A/N: Yeah so this chapter is basically just a heap of fluff. Well, mostly. Shh, spoilers.


X.

A short while after the door to Merlin's cell had clanged shut behind Tirius, it was shoved open by someone else. This man Merlin didn't recognise, but his stomach reacted immediately to the smell of food. The gaoler was lanky and sallow, with rounded shoulders and a slight limp. He grinned mockingly at the pitiful growl Merlin's stomach made, baring a mouthful of crooked brown teeth as he set the bowl down on the floor and retreated without a word. He had deliberately placed the bowl just out of Merlin's reach, forcing him to shuffle stiffly and painfully forwards until his groping hands found his prize. The hot liquid scalded his tongue, but the sting was bearable compared to the thousands of hot knives that stabbed him in the back each time he shifted.

As he was licking the last drops of broth from the bottom of the bowl, Merlin was suddenly aware of a noise coming from his left. He set the bowl down and crawled over to the bars that separated his cell from Mordred's. He was just in time to see the gaoler deliver a crunching blow to Mordred's ribs with the toe of his boot, which the Druid boy didn't seem to feel. He sat against the wall with a mixture of contempt and disinterest adorning his features. A bowl similar to Merlin's lay on its side next to Mordred's leg; its contents slowly seeped across the floor in a steaming puddle. With one final curse thrown over his shoulder at the Druid, the gaoler slammed the door behind him and vanished in a flurry of angry footsteps.

Once the man had gone, Mordred seemed to visibly deflate. He pressed a hand to his side to inspect the damage, hissing a little as his fingers found the spot where hard leather had connected. Luckily the assault had been on his uninjured side otherwise he may well have passed out. Merlin felt his throat grow tight at the same time as a swell of anger rose from the pit of his stomach. The chains clinked softly as his hands balled into fists. The sound caused Mordred to look up at him.

"Only a bruise," he said quietly, as if that was meant to reassure him. "It could have -"

"Could have been worse?" Merlin blurted. "Is that what you were going to say? It could have been worse?"

Mordred blinked slowly, not seeming to understand Merlin's fury. Or else he did understand it, and was deliberately playing dumb to irk him further. Merlin sucked in a breath through his teeth; he couldn't afford to use what little energy he had scolding Mordred's idiocy. Instead he settled himself back against the wall in a spot safely hidden from Mordred's view by a thick veil of shadow. He clenched his teeth against a whimper as the fresh scabs on his back tore free, and breathed slowly through his mouth until he trusted himself to speak.

"What did you hope to accomplish?" he asked in a voice no louder than a whisper.

Mordred was silent for so long that Merlin wondered if he'd understood the double meaning behind the question. He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but Mordred cut him off with a soft murmur of "I thought I was doing the right thing."

Merlin swallowed a sigh and wrapped his arms around his torso. The air inside the cell was growing noticeably cooler. He had come to associate temperature changes with dusk and dawn, and could tell it was raining when the dampness at his back soaked through his jacket. He was briefly surprised that he hadn't yet caught a chill, but then it occurred to him that he had Tirius to thank for that. Merlin would be no use to him sick and delirious with fever. He suspected his captor had more than enough skill to ensure that he remained healthy enough to serve his purpose, though Tirius hadn't exactly been forthcoming as to what that purpose was.

"Emrys?"

Twisting his fingers in the hem of his shirt, Merlin swallowed a sigh. "What is it?"

"Would you…" Merlin heard the Druid swallow in an attempt to strengthen his voice. It worked, but just barely. "Would you tell me a story? I don't like the silence."

Merlin baulked at the request, eyes flying open. "What?"

Mordred gave a slight huff and Merlin pictured him obstinately setting his jaw. "You heard me," he said.

"I don't know any stories."

Mordred barked out a laugh. "And I thought you were a good liar."

Glancing down at himself, Merlin saw that he was gripping his shirt in his fists so hard that his knuckles were white. His fingers trembled as he straightened the joints, though he could not have said why.

Pull yourself together, demanded a voice that sounded suspiciously like Arthur's. Merlin was ashamed of the lurch his heart gave in response to just the thought of the King. Before Mordred showed up, he had been desperately hoping that Arthur would suddenly appear at the door with a bunch of keys and Merlin's favourite crooked grin. Their subsequent reunion crept into his dreams every time he managed to snatch a wink of sleep. In the dream it was just him and Arthur, as it always had been, back when things were simpler. He would wake to find his heart racing and his lips tingling in the aftermath of a phantom kiss, his whole body bathed in the warmth that was Arthur Pendragon. Then, as the dream faded, his skin would turn cold and the weight of reality would crush the very air from his lungs.

