I'm back with another mystery POV!

The premise: Arthur is dying and so his greatest advocate uses magic to save his life.

Necessary background: this is set between series three and four when Morgana has shown her true colours and has seconded Camelot.

This piece was solely inspired and dedicated to Zz1234 whose kind words and incredible prompt led to this.

The casually cruel act of Arthur Pendragon

It's been eight days since Arthur last smiled at me, merry in the celebration of his youth.

I remember it as clear as moon gazing on an eve with a thousand stars, all dancing in the cloudless sky. The courtiers were laughing. Servants bustled, darting unseen in and out of the crowd laden with plates. We were thankful for many reasons to congregate aside from Arthur's birthday: the harvest had been bountiful despite (no) happenings and it was a cause to celebrate. Too many had gone hungry the year before. Some never recovered.

I was the one to fill Arthur's cup. The jug had been left innocuous on the table in a flagrant breach of protocol. I had not cared then; too wrapped up in him to bring attention to the error. It was not pertinent to me what the courtiers had thought of the disrespect. All that mattered was Arthur.

It would have been so easy. There was a constant stream of visitors, each paying their respects to the Prince. Their comments were cloying and their flatteries nauseating as they attempted to charm Arthur in a blatant use of subterfuge to influence his bidding. As expected, his response was equal in measure. Only those who knew him, truly knew him, could tell that his mind was elsewhere.

I had once thought I knew the Court. Trusting them was a ridiculous notion of course, but understanding them? I believed myself an expert on their tricks and their tells, learnt from attending the multitude of meetings that dragged on.

I was wrong.

As ruby liquid fills his goblet, Arthur's fingers drum restlessly on the table. I raise my eyebrows; he stops. The pause is only momentary, meriting a smirk in response. We both know it is unbecoming of the Crown Prince to display impatience, and yet - it is his birthday. He may have a pass on the well-meaning lecture this once. Hawkishly, he watches me set the jug back down on the table (why the table?) as if it was the most interesting act in Camelot.

"Thank you," he said, smiling wide as he turns to me.

I incline my head in acknowledgement. Warmth blooms within me, brighter than a thousand stars. My voice is constricted with words I can never say: not there at the feast, nor now in his chambers.

Unaware of his act of kindness, Arthur resumed facing the Court. His goblet is raised. Automatically, instinctively, the hall quiets in expectation, caught in the charismatic orbit of the prince.

"To a brighter, better Camelot!"

"To Camelot. To Prince Arthur!"

The Great Hall rang with the enthusiastic voices of 200 citizens. His goblet bobs, and he drinks deeply.

I thought I knew the Court. I thought I could rely on them, even if I couldn't outright trust them. But I had already made that mistake once before with -

The goblet hit the floor with a clang, the spilling wine reminiscent of blood. I spin around to find Arthur convulsing where he stands, eyes rolled up to the ceiling. The world goes silent and the edges turn grey as I desperately reach out to catch him from plummeting -

Yet it is not my arms that he falls into.

It's yours.

Gauis stoops over Arthur as he checks his vitals. Fingers press against wrist, then neck; eyelids gently lifted with a candle held close to the face. I wait anxiously for the result, fingers drumming on my thigh.

Straightening up, the physician says slowly, "His pulse is growing weaker."

"And we are no closer to finding a cure."

I phrase it as a question, but the delivery is flat, the tone sombre.

For the past three days Gauis has torn through his texts devouring tome after tome. The once orderly chambers have deteriorated along the same rate as Arthur. Once determined that the text is useless they are tossed dismissively to the side, the pile that they join growing by the hour. Even you paused your virgil to aid the physician, reluctantly entrusting my prince to me.

"Is it unnatural?"

Gauis hesitates. "We cannot say for definite sire."

Irritation flickers to life at the careful blandness of his reply. I know him too well to take comfort in his manipulation of the probability. He knows this. Yet he continues to insult us both (him and I, unstoppable). It isn't an insult to you: only because you are too stupid to see what it truly is. You are blinded by Gauis' professions of loyalty and kind advice, and you never look to see what truly lies beneath.

