Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Happy Easter, everyone. I hope you all enjoyed the holiday whether you celebrate or not! :D

O...k. This is a long one, guys, with lots of stuff in it. It starts off slow...like a filler chapter, but it DEFINITELY picks up by the end. ;) Some mysteries are answered and some grow. I got my whump in, and so the major conflict begins. Beware of the cliff hanger. :P

I'd like to extend a big thank you to ForIHaveOvercomeTheWorld, who helped me tremendously in a little brainstorming pm conversation we had a long while ago. This wouldn't have come out as brilliantly as I think it did without your help, and I thank you. I can only hope my whump is as amazing as yours is. :) And I want to apologize for not upholding my end of our deal. ;) Well, better late than never, right?

Another warning: AP tests are coming up for me (beginning of May), and I'm starting to freak out a little. There might be one update before then, but for the most part, I will need to start studying fiercely. PLEASE, please do not beg me to update faster because I will feel bad and do so when I SHOULD be forcing myself to study. :) I promise that after these tests, things will pick up dramatically because my classes will die down and homework will be significantly more bearable. Thank you.

I apologize for all mistakes. So with that, enjoy, and have at it:


Sanity and Insanity

"That is impossible," the woman beside him breathed.

Merlin's gaze flickered from his patient, who was slumbering fitfully, to the portly Court Physician hovering behind him. Her graying braid, with its crazy, frizzy fly-away hairs, swept across her shoulder as she leaned around him to see the young nobleman's wound, and her unique, dual-colored eyes (one was green and the other brown) were wide with awe at the sight of the bite, which looked as though it had been healing and scabbing for at least a week.

When Merlin had barged into her rooms just minutes after Bryce had helped Sannan in, Nellie had received him with narrow-eyed skepticism and the inevitable red-faced irritation and protectiveness of a physician who does not want the injured to be disturbed. But, once he and Bryce had explained the situation, and once Merlin revealed that he was Gaius' (judging from her reaction, his mentor was very well-known by those who practiced medicine) ward and assistant, she stopped scolding him, realized who exactly he was, and, instead of growing afraid and nervous of him, adopted a sweet, motherly smile and allowed him to take control without complaint and with many inquiries about him, Gaius, and magical healing. Apparently, she, much like his uncle, had been a novice practitioner, and though she had never gotten very far in her secret magical studies, she knew enough simple healing and enhancing spells to get by…but not enough to quench her curiosity and zeal for the subject.

Needless to say, Merlin took to her as quickly as she did him.

Bryce had been fidgeting around restlessly while Merlin removed the soiled bandages on his brother's arm, trying to stay out of the warlock's way. However, when Nellie gasped, he immediately brushed her aside, crowded Merlin, and yelped in panic, "What? What's wrong with—?"

Sannan's brother cut off abruptly, and staring, he whispered, "Damn." Light brown eyes tore themselves away from Sannan and met Merlin's eyes with gratitude and respect.

"Damn is right," Nellie said softly, handing Merlin the full mortar of balm he had asked her to prepare for him before he left to help unpack their things...and before he ran directly into King Lot.

"It's a miracle that he even managed to get the poison out," she gushed excitedly. "Crocotta bites are no trifling wounds, and those mutts' poison is tricky and fast-acting… Yes, very tricky, but not impossible to cure with the right spells, a decent amount of power, and knowledge. However, the fact you're even conscious after such an effort…"

Merlin flushed a vibrant red, and humbly trying to turn the conversation away from him, he began, "It—"

Bryce was shaking his head in awe, and Merlin was interrupted with, "That's what King Arthur was telling me."

The amazed light in the nobleman's eyes indicated that he was now very much aware of how powerful Merlin was, and he continued, "I mean, they all explained how much you must have done, Merlin, and how much effort it took, judging by how long you slept…But this?"

He gestured towards his brother, his tone signifying that he had not expected the warlock to be able to do so much after extracting the poison, a feat that the Court Sorcerer would admit took a lot out of him. Even with the half-day's worth of sleep, Merlin still felt as though his energy had not yet been replenished. The sóþwundor, which had not been removed from his person since Arthur had given it to him, seemed to beckon to him with its now-familiar, faint brush against his mind, and he vaguely wondered whether or not it was worth it to spoil himself with some of its seemingly endless store of energy before the taxing dinner he was about to subject himself to…

Shoving that unappealing thought away, Merlin began, "Really, Bryce—"

Ignoring the blushing warlock once again, Bryce said softly, "I—I don't know how I—no, how any of us can ever repay you, Merlin. Especially when we weren't exactly…"

Merlin smiled modestly at him as he trailed off, and he reassured the ashamed young noble, "You don't owe me anything, Bryce, and neither does Sannan."

At the sound of his name, Sannan shifted in his bunk, and awakening, he inhaled heavily and squeezed his eyes shut before blearily blinking them open. The weary warlock sighed: he had hoped that the combative nobleman would stay asleep while he was treating him to avoid riling him up and to avoid conflict altogether, but it appeared that that wasn't going to happen.

"San?" Bryce asked with such a fond, fraternal tone Merlin couldn't help but smile. "How're you feeling?"

Sannan, still disoriented, groaned with fatigue, winced in discomfort when he moved his arm, and absentmindedly reached his hand across his chest to scratch at the scabbing wound only to be slapped on the wrist by a quick Merlin.

"Oi!" the arrogant man whined, fully awake now. The fire in his eyes died as they settled on Merlin.

"Don't scratch," the warlock chided. He dipped his fingers into the balm and gently smeared the cool, colorless goop across the bite wound, causing Sannan, who was watching him with caution, to release a soft sound of relief despite himself.

"Feel better?" Merlin asked cheerfully, not really expecting an answer.

"Ye—yeah," Sannan stuttered, his head bobbing as his shocked eyes flickered from his arm to his savior and back again.

"Well, that's good," the warlock commented.

