**EDITED**
Arthur stormed from the tent and straight past Leon without acknowledging his First Knight's attempts to waylay him, without even noticing him at all, really. His mind was occupied with one thought and one thought alone, leaving no room for any outside influences. Merlin is a sorcerer. Merlin is a sorcerer. Merlin is a sorcerer.
It was constantly repeating, the words echoing through his head and running together until it was just a blur of anger and betrayal and disbelief and hurt. He did not hear Leon call his name and he did not stop until he was deep in the woods, far away from the source of his distress.
Merlin. Magic. He could not seem to reconcile the two in his mind, could not even wrap his head around the concept. Merlin is a sorcerer.
Arthur drew his sword from its scabbard with a growl and drove it into the trunk of the closest tree with all his might. It stuck there and he had to fight to free it again, nearly losing his footing entirely as it pulled loose with a jerk. He threw himself into hacking at the tree, mindless of the damage it would likely do to his precious sword, until his undershirt was soaked through with sweat and blisters were beginning to appear on his fingers and his arms were trembling from the strain. Then he gave the tree one more vicious strike just for good measure.
The burn in his overworked muscles was not enough to wipe his thoughts from his head like he had hoped that it would be. He stuck the tip of his sword into the ground and left it quivering there as he slumped at the base of his target.
Maybe Merlin had been lying, a stubborn, desperate part of him argued. Maybe he had made the whole thing up as some sort of sick joke. He could have a bit of a dark sense of humor at times. But then Merlin's face, distraught and streaked with tears, floated up in his mind. He pushed it away determinedly, unable to bear the snarl of emotions that it brought up in him.
Merlin's anguish had been genuine, he was sure of that much. But then, could he really be sure of anything anymore where Merlin was concerned? After so many years, a decade of near-constant companionship, Arthur had thought that he had known all there was to know about Merlin. Apparently, he didn't know anything at all.
Arthur remembered then the way Merlin had looked just before he had left, hunched over his knees on the ground, coughing and gasping for breath. He remembered that scared, desperate, yet somehow guilt-ridden expression as he had clawed at Arthur's fingers. Arthur's stomach turned at the memory of his own violence. Another memory rose unbidden, one of his father putting a hand to Morgana's throat, backing her up against a chair and threatening her into submission.
This time, Arthur lost the battle against his nausea, and he rolled over to empty his stomach beside the abused tree. He had been horrified at his father's actions then. They had made him rethink his whole opinion of the man that he had so looked up to, that he had emulated. Arthur had thought his father's actions despicable, dishonorable, and unconscionable. And Arthur had vowed that he would never do something like that, no matter the provocation.
But he had done worse. Morgana had defied Uther's will and he had wanted to intimidate her, to frighten her back into obedience, but he had not had any intention of hurting her. Even when Uther had wrapped his large hand around her neck and snarled in her face he had not truly hurt her. Arthur had gripped Merlin by the throat and squeezed. In his rage, he had meant to harm Merlin, to make him hurt, make him suffer. It was not an impulse that he had ever had before, and it was one which he hoped that he would never have again. He rubbed his wrist where Merlin had clutched at it in a halfhearted attempt to free his airway.
Merlin hadn't even really struggled, Arthur realized. If what he had said was true, then he would have had no problem defending himself with…with m… He couldn't even bring himself to think it, but the point remained. Merlin had not fought back against Arthur, had not drawn upon the power that he possessed, even when it seemed that his life was in danger.
Guilt bubbled up through the tangle of emotions and Arthur pushed it down roughly. He had no reason to feel guilty, he told himself harshly. It was Merlin who should feel guilty, Merlin who had lied to him for eleven years about…about everything. Arthur had every right to be angry at a betrayal such as this. Finding a sorcerer hiding in his court in plain sight was not something that anyone could expect him to take lying down.
In his court. Maybe that was it, he speculated wildly. Maybe Merlin had known of his royal heritage this whole time. Maybe he had infiltrated Camelot's court to gather insider information for Carthis; the kingdoms were not on good terms, after all. A kingdom full of sorcerers, surely they would want to see Camelot fall. With all the knowledge that Merlin had gathered over years at Arthur's side, Camelot would be easy pickings.
The thought did not panic him the way he thought that it should. An enemy sorcerer knew all his secrets, from the city's evacuation plans right down to the exact layout of the siege tunnels.