That Gauis is mine.

"Then magic is the only way to heal Arthur."

It is an easy conclusion to make. Simple. What magic breaks magic must surely heal. (Lies! What about my love, what about M-)

"Magic is outlawed in Camelot."

Wretched away from my thoughts, I sneer reflexively. Anger flashes across your face at the sight of it. I do not cower - why should I cower - and instead prepare to face you head on. I am spoiling for a fight and it would be delightful if it is with you.

Sensing the mood, Gauis hurriedly steps in. Literally. It is a laughable action: he knows he is no match for me. "We still have time. I have not yet checked all of my texts, and I still have some tinctures -"

Yet more platitudes. I can't - won't - allow them to take Arthur from me. I have already lost so much -

I turn away in anger, but not before I see the vindictive glare you send my way. Resuming my (rightful) place at his bedside I allow myself to be swept away by my memories, half formed forgotten prayers on my lips. I do not dwell on whether the Goddess will deign to answer; not because I am afraid of the message, but because I know she will never respond. I wrack my brain throughout for a cure for Arthur but it is a fruitless effort. I know this before I even start.

But I cannot stop. I will not stop.

It's been eight days since Arthur was poisoned. It's been two since he last woke up. He had been barely cognizant of his surroundings, delirious as he was with pain. Eyes barely open, he searched for me, and found you instead. You leaned over him, blocking out his surroundings (me) and your voice rumbled lower than my ears could catch.

By the time I rushed to his side Arthur's lunacy had vanished. Spent on trying to evade you.

I heard the rising note of panic as you called for Gauis. Helpless. The physician laid a calming hand on your shoulder and said, "I saw."

I did not.

Arthur fell deeper into the coma, and though it was unsaid, we all knew it was doubtful he would ever resurface. I was (am) bitter at our lack of progress and I am frustrated that at the only time he surfaced it was to be met with you. A small part of me claims that it is not your fault (after all who filled the cup I did I did I did), but how is it not?

I do not know how to feel about you. Hatred is too simple an emotion and apathy too complex. Yet what I do know, from the depths of my soul, is that it's unfair.

After everything I've done, all that I've sacrificed, why is it you that he speaks (spoke?) about in the mornings? Why does (di- NO) he light up when he recounts a compliment so backhanded it is more insult than praise from you? It is horrific and pathetic and cruel and heartbreaking that he is so desperate for affection from you when it is clear that you do not care. He is caught in our orbit, helpless and blind to the suffering you put him through, yet he continues to tolerate and worship you, but why? When I am the one that never has - never will - leave his side?

Arthur is my one constant in this ever shifting plane of truths and you stole him from me.

I do not care about your shared history and your merry battles.

I do not care.

I saved your life for Arthur, and yet you do not look at me with gratitude or respect. You simply do not look at me at all (and neither does he).

Nobody noticed when I withdrew from the room, even though I announced my departure and my exit was loud. I left Arthur to be treated for a malady with no mortal remedy, and no hope of recovery.

For I did not see. I could not see.

This cannot be the downfall of Arthur Pendragon. He is destined to become King and unite the lands under one rule. Success beats his name and history breaths it excitedly as she stands at the gates, waiting for the yearning land to welcome her home. Arthur's rule will be one of a kind and he will be immortalised alongside I in the minds of men.

He cannot die.

And so I did what everybody else could not - would not do.

I used magic.

"I know what you did," you say, standing at the foot of the bed.

I ignore you, focusing my attention, my being on Arthur. The blank canvass of my Prince is slowly being filled in as I watch. With every breath colour is returning to his cheeks, the deathly pallor becoming overridden with the welcome sign of a flush as blood once more begins to roar through his veins.

You are not content that I ignore you so easily. I am not content with what you insinuate. Thus you continue to insist on meddling where you do not belong.

"I know what you did."

"Everybody in this castle knows what I do. You are not special in that regard. Or in any other," I add as an afterthought.

My dismissal angers you and spurs you on to invagel triumphantly, "You used magic!"

Your smugness is infuriating.

"And?"