"I'd say it's more than good," Nellie praised, beaming. Addressing Sannan, she said with a maternal sternness, "You'll be up and about in a few days—little exertion, mind you! And in two weeks at most, you'll be able to fight again.

Sannan blinked in confusion, and he looked at his arm again. "You're joking," he said in disbelief.
"Nope," Nellie said, popping the 'p' in her enthusiasm. "Merlin's the expert on magical ailments, not I. Whatever he says goes, and until further notice, that's his estimate. He said it may even be sooner, isn't that right, Merlin?"

Merlin nodded, swiped a little more of the medicine on the nobleman's arm, and then took up some new bandages as the nobleman himself, with an uncharacteristic optimism, repeated, "Sooner?"

Nellie immediately frowned and made a violent gesture with her arms. "Oh, no! No, no, no. Merlin or I will give the say-so, Sannan! You will not, in any way, overexert yourself until you are healed. Last time that happened and you decided to ignore me, you ended up re-breaking your wrist." Turning to the injured man's brother, she ordered, "Bryce, I trust you to make sure he doesn't cheat and behave like a fool while he's recovering."

While Merlin, reminded of the prat's stubborn restlessness during forced recoveries, chuckled and continued to wrap the injury, Bryce and Sannan exchanged a swift look and grimaced at one another, acknowledging the authority in their Court Physician's voice and knowing full well what would happen if they disobeyed her.

With a sudden sly smile spreading across his face, Bryce ruffled his brother's hair and teased mockingly, "That'll be a tough one, Nellie: he's always behaving like a fool."

"Oh, ha, ha," Sannan grumbled sarcastically. "That's right, torment the injured younger brother."

Pleased that the young man was speaking, showing signs of physical stability, and acting like his usual self, Merlin snickered, and neatly finishing with the bandages, he said, "Well, you're on your way to a full recovery already. I don't think there's much more I can do."

"There's not?" Sannan blurted.

Merlin blinked at the man who had so adamantly refused magical treatment not more than twenty-four hours ago, momentarily astounded, before he recovered and smiled.

As he guessed the reason for the warlock's passing shock, color rushed to the man's cheeks, but he did not lower his gaze from Merlin's, meeting his eyes and holding them for the first time with something that wasn't animosity, hatred, or fear. Instead, in his eyes, there was curiosity and even appreciation, something that the Court Sorcerer had previously believed was unable to be expressed by a man as arrogant as the one before him.

"Exactly," Merlin said, answering Sannan's question and watching him carefully, "When it comes to wounds, the body will only accept as much energy as it needs to reestablish its proper rhythms and regain the ability to heal on its own. You could make me sit here and repeat a healing spell—" Merlin noted with a burst of joy that the young man did not so much as flinch at the word "—or any variation of healing spells and nothing would happen but make me very irritable and you very, very annoyed.

"And unfortunately," he said, standing, "A prat of a King decided to drag me along on this trip to negotiate a peace treaty and therefore sit through interminable meetings, in which I will probably be of no help whatsoever, so even if you wanted to test it out…"

The three Escetians either smiled or laughed, and Merlin said to Sannan, "Just rest—Gods, I know how it is to be told that. I hate it as much as you do, but that's the only thing you really can do in order to get back up on your feet as quickly as possible." To Nellie, he added, "Every eight hours reapply the herbs and redress the wound. After two days, we can switch to every twenty-four hours. If the wound becomes inflamed or his state changes, send for me immediately, even if I'm stuck in those council chambers."

"Of course."

Responding her to sunny grin with one of his own, Merlin turned to leave, and the moment his hand was on the door handle, the physician called, "Merlin?"

"Yes?"

Her apple-red dimples flashed, and with ardent emotion overpowering her sweet voice, she said, "It was an honor to meet you."

That being the most kind and forcefully direct and truthful thing that anyone had said to him since his entrance into Livandir, warmth settled in his chest, and after thanking her fondly and shyly, he said, "And you, Nellie."

Her vivacious eyes sparkled with good-nature and compassion, and she looked just as visibly touched as he felt.

Looking at her, with her shining eyes and her wide, dimpling smile, Merlin was overcome with the realization that she was real. Well, of course, she was real, but there was strong genuineness to everything she was: she was real in the sense that she was true to herself, that her word was pure, and that her mind was untainted by anyone's beliefs and thoughts but her own.

Most others he met had some secret agenda or made valiant attempts to hide their true feelings and emotions, hiding behind a mask that they thought the world wanted to see. The warlock himself would admit that he was one such person far too often.

Nellie, on the other hand, was not that person; she was an open book and was proud and unashamed to show the world exactly who she was and how she felt. She hid behind no barriers, no masks or walls. She spoke her mind unreservedly and never avoided another's eyes. Perhaps that was because she had nothing to hide and no ill-will toward any man or woman, and therefore, she had no fear of causing offense to anyone. Perhaps it was because there was not a single deceptive fiber in her being.

She just… was who she was. No more, no less. Real.

Merlin wished to high heaven that one day, he could be as real as she was—real in the entire sense of the word—but he knew his flaws. Besides, he was far too well trained as the one that stood and snuck in the shadows to be that person. He was selling himself short, however: he knew exactly who and what he was, which was more than can be said of most people...

With a silent sigh and one last farewell, he pulled open the door only to nearly run directly into King Lot (again), whose fist was raised to knock on the door that just flew open.

Merlin stumbled backwards and grinned sheepishly; Lot, of course, looked unimpressed.

"This is getting old, Emrys," Lot growled roughly, jade eyes burning.

"Merlin, please, my Lord," the warlock corrected once again, hiding a wince at the use of his Druid name by a non-Druid, a man who hated his magic and everything to do with him, no less, which felt wrong—very wrong.

Lot harrumphed as Nellie called from inside her chambers, "My Lord?" Merlin felt the Court Physician approach from behind him.