But his mind got stuck on the word 'enemy.' Was Merlin an enemy? His enemy? It was hard to think of him as such, even now with so many dark secrets laid bare between them. Merlin had let the dragon live, the dragon that had slaughtered hundreds of his citizens, innocent people all of them. Surely that qualified him as an enemy, did it not? But then, the dragon had never troubled them again, just as Merlin had claimed to have ordered. Arthur ran his fingers through his hair and tugged, hoping the pain would help focus his thoughts. It didn't.
Arthur couldn't quite believe it. It was just too many incongruous images laid on top of one another. Merlin, sorcerer, liar, Dragonlord, king, enemy, traitor, Merlin. It didn't make sense, none of it did. How could Merlin have been hiding something like this for so long? He had never been a very good liar, or at least Arthur had thought that was the case. Arthur had lost track of how many times Merlin had been thrown in the stocks for failing to lie convincingly enough to Uther. He found it hard to believe that Merlin would have allowed that to happen so often if he could have avoided it.
And besides, if Merlin had been a sorcerer all that time, then Arthur would have noticed something, surely.
But with the dragon, hadn't Merlin attributed the triumph to Arthur himself in order to cover up his own involvement? His relief at the routing of the beast had been so overwhelming that Arthur had never questioned Merlin's words. Merlin had known that that would be the case and he had taken advantage of Arthur's preoccupation to make sure that his lie would not be questioned too much. Could he not have made use of the same technique other times?
Arthur's mind was racing, skimming back over his memories, looking for situations in which sorcery might have been used and overlooked. In every instance that he came across, Merlin had been there, in a position to affect the outcome of the situation.
The immortal army, he realized with a lurch of his stomach, he was sure of it. Merlin and Lancelot had been tasked with disabling the warning bell. They had not done so, but they had borne no injuries to say that they had been intercepted by immortal warriors. The army had been destroyed, in a way that no one had ever satisfactorily explained, Morgause had been gravely injured, and Morgana had been forced to take her sister and flee in defeat. It had been Merlin, all of it, it had to have been. No other explanation made sense.
With each subsequent revelation, with each experience to which hindsight lent its clearer perspective, Arthur's determination to think of Merlin as an enemy faltered and weakened. Time after time, Merlin seemed to have protected him or defended his kingdom against magical attack. It became painfully clear that he could not justify thinking of Merlin as a threat to him, not after everything it seemed that he had done for him. Merlin had drunk poison for him, and then had offered to do so again. He had taken out at least one army, any number of bandits and foot soldiers they had faced, and several magical beasts, no doubt.
Arthur would have expected his sense of betrayal to lessen when he finally was forced to concede that Merlin's actions showed nothing but loyalty to him, but the dark bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.
Merlin was but the latest in a long string of betrayals, of people who had lied to him over and over again. His father, his sister, his uncle, even his wife and his truest knight. And now Merlin, of all people. He wondered why it was that, of the numerous betrayals that he had suffered in his life, this one stung the worst.
Maybe because Merlin had been there at his side through all of the others, the one person of whom Arthur had always been sure, the one person whose honesty he had never doubted. To have the rug pulled out from under him so sharply, to have his world turned upside down with a few simple words, to have the one person he had trusted unconditionally proved untrustworthy… Arthur didn't know what to do.
And the worst part, he realized, was that he didn't have much time. Merlin was leaving, he was going to Carthis. Arthur would not have the opportunity to interrogate him, to berate him for his dishonesty, to force the truth out of him. But with the anger boiling in his blood and the hurt that made him want nothing more than to hide away and lick his wounds, Arthur didn't think he could face him, not now.
But could he really let Merlin go like this? Let him leave, possibly for good, with their last encounter ending with Arthur's hand at Merlin's throat? Without anything being resolved between them? Arthur dropped his face into his hands. He just didn't know what to do.
Arthur knew that he had to get back to camp before true dark fell or risk his knights panicking and riding out in search of him and dragging him back. As the light began to fade, he stood tall, trying to pull his fragmented composure back around himself by his posture alone. He still had no idea what he would do when he saw Merlin again. Provided, of course, that Merlin was still there.
He wondered a bit hysterically if Merlin had already left, if he had missed his opportunity to do anything at all, but he knew rationally that no one would go riding off at twilight, even sorcerers. So he sheathed his sword and strode determinedly off toward the campsite, dreading the moment that he would reach it.