"Alright," Mordred said brusquely, wrenching Merlin from his thoughts once again. "I'll start. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived with a group of travellers in the middle of a huge forest. The forest was so vast that the boy had never seen what was on the other side of it, but it didn't matter because it was home. He ate the fruit and berries that grew on the trees and drank cool water from streams that came from the peaks of faraway mountains. The life he shared with his kin was very simple, but for one important thing. Some of them were blessed with wondrous gifts far beyond the talents of ordinary folk. Some could create fire and water out of thin air. Others could move things without touching them. A few could even talk to animals. The boy was fortunate to be gifted with powers that greatly exceeded those of his peers. The wise men of the camp often told him that he would one day grow up to be extremely powerful.

"But the boy was still very young; too young to understand the enormity of what the elders told him. Instead he spent his days doing what any child would: skimming stones, climbing trees and building secret dens with his best friend Kara. He and Kara always sought to best each other in everything they did, and most of the time she won. But there was one thing she couldn't beat him at. She had been born ordinary, with no apparent magical talents, but rather than make her feel bad about it, the boy took every opportunity he could to help her understand the beauty of this power that had been given to him. Sometimes, after dark, they would sneak away from the camp and hide in one of their dens. There they would build a small fire and once the flames had caught he would bend them to his will and make her gasp in wonder.

"Once, when he felt like showing off, he reached into the fire and cupped some of it in his palm. When he opened his hand to show her, the flame had transformed into a tiny orange butterfly. It flew from his hand and landed on her nose, and her laugh was the best sound he had heard in his entire young life. When the butterfly flew away, Kara turned to him and said, 'I want you to swear to me that, whatever happens when we grow up, we'll still be a part of each other's lives. Forever.'

"The look in her eyes was so fierce that the boy could only nod, and when he did she reached under her cloak and drew out a knife. She dragged the blade across the skin of her palm, drawing blood as easily as she drew breath. 'Swear it,' she said, handing him the knife. It took him three attempts to draw blood, and when she grasped his hand in hers it was all he could do not to cry out. His eyes never left her face as she made him swear an oath that at the time seemed like the most important thing in the world, and bound their bleeding hands together with a scrap of linen torn from the hem of her dress. That night they slept beside the dying fire, and by the morning their fate was sealed."

It was a few moments before Merlin realised that Mordred had stopped speaking. At some point during the story his eyes had closed without his permission, but they opened again when silence descended once more.

"What happened next?" Merlin asked softly, if only to get Mordred to keep talking. The sound of his voice was surprisingly soothing. But then any voice was more preferable to Merlin than being left alone with his thoughts.

Mordred breathed a quiet sigh. Chains jangled quietly as he shifted his position, and suddenly his face was right beside Merlin's. Had he been sitting there the whole time? Merlin had no idea. He had somewhat lost track of everything but the words that came from Mordred's lips.

"The next day I was named as Cerdan's new apprentice. I still tried to spend as much time as I could with Kara, but it became quite difficult what with my training and my, ah, eventful trip to Camelot." Merlin sucked in a sharp breath, but Mordred ploughed on as though he hadn't heard. "I haven't seen her since that day Arthur and his knights ransacked the camp and we were all forced to flee."

Right after you betrayed us.

The words hung ominously between them though neither would speak them out loud. Merlin started to curl his fingers around the bars, reaching for Mordred's hand where it lay just inches from his own. The metal was as frigid as a warning against his skin. He retracted his hand before Mordred could turn and see what he'd been trying to do.

"Will you tell me another story?" he asked instead. He was briefly startled at the way their positions had been reversed in such a short space of time. Now he was the one begging to be comforted whilst the other sat in stoic silence.

It was that exact moment that it dawned on him how little physical strength mattered in a place like this. Apart from the wounds on his back, his body was as sound as it had ever been, but the absence of his magic and human comfort had weakened his mentality almost to the point of breaking. And the most curious thing was that Mordred knew all this; somehow he had known exactly what Merlin needed when he didn't know himself. He wanted to ask how, but he had a feeling the answer would be unforthcoming, if there was an answer at all.

"It's your turn," Mordred said, so quietly that Merlin wasn't sure he'd actually spoken. "And don't give me any of that nonsense about not knowing any stories. Your whole existence is a story, Emrys, though you have yet to hear it."

Although he knew he probably shouldn't, Merlin couldn't help asking, "Have you heard it?"

"Your story is one I grew up with." Merlin didn't have to see his face to know he was smirking in that way he always did when he thought he was being cryptic. "But I don't want to hear about magic and destiny and such. I want to know about you."

Had he had enough air in his lungs, Merlin would have gulped. He could feel his cheeks flushing from being put on the spot. He refused to give Mordred further grounds on which to mock him, and so began voicing the first thought that had the decency to put itself forward.