With the corners of his grim, set mouth tweaking up, the King said with a gentler tone than Merlin could have expected from the stern, rough man, "I'm here to see Sannan, Nellie."

Merlin could not say that he didn't like Lot. Sure, his attitude towards him was unyieldingly merciless, and the Court Sorcerer was well aware that the King was full of downright loathing for not only him but all forms of magic and knew exactly just how deep that loathing was. Sure, he didn't like that the King was slightly egotistical and treated servants as though they were pack animals. But most of all, even though the warlock understood that Lot was incredibly misinformed and totally brainwashed by Uther Pendragon's ways, which was still true of many people back in Camelot, there was no reason for the King to judge Arthur because of him.

However, there was something about Lot's grim countenance and his gruff speech, which alternated with tones of compassion—it was a rare thing for a King to be concerned enough to visit an ill or injured court member and rather interesting to see a spark of love in the eye of a King towards his physician—that Merlin could not help but associate with his father, Balinor, and despite the hatred consuming Lot, the warlock knew that there was something there that gave Merlin hope.

Then, the warlock had to admit, the whole incident preceding their official meeting was simply hysterical, and that alone, though it seemed to have irked and unbalanced Lot very effectively, made Merlin like the grave King more than a saner man might have.

"Of course, Lot. He's awake now," she whispered, shooting Merlin another incredibly grateful glance. "Good-bye, Merlin, and thank you, again."

"You're welcome. Have a nice evening, Nellie."

Lot, his jade eyes cynical, looked between Merlin and Nellie, a scowl twisting at his mouth.

After Nellie had excused herself and disappeared into her chambers again, Lot followed her halfway in through the door while Merlin had awkwardly stepped into the hallway. "Making friends, are you?" the King asked as he swept past Merlin.

"I like to think Escetians and Camelotians could be good friends," Merlin said coolly.

He could understand why Lot himself wouldn't want to establish much of a relationship with him beyond that of necessary allies by association, but that did not mean that Lot was justified in criticizing Merlin and the people he did become friends with. Judging by the frosty look he had just received and the looks he had seen when he was laughing with Kay and bantering with Arthur and the Knights, he guessed quite correctly that the King did not like seeing people—any people—becoming even remotely intimate with a known sorcerer.

Though he wouldn't be surprised if the man suspected that he used an enchantment to force people to act as though they were his friends. Everyone seemed to always suspect enchantments.

Merlin, smiling wryly at himself for the joke, couldn't help but add with a strange combination of innocence and cheekiness, "Don't you, Sire? That is why we are here, after all."

Of course, the observant King caught the less-than-innocent tone and narrowed his wrathful eyes to slits. Stepping aggressively closer to the younger man and closing the door partway behind him so that they wouldn't be overheard, Lot hissed threateningly, "You might be able to speak that way with the Pendragon, sorcerer, but I will not tolerate this…sarcasm. Perhaps he finds it amusing; perhaps he even finds it cute. I do not."

"I hardly think that Arthur thinks it's cute," Merlin said thoughtfully, mimicking Lot's volume and making a face. "It annoys the hell out of him most of the time, actually."

"You're still making jokes?" Lot demanded, face reddening. "Are you bloody mad?"

Merlin chuckled. "Some think so."

"Well, you had better find some sanity," Lot snapped, "Or I'll find it for you."

"I think I can find it on my own, thanks," Merlin said cheekily, eyes dancing with humor, "but the question for you, Sire, is where exactly the borderline between sanity and insanity meets, don't you think? My sanity could easily prove to be more maddening and irritating than my insanity."

Lot's unwavering eyes faltered for a moment, completely dumbstruck, before they began to spit fire. "Riddles will never get you anywhere, sorcerer."

Merlin began to laugh at the irony of that statement. "It's rather strange that you think that. On the contrary, riddles have gotten me everywhere. Damn that dragon. He's rubbed off on me."

The enraged King, visibly shaking, closed his eyes and looked as though he was struggling to control himself. In fact, Merlin fancied he was having a major internal battle over whether or not to strangle him.

Obviously, Lot's good conscious won out, and sighing in suppressed vexation, he composed himself fractionally. "Are you sure you won't need help searching for your sanity?" he sneered mockingly.

Merlin shook his head and answered insolently, "Yes, Sire. Besides, I'm sure Arthur'll help me if need be. And speaking of Arthur, he probably—"

Deep hatred stirred in Lot's jade eyes, and he jeered, "Yes, yes, of course. The sorcerer playing manservant needs to prepare his King."

"Exactly," Merlin said, unfazed by the contemptuous words, suddenly becoming less cheerful at the prospect of sitting through the long, boring dinner. The negotiations would begin, and Merlin was sure Arthur would kill him if he wasn't on his best behavior—he was already told to refrain from using magic and to actually pay attention.

"If you fall asleep," Arthur had threatened him, "I will personally string you up and feed you to Lot's dogs."

He hid a sigh. "I'll see you in an hour, my Lord."

Lot did not respond with more than a small inclination of the head and a wrinkled nose. Taking that as dismissal, Merlin was about to turn away and plunge into the maze of an unfamiliar castle, but the King stopped him by calling thoughtfully, "Oh, and, Emrys?"

"Merlin," he corrected, facing Lot again.

"Right. Merlin, do take advantage of the bath you have waiting for you in your guest chambers before standing in my presence again."

Feeling as though he had been struck in the face, Merlin thought, well, that was a bit uncalled for!

He couldn't have smelt or appeared that appalling because he quite literally had just washed up a few hours ago: it had been a bit of a necessity to get rid of the nasty blood all over…

His hand flew to the back of his head automatically, and brow furrowing, he immediately came into contact with one clump of clunky locks, stiff with purple Crocotta blood.

He groaned, much to Lot's surprise, and swore under his breath in the Old Tongue. "Well, that's just embarrassing. How in the world did I manage to get those damn beasts' blood there of all places? Of course, no one seemed to think it was prudent to tell me about it…Thank you, Sire."