When he did, he was greeted by a very worried and disapproving Sir Leon. He was trying to hide his displeasure out of respect for his sovereign, but Arthur understood his upset and appreciated the space which he had very reluctantly been given. Leon had always been prone to worrying over him, from the time that he was just a young squire eager to prove himself capable of standing on his own two feet. Leon had taken to hovering then, keeping a close eye on him to make sure he did not overexert and injure himself in his eagerness, or ride off to do something stupidly brave by himself.
At the time, Arthur had not been at all pleased with his attentions, but he had grown to appreciate them for what they were, which was honest concern for his wellbeing. Leon had been his friend long before Arthur had realized that fact.
"Arthur," Leon said, the familiarity of the address showing just how anxious he had been. "Is all well?"
Not really, no, Arthur wanted to reply. Things were most certainly not well at the moment, at least as far as his mental state was concerned. My manservant of the last eleven years is actually a Dragonlord and is about to be crowned the magical king of a magical kingdom.
Before he could think better of it, he was searching the campsite for Merlin. He caught sight of him sitting on a log by the campfire, speaking quietly with Gwaine and, of all people, Mordred. Arthur thought that he might be sick again when he noticed the bruises growing on Merlin's throat. Most of them were concealed by his neckerchief, but Arthur could see the damage that he had caused in his anger plainly spelled out on the pale skin. Merlin looked wan and tired, his eyes red and his hair a disheveled mess. As Arthur watched, he grimaced at Gwaine in a way that was probably supposed to be a smile.
"Arthur?" Leon said again.
Arthur snapped his attention back to his first knight. By now he had forgotten the question that he had been asked, so he waited for Leon to repeat it.
"Are you alright?"
Arthur cleared his throat, wanting to explain or at least reassure him in some way, but at that moment, Merlin looked up. When he saw Arthur, his face drained of what little color it had left, which made the bruises stand out even more sharply. He looked terrified at the mere sight of him. The thought nearly tore a hysterical laugh from Arthur's throat; by all rights, it was he who should be afraid, wasn't it?
"Arthur, what happened?" Leon demanded, following Arthur's line of sight.
Arthur finally tore his gaze away from Merlin, but he still didn't know what to tell Leon; it was not the sort of thing that he felt like he could just blurt out.
"Maybe it is a conversation that is best left until morning," he said eventually, stalling for time.
Leon did not look satisfied in the least, but he knew when Arthur's tone brooked no argument and he wasn't one for defying authority, so he settled for a scowl and a jerky nod. He left Arthur alone at the edge of the camp, probably to bed down in order to make morning and the promised explanation come that much faster.
Arthur could feel Merlin's gaze on him, but the prickle of shame in his belly kept him from meeting his eye. Even if Arthur could bring himself to approach Merlin, would the other man be willing to talk to him after the way in which he had behaved? Arthur certainly wouldn't be, were he in Merlin's place. But then again, Merlin had always been a far more forgiving man than he had.
Anger spiked through him again, directed in equal parts at Merlin and at himself. Why was he thinking of seeking Merlin's forgiveness when Merlin was the one in the wrong? Arthur was the maligned party here, not Merlin, and as such he should be the one whose forgiveness was being sought. Merlin was the one who had been breaking the law, who had been practicing sorcery in a kingdom which expressly forebode it, in Arthur's kingdom, and had not even had the forthrightness to inform his king of that fact.
And maybe that was what stung him the most, if he was wholly honest with himself. Not the magic, not the illegality of it, but that Merlin had never told him. Arthur had opened up to Merlin, had told Merlin things that he had never spoken of with anyone else, his doubts, his fears, his insecurities, his guilt. Yet eleven years had not been enough to convince Merlin of his trustworthiness in return. In that time, had he not shown himself to be a more reasonable man than his father?
The thought of his father, of his harsh treatment of Morgana and Arthur's own reflexive imitation of it, plagued him once more, making his stomach twist. Gwaine was glaring daggers at him from the fire, no doubt having noticed the hand-shaped bruises around Merlin's neck and deduced their cause, and Arthur could not help but think that he deserved Gwaine's contempt.
Merlin couldn't breathe; his lungs had simply decided that they did not want to function anymore. He was not prepared for this, and he had no clue as to what to do, none whatsoever. But there Arthur was on the other side of the clearing, ignoring Leon's inquiries in favor of staring at Merlin.