"I couldn't even sit upright by myself the first time my mother saw my eyes glow gold." He paused uncertainly, and Mordred urged him on with a wordless noise of encouragement. "We were out in the garden together; she lay me down in the shade next to the house whilst she went to water the vegetable patch. The wind was blowing quite strongly, and one of the slates on the roof came loose. I must have looked up when I heard the noise. The next thing my mother knew the slate was hovering three feet above my head whilst I just lay there and stared at it. As soon as she moved me out of the way the slate fell to the ground in the exact spot where I'd been lying. She says the blow would have killed me. The next day she roped half the men in the village into helping her replace the slates with thatch. She wouldn't take any more chances, she said."

"I was yet to sprout my first tooth the first time I spoke to my mother the way I can speak to you."

"How unlucky for her."

Mordred huffed an intelligible response, but Merlin could tell he was smiling.

"You've never mentioned your parents before," Merlin suddenly realised. "Tell me about them."

"There's not much to tell. My father left the camp before I was born. Banished, I think, though I never really cared enough to ask. All I know is that it takes a lot for Druids to force someone to leave their protection. My mother never talked about him."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We were perfectly fine without him. My mother did everything she could to raise me properly. I suppose she did a good job with what little time she was given."

Merlin tasted bile in the back of his throat. "What happened?" he asked, though he was sure he didn't want to know.

When Mordred spoke after a long pause, his voice sounded high and strained: "I don't quite remember. I was too young to really understand what was happening. I've never been brave enough to talk about her since she left me on my own when I was little more than a baby."

Merlin's stomach felt hollow. He sat huddled in his corner with his hands buried in his sleeves, not daring to move. The stone at his back was as cold as ice; it had to be midnight, or very nearly. The dungeon's rats had begun to come and go as they pleased once they had learned that Merlin posed no threat. He listened to the squeaks and scrabbles as they tussled amongst the rotting straw. One came close enough for him to feel a tail brush against his leg. A clatter followed by a cacophony of screeching told him they'd found the bowl his supper had arrived in. He thought about telling them they were wasting their energy searching for leftovers and were better off going next door, but the way the air trembled with the Druid's silence told him they would have little time to fill their bellies with the spilt broth before their clamour was silenced for good.

Despite the pain in his back and the stiffness in his limbs, Merlin soon found himself drifting towards sleep. He knew his dreams would not be pleasant, but he reasoned that even the worse nightmare would be preferable to what awaited him when the sun came up. He allowed his eyes to fall shut, but no sooner had he resigned himself to weariness than he was woken again by a voice next to his ear.

"You never told me why you came to Camelot."

Merlin turned his head to the side. His left shoulder was pressed up against the cold steel bars; Mordred could not have been more than a forearm's length away, yet Merlin could see nothing but darkness. The Druid's voice had disturbed the rats; they had fallen so silent that Merlin wondered if they'd ever been there at all.

"Why do you want to know?" Merlin asked, his voice croaky and tired.

He felt Mordred's sigh stir the air. "You spoke openly enough before. Don't shut yourself away from me again."

"The tale is probably not as exciting as you think."

"I don't care."

"You're as stubborn as Arthur."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Don't."

"Then don't change the subject."

Merlin made a noise in the back of his throat. He hoped Mordred would take it to mean that he wanted to be left alone to sleep, but he knew he should have known better.

"What is it that makes you fear me so much? I've done nothing to put your life in danger."

"It's not my life that concerns me," Merlin said without thinking.

"Then whose? Arthur's?" Mordred gave another harsh laugh that made Merlin flinch. "He made me a knight, Emrys. I'm sworn to protect him or die trying. I intend to uphold that vow as long as I live."

"As you upheld your vow to your friend?"

It was a low blow, and Merlin found himself regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. Still, he swallowed the apology that automatically rose in his throat. He didn't need to see Mordred's face to know the Druid's expression; these days all their conversations ended with Mordred glaring at him with eyes hard as steel before turning and stalking off in the other direction. Usually Merlin would stand and stare after him as the click of his heels disappeared around a corner. He would question when he had become so brash and spiteful. In answer, his entire being would scream one word: Arthur. But how long could he continue to hide behind the King, use him as an excuse to be cruel to Mordred, before he lost the grounds on which he built his own sense of justice?

Things were so much simpler before you arrived. He hurled the thought at Mordred with all of what remained of his mental strength, but it was as useless as throwing daggers at a stone wall. His magic had left him, but at least that meant Mordred couldn't hear the thoughts that tormented him. He was surprised the boy had the audacity to ask such questions about his past when he was certain he had already rifled through every single one of his memories. To think that Mordred knew about things he had never told anyone else made Merlin feel sick - especially things that involved Arthur. The way his golden hair shimmered by candlelight; the way his eyes looked in the morning when the sunlight turned them to sapphires; the overwhelming joy he felt only when he could hear Arthur's heart beating against his cheek. Keeping those memories to himself ensured that they would not be marred or spoilt by an outsider's judgement. He had to preserve them for the good of his own sanity; the only way he could be with Arthur the way he so desperately wanted was in his memories. Now those memories were permanently soiled, and all because of one Druid's ignorance.