You stop, mouth agape. You're flummoxed at my nonchalant challenge and it is such an amusing sight that I chuckle at the sight of it. Tension rides hard on your brow when you notice I'm laughing at you, and it disquiets you even further. Eventually (unfortunately), you surmount your shock to exclaim:

"It's illegal!"

"Yes it is. So is murder, yet you have killed men."

Bored of the conversation, I return to Arthur. Once thin and blue, his lips part as he breathes deeply. Evenly. Spit dribbles out of the corner of his mouth and instinctively I wipe it away using my sleeve. For a moment, I think he stills at my touch. I wait with baited breath searching him for a sign that he is returning to me -

But he does not stir further. Reluctantly I pull away, loathing myself (for the emotion; the falsity) at what you have done.

"You truly don't care that you used magic."

Your tone is strange: wonderment, anger and disgust mixed into a bubbling concoction of malcontent. I would be impressed at the depth of your feelings if they were unique. But they are not; I frequently face them in my line of work, by many men who would let it fester into something far worse than what you conjure.

You are nothing special.

"Would you prefer to see Arthur dead?"

That brings you up short. I am helpless to prevent the smirk that steals over my face as you stand there in front of me, baffled at the casual way I speak to you. Pleasure at subverting your expectations floods through me, and the intensity of the emotion is nearly overwhelming. It's almost surprising that I feel this way about you: a speck of a man that is aptly irrelevant to my destiny.

But that's a lie (is it?). You are everything and nothing to me, and I dislike (distrust hate hate) you for it.

"No-!"

"Well then." I pivot back to Arthur. There is still no change, but that is a good thing, is it not?

Blissful quiet descends on the room to the extent that I forget you're even there. It's a miracle really: I have become aware of your presence with every waking moment since it happened and it has been an incessant torture to my subconscious. Predictably you ruin it, like you do with everything you touch.

"Would you?"

I admit this: despite our… tumultuous (distrustful) relationship, I genuinely did not think you were a complete fool. Yet now, as I slowly turn to face you, incredulous at what you just said, I realise that you proved me wrong.

"Excuse me?"

"Would you prefer to see Arthur dead?" You ask doggedly.

Reluctantly, I give you credit for prevailing with this farce. My eyebrows reach the ceiling in a fantastic imitation of Gaius.

"Would I save his life if that was the case?!"

You do not pick up on my sarcasm. I suspect it is because it is too advanced an art form. You prove me correct when you merely parrot back:

"Magic is evil. It corrupts even the greatest minds of men."

"Then at least you'll never have to worry, because you never had a mind to begin with."

"So you admit you are evil?"

"I do not need to admit to anything, least of all to you."

"What do you mean to imply by that?"

Your voice is low. I think you're trying to make it seem dangerous but I have faced much more powerful men and worse demons than you. As a result, it merely sounds as if you're constipated.

"You have put him in peril more than the Court, yet alone Camelot! At least I always have his best interests at heart. I would do anything for Arthur."

"And yet you betray him so easily."

"This is not betrayal. This is his salvation!"

You laugh. "Is that what you call it? You've betrayed not only the ideals he stands by and swears to, but you've also betrayed him."

"It was for his own good."

My voice is desperate - why?

"That's exactly what she would say. You're no better than M-"

No. That's not true. I did what I had to do out of love. I had to do it - Arthur would have died! My Prince, my precious Prince would understand, I know it. He would see that I had to. It's different - I'm different. I'm not like -

My panic amuses you. Swift and steady, your countenance becomes cruel as you smile.

Satisfaction laces your voice as you say snidely, "Not so sure now, are we?"

Suddenly, I feel like I'm backed into a corner. I am unsettled at what you said and my control of the conversion is rapidly disappearing. And so like a rat, I lash out. "At least I know Arthur cares for me."

Immediately, you stop smiling. Emotions flicker across your face too fast for me to comprehend.

"Arthur cares for me."

"Does he?" I ask. "I see no evidence."

You hesitate in your already weak defence. Gleefully I press home with a hunter's instinct, relishing your pain and confusion as I dance around your battered form weaving words filled with barbs.