Leaving behind a King who looked as though he was being forced to suck a lemon, Merlin, still grumbling about the friends who thought it would be oh-so-hilarious not to tell him that he had somehow missed a clump of blood at the back of his head, darted away with the hopes of not getting lost, and he thought sarcastically, Perhaps I should get lost now and hide in a corner somewhere… Arthur is sure going to be thrilled with me.

~…~

"That—that—!" Gwaine stuttered indignantly, pacing Arthur's chambers with his hands tangled in his still-damp hair. They had all just finished bathing and dressing for supper, and while waiting for Merlin, they decided to vent and gossip like old women about King Lot and Livandir.

"Séo sinsnæd weorftordes!" Gwaine finished.

"Nice one," Percival grunted appreciatively.

"Oh, you know what it means? I hear Arthur using that one all the time, but I think I missed that lesson."

"You were probably hung-over," Lancelot muttered.

Percival snickered and said, "It's 'that large piece of dung,' I think, Gwaine."

A stony-faced Arthur, who had not said much during the course of the Knights' verbal bashing and had instead laid on the bed to sulk (he despised Lot's attitude toward Merlin, but insulting his fellow ruler behind his back was among the list of many, many things that would do absolutely nothing to change that), specified in a grunt, "Cattle dung."

Lancelot snorted, and Gwaine grinned roguishly, "Definitely a nice one, then. Did you see—?"

The young King, whose headache finally became unbearable (where the hell was Merlin when he needed him?), snapped in exasperation, "Yes, Gwaine. We all saw and heard Lot. We all know how much he hates magic. We all know that Merlin had better watch himself, and we all know that the idiot won't. But what we don't know is what we're going to do about it!"

Fuming, Arthur sat up and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, sapphire eyes blazing. First and foremost, the memories of his father, then of Godwin, then of Ulfric, then of the multitude of nameless crying for Merlin's blood, then of Lot, who had an obsession that rivaled even his father's and who had finally pushed him over the edge, flashed before his mind's eye.

He was sick. Sick of it all.

Arthur did not care if someone hated magic: that was their own right, after all, but that was no reason to hate Merlin. That cliché 'don't judge a book by its cover' (he had Geoffrey, Gaius, and quite a few tutors to thank for repeating that one during his childhood) seemed to be nonexistent and held absolutely no value to anyone anymore. This was Lot's mistake, and that was the basis for the young King's dislike of his fellow ruler, who misplaced his aggressions on someone he had never met before and didn't know.

Lot was a part of the problem—a large part—but the most pressing issue on his mind was more or less what he had just shouted at Gwaine.

For the past hour, he had exhausted his brain, searching for anything that Merlin, he, and the others might have missed in their plans for dealing with the transition from anti-magic to pro-magic, searching for anything that they could add, something that would make them look past the magic and see Merlin for who he truly was and treat him as he deserved.

Morbidly, he thought that perhaps Merlin was right and perhaps he did unintentionally curse them by joking that it'd take another invasion of Camelot for the rest of these fools to open their eyes.

If it would work, he almost wished that there would be a massive invasion of Camelot.

Almost.

He was just sick, sick for Merlin, and there was nothing he could do to help, which made his insides twist and squirm with self-loathing. Being a man of action, he had always hated feeling helpless, and now that it was Merlin—the one man who would give his life for any of the people who hated him (so long as they weren't plotting against Camelot or trying to kill Arthur, of course), the one who always offered second chances, the one who gave so much more than he took, the one who never failed to offer help—that was the side of the coin that needed saving, this helplessness seemed intensified tenfold and did not, in anyway, sit well with him.

He had to accept that all he could do was continue on as is and support Merlin. Through thick and thin.

Little did he know that it was only a matter of time before it thickened like spoiled milk.

It was at the moment that Arthur had his victory and his shamefaced Knights began to think about the question he posed when Merlin decided to trot in—late as usual—with that goofy, lopsided grin of his on his face.

Seeing him smiling put Arthur in a marginally better mood, but true his usual character, he said sharply, "Where the hell have you been?"

Merlin did not disappoint, and cocking his head toward his King, he said as though offended by Arthur's less-than-polite greeting, "Someone's hungry."*

"What's your excuse?" he retorted, a spike of pain stabbing between his eyes.

"And obviously so exhausted you can't think straight," Merlin added. "What kind of retort was that?"

Ignoring the question and sniffing haughtily, Arthur said suspiciously, "You know, you still haven't answered my question. It makes me think you're avoiding it."

Merlin made a face and said without a hint of deception in his voice, "I was with Sannan, as I told you I would be."

"Mate, we know it doesn't take you that long to change bandages," Percival commented. "What held you up?"

"Thanks, Perce," Merlin moaned sarcastically, flopping down in a seat wearily.

Forgetting his pounding head, which Arthur was sure Merlin would undoubtedly diagnose as being caused by a mixture of hunger and fatigue, for a moment, the blonde young man studied his Court Sorcerer carefully. He did not like seeing those dark rings discoloring the flesh underneath his stormy eyes.

"So?" Lancelot goaded.

With a sigh, Merlin leaned back his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "Lot."

"Again, Merlin?" Arthur asked incredulously. "Do I want to know what happened?"

His friend's lips twitched in the semblance of the 'Dragoon-grin,' and he said, "No, I don't think you do."

"You know that only makes us want to know, mate," Gwaine teased.

Arthur submitted to a wry smile and, with raised brows, made an obvious gesture to Merlin for him to speak.

"Well," Merlin began, sitting straight again and meeting the others' gazes with his own stormy blue eyes. "First…"

He put his long fingers to the back of his head and his eyes glowed gold. He pulled the hand away to display a thick clump of black hair, tangled with dried blood, between his fingers.

"Lot thought I needed a bath," he explained with a roll of his eyes, which flared again with magic as the clump crumbled to nothing and the now short section of hair re-grew to match the length of the rest of his tousled head. "I suppose he wanted get an aggressive response out of me…or at least get me to shut up."