Clearly Merlin's subconscious was in a self-deprecating mood, for it chose that moment to unhelpfully present him with a collection of more recent memories. These ones did not involve Arthur, but a boy with eyes as pale as ice and hair as dark as a raven's wing. Merlin saw the tenderness with which he had cared for the Druid as though watching through a misted window. He looked down on the two of them lying side by side, sleeping peacefully with their hands tangled together under the sheets. He felt the horror swell inside him as a pool of red stained pale sand. He remembered the dream, the sweet smile on Mordred's face as he'd drawn his last breaths, and the seemingly endless pit of despair that had followed until a voice called him back into his own body. The same relief that had overwhelmed him then grew thick and stifling in his throat, and he felt as though he would crumble under the onslaught of conflicting emotions that threatened to rip him in half.

Yes, things had been much simpler before Mordred. But no matter how much he wished it, Merlin could no sooner turn back time than pinpoint what exactly he felt for the young Druid. Both tasks seemed equally complex and gruelling, and were equally likely to make Merlin tear his own hair out should he even attempt them.

"If you think you can keep pushing me away like this then you're mistaken. We only have each other, Emrys, whether you like it or not. One day you'll realise that."

"I don't need you," Merlin said petulantly. "I have Gaius. And Arthur. Gwaine. Percival. Gwen. Leon. I don't need anyone else."

Mordred chuckled, and for once there was no scorn behind the sound. "You know what I mean. You have never known what it's like to be around your own kind. But I have, and I can tell you that there is no greater feeling than being surrounded by people who understand you."

"Gaius understands," Merlin protested. He really didn't like how much sense Mordred's words were making, or how they made him nostalgic for something he had never known.

"And you call me stubborn."

A sharp pain drew Merlin's attention to the fact that the nails of his right hand were embedded in his palm. He felt the wet blood slide over his wrist and shuddered. There could only be a few hours left until dawn, and with dawn came fresh welts and fresh pain. He resolutely refused to think about what Tirius would do to Mordred, what information he would try to extract, whether Mordred would keep his silence under the keenness of Tirius' blades. He liked to boast of the effort he put into keeping them razor sharp. He could make them burn with the heat of a thousand torches, or turn the metal into slivers of ice that could freeze the blood in his veins. Merlin dreaded to think of what hideous patterns adorned his back, and the thought of similar marks decorating the Druid's milk white skin was unbearable. He would rather beg for Mordred to be spared and suffer the brunt of his tormentor's mockery than watch Mordred's jaw tremble with the effort of holding back his screams.

"What's wrong?" Mordred asked softly.

Merlin started to shake his head before remembering that Mordred couldn't see him. "Nothing," he said.

Mordred huffed in disbelief. "You're lying. Tell me."

"I was just thinking."

"About what?"

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek. "Arthur," he said.

He heard Mordred exhale through his nose. "Of course."

"What's taking him so long?" Merlin wondered aloud. "He must have heard what happened by now."

"He has to protect Camelot from the creature the messenger warned us about," Mordred reminded him.

"He wouldn't leave Gwaine out in the woods for this long without at least sending a search party," Merlin insisted. Suddenly, a thought struck him. "Why are you here? Last time I saw you you were unconscious after falling off your horse."

"I came looking for you," Mordred said levelly.

"Not alone. You wouldn't have made it here alive with that injury of yours."

"Gaius is very skilled, as I'm sure you know."

"No." Merlin pushed himself upright and instantly regretted it as tendrils of fire licked down his spine. "Someone must have sent you. Was it Arthur?"

Mordred sighed. "No. Arthur doesn't know."

"Then who?"

"We came of our own accord."

"We?"

"Elyan, Percival, Leon and I."

Though he was relieved to hear he hadn't been forgotten, Merlin's chest suddenly grew tight. "Where are they? Did Tirius…?"

"No. No, nothing like that. They're safe."

"Where?"

"There was no time. Leon wanted to leave me behind whilst they came to rescue you. I couldn't bear the thought of standing around wondering whether any of you would come back alive."

Merlin closed his eyes. Instead of feeling angry, as he'd expected, he only felt very, very tired. "Mordred, what have you done?"

"I only did what I had to. What I thought was best."

"You thought wrong," he said curtly.

"Emrys -"

It was then that Merlin decided he had finally had enough of the conversation, and of Mordred altogether. "Get some sleep. You're going to need it."

Ignoring the Druid's protests and the dull throbbing in his joints, Merlin shuffled as far away from the bars as his chains would allow. He lay on his side on the hard stone, stretched out his stiff limbs and waited in vain for sleep to claim him.