share emotions and comfort with others. Still too afraid of displaying weakness. Oh Gods, he wished sometimes he didn't have to be King! If he could only be ordinary and free to show his feelings to others, like his subjects were. He forced the lump wistfully down in his throat and said, "Merlin-"

"Please, sire, I...I need to be alone," Merlin continued to stare towards the window, his voice therefore slightly muffled.

Arthur bit back the retort that almost fell out of his mouth: the 'like hell I will', which would have been swiftly followed by 'that's the last thing you need.' He didn't need Gwen's intuition to know that in the frame of mind his friend was in, it would have done no good. He'd tried the stern 'I'm-the-King-so-you'd-better-listen' approach. He'd then gone for the 'hey-mate-we're-all-worried-about-you' tact. Hell, he'd even given the 'if-I-make-you-feel-guilty-enough-will-you-talk' angle a go. But either he needed to work more on his humane qualities, or Merlin was being his usual, infuriatingly obstinate self. Most likely, the latter. No, definitely: if I get any more sympathetic, I'll need to have my hair braided!

He wanted to stay angry with Merlin; to hold onto that little piece of normality, that last remaining section of the foundation that barely held his life together. Not least for fear that if he let it go, he had no way of knowing what other part of his life would come crashing down; adding to the already broken shards.

But truth be told, when he saw those wet tracks on his friend's face, the trapdoor had sprung anyway, and any hope he had of tying himself down to the familiar, reliable, typical responses he could expect from his mind and body, dribbled away; like sand through his fingers. Leaving behind only a hollow acceptance that whatever words or gestures were required to fix this, to help Merlin, he desperately lacked.

Fighting the inevitable would do neither of them any good, and could possibly worsen the damage done to the fragile remains of their friendship; sending one or both of them over the edge, into an abyss neither of them was equipped to climb back out of.

And so he stood, on slightly shaky legs, and taking awkward 'toddler' steps, he shuffled to the door, where he turned and looked back for a moment; unable to repress the small spark of hope that in those short seconds that his back was turned, something had changed for the better.

But nothing had. Merlin still faced away: asleep or ignoring him, he didn't know; and strangely enough, didn't want to find out. The one thing he did know was that his presence was neither required nor desired. And standing there, waiting for that fact to change, was starting to make his innards ache.

Drawing a long, heavy breath, into lungs that seemed reluctant to comply, Arthur held onto the door frame as he muttered over his shoulder, "We'll talk when you feel better, Merlin," before dropping his foot on the first step down from the small room. Stopping halfway, he pulled the door to a soft close, before resuming his descent to the main chamber.