Arthur, knowing better than to ask Merlin if Lot got what he wanted and knowing full well that Merlin handled the insult in a perfectly Merlin-esque way (which probably ended with an utterly bemused Lot), instead asked, "And why would he want that?"

"I—erm—Lot doesn't appreciate wisecracks."

"Gods, Merlin, when will you get it into your thick skull that no one appreciates them?"

"Hey, he was questioning my sanity," Merlin said in defense, folding his arms and grinning diabolically. "What was I supposed to do? Lie down, roll over, and let him?"

Gwaine hooted with laughter, clearly envisioning the scene and wishing he had seen it, "I hope you gave it to 'im, mate!"

"Not necessarily," Arthur admitted to Merlin, hiding his smile behind his practiced scowl, "but I would have hoped you'd be a bit more tactful. He is a King, Merlin…and we do want to try to establish peace."

"I'm only tactful when the need calls for it," Merlin said seriously, blue eyes hardening. "King or not, that man needs someone to retaliate and slap him upside the head a bit…even more than you did, Arthur, and that's saying something."

"Merlin—!"

"This is getting us nowhere," Lancelot said, cutting off the young King's fiery response, "Tell us from the beginning, Merlin, and then you need to get ready. We have less than an hour now before this dinner…"

"Ugh," Merlin groaned. "Don't remind me."

~…~

The dinner itself wasn't as horrible as Merlin thought it would be. The food was good, and though he participated in little conversation beyond that of which Arthur, whose mood had improved after he had begun to eat, Kay, Bryce, or the Knights dragged him in (the others of Lot's court either being holed away in Nellie's chambers or being particularly terrified to see him sitting among them in his famous midnight blue cloak and almost insulting, unkempt hair that completely contrasted with the finery of his clothing), he listened aptly to the others' conversations with bright, interested eyes.

Kay spent most of the evening chatting and laughing, and he was playing with his cutlery, as usual. Merlin had observed the habit back in Camelot and had discovered that Kay had a fondness for dagger-play and knife throwing. Well, fondness was too subtle of a word—the ex-knight was a master of daggers.

The morning after the Escetian group arrived, Kay had challenged Arthur to spar, which the young King accepted with a glowing grin and smirking eyes, and after quite a bit comical teasing and insulting, they fought.

Merlin never particularly enjoyed watching the Knights clobber each other with blunt metal—they needed to retain what few brain cells they had left, after all, and knocking each other around for fun wasn't exactly the best way to go about doing so—but watching Kay and Arthur spar had been different than watching Arthur's fights with his other Knights or the fights in the melees and tournaments.

The others clashed with all of their strength, withdrew to power up another attack or to size up their foe, and looked a hell of a lot clumsier and far more set on the 'kill-my-enemy-and-win' part of fighting (which is really all you need in a real battle situation) than the two old friends did. They had moved with the fluid grace of dancers, and their faces set with determination to prove to the other that their level of skill was higher and their movements more beautiful than the other's.

It was the first time that Merlin ever really considered swordplay an art.

The fight had enraptured him and everyone on that field, and having had given up trying to follow who had the upper-hand, an awed Merlin had watched the speed of their dance, the flashing of their swords, and the constant movement—neither one of them halted or hesitated in their swings and stabs, always continuing and moving when one move after another failed.

Before long, it was somehow all over. Arthur had stood straight-backed, his hair sticking to his forehead and face soaked with sweat, with his sword pressed lightly against Kay's neck. Panting, a gleeful smile had spread across his face, and cheers had erupted from the observers.

However, Kay's smug, superior smile and the sudden movement of his wide-set teal eyes from Arthur's to his midsection made the victorious King falter and follow the gaze.

In Kay's fist was a curving dagger centimeters away from Arthur's gut.

The two friends had stood down in the same moment, laughing and clapping each other on the back in congratulations for the amazing play.

Merlin had noticed afterward that Kay always had a dagger or knife at hand and that he had such a bad habit of fiddling with them that it was far more alarming to see him without a dagger than it was to see him without a sword.

So, while watching Kay play with his meat knife during dinner wasn't unusual, the way he played with it was. He usually messed around with his daggers casually and gently, holding them like fragile eggs and turning the wooden handles over and over in his hand. Today, the way he fiddled with the knife less calmly and more agitatedly. He seemed overtly enthusiastic—like that of a dog about to be taken out hunting—and his excitement seemed to be catching to all of whom he talked to…excluding Merlin, even though he was the one Kay seemed to be trying to talk to the most.

Lot, on the other hand, did not speak to Merlin, which was fine by him, and though there was still some tension between them, it was nowhere near the caliber Merlin had thought it would be. For that, Merlin was relieved. However, the warlock did catch the King looking at him with conflicted and vigilant eyes more than once, making Merlin suspect that Sannan, Bryce, and-or Nellie had said something that touched and influenced Lot, only to have him scowl and sneer once he realized Merlin caught him staring.

Thus, dinner passed in a blur, but, of course, after dinner was a different story.

Over the last of the wine and then some (Merlin, of course, refused anything more than one goblet out of courtesy to their host, despite Gwaine's best, not-so-subtle efforts), the talk shifted to that of the treaty, and Merlin was proud to say that he did not fall asleep and in fact had offered a few insightful comments and arguments to the discussion that both Arthur and Lot had found valuable—and openly admitted it. Lot had even asked for Merlin's opinion once, as well.

Lot seemed to have put aside his hatred of Merlin, which proved to the lanky young man that though he might be an Uther enthusiast, he wasn't Uther reincarnated. This is where Merlin's hope in Lot laid: he knew when to sacrifice and set aside personal grudges and when to embrace logic and common-sense, and he would take, accept, and contemplate a good idea when it came to him…even if it was from a source he'd rather not draw from.

Or, so he thought…until magic was brought up.