What would happen now, he wondered as his lungs failed to inflate once more, leaving him a bit lightheaded. Would Arthur yell and rage at him? Would he attack him again? Would he go cold and silent and ignore him completely? Would he announce all that he had learned to his knights, maybe even order that Merlin be arrested? Or would his newfound lineage give him some sort of diplomatic immunity?
"What is that?" Gwaine demanded suddenly, his voice sharp as glass.
"What?" Merlin responded vaguely.
He felt the warmth of Gwaine's hand on the back of his neck and remember too late the marks that had surely bloomed there since Arthur had left him in the tent. He tried hastily to bat Gwaine's hand away, to shift his neckerchief to hide the evidence, to convince his friend that he hadn't seen anything but shadows, but Gwaine's noise of outrage told him he hadn't managed it in time. Even Mordred looked troubled at the proof that violence had been wrought against him.
"That bastard," Gwaine growled through gritted teeth. "That piece of shit. All you do for him and this is how he repays you? I'll kill him. I'll bloody well kill him."
He made to get up, to confront Arthur, to hit him maybe, but Merlin clamped a hand on Gwaine's arm to keep him from leaving his seat.
"No, Gwaine, no! He had every right to react the way he did," he insisted, his own guilt and self-loathing coloring his tone more than he would have liked.
"He tried to strangle you, Merlin," Gwaine said furiously. "How is that justified?"
"He has been taught all his life to view sorcerers as threats," Merlin explained, exerting more pressure on Gwaine's arm to stop him from jumping up and launching himself across the campsite. "He was already feeling angry and betrayed. He went to leave, I grabbed him from behind. He had to have felt like he was being attacked, and he reacted accordingly."
"That's bullshit, Merlin, and it's bullshit that you're defending him," Gwaine spat.
"I can't blame him for being angry with me, Gwaine."
"He tried to kill you!"
"No, he didn't!" Merlin denied immediately. "No, the second that he realized what he was doing, he stopped. It was a reflex reaction to a perceived threat, not a murder attempt."
Gwaine still looked thunderous, but Merlin had a surprisingly strong grip on his arm and he was not letting go, so he turned to glare at Arthur instead, obviously trying to strike him down with his eyes alone. Satisfied for the moment that Gwaine had himself under control, Merlin reached up absently to rub at the offending marks, wincing as he noticed for the first time how painful they were. It still hurt to swallow.
Arthur must have caught the motion, for he looked away quickly, a faint flush on his cheeks that Merlin couldn't quite decipher. He had sent Leon away sometime while Merlin was trying to keep Gwaine from going on a rampage in his defense. Merlin watched nervously as Arthur set about laying out his bedroll for the night, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Arthur fended off questions from Percival with a few clipped words and sent Leon a look that kept him from asking anything more. Gwaine and Mordred already knew what had happened, of course, and Elyan was asleep and had been that way through the whole sorry episode, so Arthur did not need to worry about being harassed by any of them.
Merlin wondered what Arthur had told Leon and Percival. Judging by the looks that they were sending Arthur's way, Merlin guessed that whatever it was, it was not what they wanted to hear. He was thankful they did not turn to him for answers instead; he didn't know what to tell them any more than Arthur did.
"Come on, Merlin," Gwaine said eventually, gripping his shoulder a bit more tightly than he probably intended to in his suppressed anger. "You should get some sleep. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a long day for you."
Merlin chuckled humorlessly and rubbed at his face. He had been doing that a lot lately; the skin there felt raw and sensitive from how often he had scrubbed his hands over it.
"I won't be able to sleep, Gwaine," he said bleakly.
"Rest, then," he amended in a tone that was somehow both gentle and unyielding. Gwaine began manhandling him through the process of bedding down.
Now that Arthur was back in the camp, the others were quick to do the same. Gerund briefly emerged from his tent to bid them all a courteous goodnight and to assure them that the regular patrols made these woods exceedingly safe before he turned in for the night. Leon volunteered for first watch anyway, and no one tried to dissuade him from it.
Merlin couldn't get comfortable. Now that they had been brought to his attention, the bruises made his neck stiff and sore, and his throat felt like he had swallowed glass. But that was only a mild irritant compared to his chaotic thoughts, oscillating between despair and terror every few seconds.
Arthur hated him, he was leaving home and abandoning his destiny, he was going to take on the governance of an entire kingdom, all his secrets were soon to be common knowledge, Arthur hated him, Arthur hated him, Arthur… Merlin rolled onto his side to stare into the fire, wondering if Arthur was lying awake too.