Everyone was giving the topic of magic wide berth and very obviously side-stepping it and avoiding it at all costs, but in the end, the efforts were wasted. It was inevitable.

"…but Lot, you must remember," Arthur began cautiously, a soft warning in his voice, "if Camelot ever has need of men and asks you for assistance, your men will be fighting alongside those with magic."

The room's atmosphere became as taut as a bowstring, and everyone stiffened with varying degrees of resignation, disapproval, and almost comical disconcertment and uneasiness on their faces.

"Ah, yes," Lot said, his cold jade eyes flickering to Merlin and back, "Merlin Emrys fights with you. Druids too, I presume?"

Arthur and Merlin exchanged a look from across the table, and the younger King said, "Druids are our allies, yes. Depending on the severity of the situation…"

"Of course, of course," Lot said flippantly. "Your men and mine will do what needs to be done—our differing opinions will not be a problem, in that regard, and I have no worries. I, however, am more concerned about the Druids that lie within my borders."

"And why would that be, my Lord?" Merlin asked loudly, startling the members of Lot's Court around him.

Lot said slowly, "I am not going to tolerate magic in my kingdom. I should think they would immigrate to Camelot, but these are as much their ancestral lands as they are mine. They will not leave."

A rush of rage suddenly flooded through Merlin, and he said with burning eyes, "You mean to forbid them from using magic or force them to leave." He felt Arthur's intense eyes begging him to be careful.

But since when had he ever obeyed him?

"I may be able to work with Camelot," Lot said stiffly and glaring directly at Merlin, "but that is as far as I will go."

"Another Purge," Merlin said softly and dangerously, "will not solve anything, Lot."

Eyes narrowing, Lot spat, "It is not your place to address me as such and nor is it your place to advise me on how to rule my kingdom, sorcerer."

"Your actions will affect Camelot as much as they do Escetia," Merlin said ominously. "Especially if you end up dead."

Arthur rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, and gasps resounded around the room.

"Was that a threat?" Lot hissed.

"Only if you make it one," the warlock countered.

"Riddles again, sorcerer?" the Escetian King sneered.

Merlin had to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Would you say this is sanity or insanity, my Lord?" he asked cleverly, making Lot's nostrils flare. "When will it end?"

"When I'm certain that magic no longer exists and will never exist again," Lot exclaimed.

"What is it you're afraid of, Sire?" Merlin asked with eyes of cold fire. He did not know it, but a good portion of Lot's court was petrified by him, and as he was no longer the quiet, mysterious, and good-natured man that had dined with them, they were terrified of the crackling aura of power he seemed to now possess. "If you leave them be—"

"They will revolt and attack."

Merlin shook his head viciously and said forcefully, "They will only do so when you make the same mistakes Uther did! Have you never wondered why Camelot was attacked by more magical beings than the rest of the kingdoms combined? Why this generation's Pendragons were more targeted than any ruling family in history? And tell me, Lot: how many magical attacks there have been in Camelot since the ban on magic was lifted?"

There were some mutterings of agreement around him, and when Lot, blinking at the harsh evidence, was silent, Merlin added, more calmly, "You have absolutely nothing to fear. Sure, there may be a few issues, but an alliance with Camelot would ultimately ensure the Druids' peace with you."

"Oh, and how can you be so sure?" Lot said mockingly. "Are they so loyal to King Arthur that they'd immediately…?"

"Not to me," Arthur interrupted gruffly, "as much as to Merlin."

"Merlin," Lot repeated with a bark of derisive laughter. "And why does that not comf—?"

Merlin did not hear the rest of the insult—from his peripheral vision, he caught sight of movement, and now on high alert, his attention was directed towards the suspicious form slipping from behind a pillar and into their midst.

For the briefest millisecond, he was relieved to see that it was just a servant carrying a fresh jug of wine, but immediately, his instincts alerted him that something was wrong.

The way the weasel of a man moved, the eerie look in his eyes and the set of his mouth…the fact that Merlin could not recall seeing this particular servant once during the duration of the evening…

Then, when his shabby jacket shifted, Merlin saw that there, paired with a hidden dagger, tucked into his belt, was a thin black sash.

He stiffened, the verbal brawl between Kay (when did he join the conversation?), Arthur, and Lot going completely unnoticed, and he watched the imposter slip behind Lot and refill his empty goblet with something that was very obviously not the pinkish red wine they had been drinking all night.

It was the perfect moment, really, to slip the pumpkin orange potion into Lot's drink. Everyone was distracted by the heated argument, so only Merlin noticed the vivid color and immediately became aware of the new acrid scent that accompanied the jug's entrance.

The servant, still ignorant to the fact that Merlin had discovered him, moved to Lot's left and took two steps backwards without touching any other cups, and in that same moment, Lot snorted with a dark cynicism—he had probably just said something Merlin should have been helping to refute—and reached for his drink…

"Don't!" Merlin shouted. With a hand gesture and glowing golden eyes, the cup was slapped from Lot's hand. Even before its contents splashed to the floor, pandemonium broke loose, and the servant was already dropping the jug and drawing his hidden dagger to throw into Lot's side.

Ignoring the yells, noise, and quite a few drawn swords—it was just his luck that Lot's guards had decided to drop in—Merlin threw up his hand, and the assailant went flailing through the air. His head hit the stone wall with a sickening thwump, and he crumpled to the floor, his neck broken and dark eyes glazed over.

The dagger, much to Merlin's relief, was still clutched firmly in the dead man's small hand.

Noticing that Lancelot had noticed the peculiarity of the drink, Merlin warned loudly, "Don't touch it!" Lancelot, thank the gods, began to repeat his warning to those servants who strayed too close.

A few people ran over to the broken man, and Arthur and the Knights were the only ones trying to figure out exactly what happened while Kay yelled at the others to stop shrieking and calm down.

However, Lot shouted over the confused noise to the guards, "Seize him!"

Merlin, his eyes fading back into their stormy blue, was quickly surrounded by three men with emotionless faces, and he said to them brightly, "If you so much as touch me, I'll make you belch frogs until your throats become so thick with encrusted slime that you can't eat anything more than broth."

That creative threat effectively made the entire room pause and stare at him, including the guards, who stood with their weapons dangling uselessly and with utterly horrified faces, and he took the opportunity to duck away. However, one brave soul—he was one of Lot's men whose name he had forgotten the moment he had been introduced—caught his arm, and wincing at the claw-like grip, he said darkly, "So quick to condemn me, My Lord."

Lot, visibly shaking with uncontrolled rage, exclaimed, "Take him from my sight! He'll be executed for unlawful conduct and murder."

"No, stop!" Bryce demanded. "Stop. Sire, please, look at this."

Fuming wrathfully, Lot rounded on the nobleman more to yell at him than to obey his entreaty and suddenly froze.

Bryce had lifted the man's arm to display the dagger he was holding as well as a nasty set of pussy, blackened burns from the drink that had splashed up on him.

Everyone, finally understanding what had just happened and what Merlin had done for the hateful King, slowly turned back to the warlock, who, with a weak smile, repeated, "Don't touch the drink."

~…~

"He's lucky you were there, Merlin," Arthur grumbled later in the safety and privacy of his chambers. Percival, Gwaine, and Lancelot had just left for their own beds down the hall, having spoken for at least an hour after the disastrous evening about why the hell someone would want to kill Lot when he had only been King a week. "Ungrateful git."

Merlin, none the worse for wear after the rough handling he'd been given and severely disturbed, was pacing. "He let me go, didn't he?"

"Almost reluctantly," Arthur specified angrily.

"No, he actually gave me a genuine thank you, though he didn't seem particularly fond of the fact I used magic to save him. At least he didn't seem to think that I hired the man to kill him."

Arthur snorted sarcastically and insulted under his breath, "Esol."

Smiling wryly, Merlin continued, "I think he was just in shock, and he'll be back to his cheery self by tomorrow. That was the first time someone's attempted to assassinate him: he's not used to it yet."

"…Do you realize how morbid and weird that sounds?"

"Well, you're one that's regularly attacked, aren't you? You're already used to it."

"Shut up, Merlin."

There was a tense silence before Merlin said worriedly, "I don't like that the others are so far from the two of us."

"Merlin, relax," Arthur said sternly, following his Court Sorcerer's line of thinking. "That black sash could have been anything. You're being completely paranoid. Besides, there're guards standing in the entrances to this corridor. I wouldn't worry."

"Fine, fine," Merlin muttered, acquiescing to Arthur's reasoning, completely unconvinced.

He felt as though a shadow was hovering over him, waiting like a billowing storm cloud before a torrential downpour and threatening to strike him like lightning at any moment.

"Just get some rest, Merlin," Arthur said. "You might hide it well, but I know you're still exhausted from healing Sannan, and since tomorrow will be—"

Merlin groaned. "Don't finish that statement."

"Or what?" the young King teased. "You'll force me to belch frogs?"

Merlin laughed, and Arthur, standing from his perch on the bed, took his friend by the shoulders and steered him to the door.

"You know, Merlin," Arthur said softly, "that was really impressive…the fact you actually saw the imposter and acted so quickly, and I still can't believe you saved him after what he's said to you."

"Hero complex," he mumbled jokingly. "Bit of a blessing and mostly a curse, isn't it?"

"You ask me as though I have one."

Merlin grinned diabolically. "Somebody's in denial."

"Merlin, I do not have a hero complex."

"Sure you don't"

Rolling his eyes and pushing the younger man out of his room, the elder scowled, "Get out, you idiot."

Merlin stumbled over the door hinge on the way out and said cheerfully, "Sleep well, prat."

"You too," Merlin heard Arthur say softly as he shut the door.

~…~

Merlin did not really like the guest chambers he had been given to occupy during his stay. This was mostly because the bed and room he was in was nothing like his tight, cozy loft and his hidden, messy room in the library that he had come to love. This bed was too soft, the room too quiet, and overall, everything was too large.

However, that did not stop him from falling sound asleep fully dressed the second his head touched the pillow.

And sleep he did…until he was rudely awoken by the sound of loud thumps and muffled grunts coming from the room next to his.

Fighting bleariness, Merlin blinked and sat up in bed, and after barely two seconds of wondering what the hell was going on, a foul hand clamped over his mouth.

Merlin, impulsively struggling with all his strength, was forcefully pulled off the bed and to the floor by two large men…men who were covered from head to toe in black.

Eyes widening with desperateness and concern for Arthur, he bit the man's hand, causing him to cry out and jerk away, and Merlin scrambled on his hands and knees only to be tackled by the second man and knocked flat onto the floor.

He tried to focus his magic, but the first man, the one he had bitten, effectively interrupted him with a nice, strong kick to the ribs and then the head, which made his vision shudder, go black, and then return incredibly fuzzy and made his lungs fail him.

Before he knew it, the two men had him pinned to the floor so that he couldn't move, and with their dead eyes glinting, one of them pulled out a phial…

Half-concussed, throbbing with dull pain, and consumed by animalistic fear, Merlin wiggled viciously only to have the one that he bit (go figure) stomp on his fingers, and when he opened his mouth to cry out, the vial of horribly dark Dark magic was uncorked and dumped down his throat.

Sticky and thick, it slid down his throat before he could cough and splutter it out, and as soon as it was down, Merlin's worst nightmares became a reality.

He was burning alive.

The black flames, roaring, writhing, twisting, licking, blazing so hot through his veins that they felt icy; the poison ripping and churning deep in him, maneuvering through his body with the furious passion of a perverted molester and with the finesse of a psychopathic torturer. Lusting, drinking, pulling, sucking, engulfing, consuming, and tearing. Every molecule of his being screaming….

It was pain beyond pain. Agony beyond agony, and it was powerful enough to pull Merlin into unconsciousness even before he had the chance to remind himself that he had failed, that he had failed Arthur.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Waking up was not pleasant. Every movement sent a new wave of black fire coursing through him, from head to toe. His heart burned excessively, his throat was torn from noiseless screaming, his head felt as though a horse had repetitively pranced across it and had ground his brain to mush with its hooves, his body felt as though it had been Kilgharrah's chew toy, and his…his…

It wasn't just the pain. He felt sick—feverish and chilled at the same time. His stomach (which was hurting as though someone had inflated it and stretched it far beyond its limits, only to puncture it with a vicious stab) was doing drunken somersaults, and his nausea….oh, Gods.

He turned over and vomited twice, which did little to make him feel better. In fact, he felt even more nauseated than before, and a strong wave of fire surged through him again, causing him to whimper.

Someone scrambled loudly over to him and began to shake his shoulder.

"Merlin? Merlin? You're alright. You have to be alright. Get up, you idiot…C'mon…"

Of course, it had to be the prat.

"Get'ff me, Arthur," Merlin rasped hoarsely, opening his eyes.

Arthur had a lovely looking bump on his head, and some dried and cracking blood ran down the side of his head and cheek. His blonde hair was caked with more blood and littered with the straw and muck of the disgusting cell Merlin discovered they were sharing. His blue eyes were wide with worry, and the young King leapt back from Merlin when he spoke and opened his eyes, looking horrified by what he saw shining through them.

His destiny looked alright, but his state and small injuries, injuries that he could have prevented…despite the pain he was in and the horrifying sickness he felt, Merlin found himself pushing it all aside and concern and love for the prat taking complete control.

"Merlin, what—what did they do to you?" Arthur whispered angrily, trying to hide the intensity of his worry and his shaking hands behind an enraged tone.

"I—" He was sent into a fit of coughing, and he gritted his teeth against the black flames. "They—gave it to me."

After a second of confusion, Arthur's face crumbled in horror, and he said, "But you're alive…you're alive…" Immediately, his face transformed and pulled into a ferocious, protective snarl. "Merlin, we have to get out of here. We can figure out what happened later, but we need to find the others and…"

Drawing on his courage and depending on his immortal pain tolerance, the warlock, weak and shaking with the strain, managed to wobble to his feet, and he closed his eyes to the world to hide the pain. For Arthur—he had to do this for Arthur. He wanted to do nothing more than curl up into a ball and lay still, but Arthur…who knew what they had planned for him? Who knew what they would do to him?

Sick or no, pain or no, he had to protect. He had to protect him.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"About three hours. I thought you were dying," Arthur said brokenly, the snarl disintegrating. "Your pulse…it was barely there, and you were as pale as a corpse…barely breathing. Your eyes were open until about a half-hour ago…they—they switched between gold and blue, but there was no magic, Merlin. None."

No magic…?

"The others?" Merlin asked, clenching his jaw again and withholding a grunt. He raised his hand to the door and tried to concentrate.

"I heard Gwaine yelling and cussing about the time they brought you in here; I think they're here, wherever here is…"

Arthur continued to ramble, and Merlin lost track of what he was saying in his growing panic.

Nothing…there was nothing…It wasn't there. No, it was. But wasn't? It had to be. Where was it? He couldn't find it, couldn't grasp it, couldn't embrace it…or let it embrace him…It must be a dream. It was almost funny, really. Comical. What a really horrible nightmare…that was what it was. Of course it was. Maybe Lot was right. Maybe he was a bit insane…but…No, this was no nightmare. Where was it?

He could always use magic in his nightmares. Always.

His burning heart skipped and tripped, the panic and fear, building and building…

"Tospringe," he gasped, feeling something wrench and rip in him.

Tears beaded up in his eyes. It hurt. It shouldn't hurt; it shouldn't feel like this…it shouldn't be hard. Where was it? Why wasn't it there? Where was its warmth? Its familiarity?

Ignoring Arthur's frantic calling of his name, he said more forcefully, "Tospringe!"

Another wrench, another rush of burning, icy fire, and the tears began to fall, like a springtime drizzle.

Where? Why couldn't he find it? Why wasn't it there for him? Where was he? He lost it….lost himself…He began to hyperventilate.

Hardly aware of Arthur's hands on his shoulders and blinded by tears and a red haze of pain, he yelled the spell at the door, his voice tearing and cracking. Over and over again, ignoring the flashes of lightning that struck him every time he reached and reached….and found nothing.

Yet, the door was unyielding.

Finally, he felt himself being lowered to the floor and being supported by strong arms, and the drizzle became a flood. "Arthur…Arthur," he sobbed.

"Shh, Merlin. It's okay."

"No, no, Arthur. It's gone. I can't find it, Arthur," he blubbered incoherently, not only physical, but emotional pain raging in his mind and tearing at his heart.

"Merlin…"

"My magic, Arthur," he gasped, his heart thudding in complete terror. "It's—nothing. Nothing, Arthur. Gone….gone…I'm gone.

"I'm nothing."


AN: *I say this to my sister all the time when she's cranky

Let me tell you, I was NOT expecting that ending to be like that, but I'm pretty damn proud of it. ;) I hope your heart stopped a few times because mine certainly did when I was writing it, and I hope that Merlin's emotional distress was well-written...hahaha, well-written? If it seems to have no style whatsoever and seems to be haphazard and all over the place...well, that was idea! :P I just hope that this scene wasn't totally OOC. Well, at least, by next chapter (which I'm thinking will have some Gwen in it), Merlin will steady himself and you'll all learn who's behind it all!

I apologize again if this isn't updated in awhile, but please respect my wish for you NOT to bother me for updates (Sorry, that sounded really cruel...and insensitive... *bites lip*). It's such a horrible time, I know, particularly with this cliffhanger. Bad planning on my part.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed.

Oz out.