"He speaks little of you, and when he does it is littered with complaints. Would you like to know what the recurring theme is?"

You say nothing and at last, I am vindicated. I am Arthur's most loyal subject.

"Obligation. He only speaks to you, interacts with you because he feels obliged. You are not special. He does not deem you worthy of his time. You are nothing to him, merely a footstool to success."

Something snaps.

"At least I see Arthur as a man. You see Arthur as a paragon of virtue. It would be remarkable if it wasn't so pathetic. Can you not see his flaws? Can you really claim you have never suffered by his hand?"

Unbidden, my mind recalls a woman with the sweetest smile and the gentlest touch. Love for her blooms within as I watch her twirl in the candlelight. Even after all this time, grief and hatred nearly consume me as they surge instinctively when I hear her wretched final cry. My visions blurs, leaving Arthur's clear blue eyes searching for mine in response to killing the woman I loved.

"I had to do this." My voice is distant. Broken. I am begging, but to who? "I couldn't let him die."

You survey me with callous interest. Lips curling upwards, you are satisfied - no, overjoyed - at my moment of weakness.

"So the creature which festers in the darkness finally comes to light."

I do not cover before your miserable presence, even as you tower over me and your eyes spark dangerously. Instead, I face you proudly.

"Yet it is this beast which saved Arthur's life."

Your face darkens. "And so the monster is brought to its knees by a man."

"Because of a man."

"Such care and precision over a simple word. Is that how you justify it to yourself? How you used magic," your face twists as you spit it out, like it is something evil and grotesque, "to heal Arthur."

"I would give my life to Arthur if it meant that he lived."

"Then why didn't you?" You hiss, deranged by my act of god. "Why do you still stand before me, an oath breaking torted abomination. The world does not deserve to suffer with the likes of you walking this earth."

"Because the spell did not call for one, as unlike you, I am too important!"

You scoff. "You're truly insane. Too important? Arthur is a thousand times the man you are with your influence, and tenfold that without!"

"You're the deluded one if you think your guidance is beneficial to Arthur. It is not! It infects and festers until all of his ideas are tainted under your counsel. I may be a monster, but at least all of my flaws are laid bare to the world. To me!"

My temper ignites with every ounce of poison that spits from your mouth. You are almost hysterical now in the face of my refusal to submit to you.

"We both know that's not true! Especially not to Arthur. Do you really think that he would recognise this... thing that you have become? Do you think that he would still care? Arthur has spent a lifetime hunting monsters! What's one more?"

"I think you mean two more."

My utterance stops you in your tracks. Left rendered to merely stare at me in disbelief, you are convinced that you misheard what I said. It is rather a delightful reaction. "What?"

I check once more that Arthur is still breathing, still resting, still here. Throughout the whole heated exchange he has slumbered peacefully on. I note that his hair now adds to his complexion instead of drawing from it, and soft blonde curls rebel against the comfort of his pillow: all proof that I was right, that I did the correct thing. His breathing is deep and his pulse steady and I hum in satisfaction at the outcome of my desperation.

Then I stand up and face you.

"You knew I used magic and you didn't turn me in? Tut tut."

Discombobulated, you simply stand there as I take a step towards you.

"An accomplice to the crime, and magic at that. The law will not look too kindly on you. The penalty is the same as mine: death."

It is fascinating to watch the myriad of emotions that you experience in reaction to my words. Outrage. Disbelief. Fear. Shock. A delicious cocktail. You choke down your words thrice before you manage to force them out.

"You wouldn't dare."

I bare my teeth. "Try me."

There is only the slightest hesitation, and then you shout: "Guards!"

I am patient as you waits They do not come. Confusion and fear cloud your body, and your voice has an almost imperceptible tremor to it as you call again.

No response.

It comes slowly, rising through my body from my belly to my chest. Seeping into my throat it bubbles through my mouth, rendering me helpless to breathe. Soon, I am roaring with laughter at the absurdity of the situation. Your eyes are wide as you watch my convulsions, and I know you think that I am mad. It is exquisite. Eventually, I let it subside, but it takes a great effort to not start up again when relief colours your movements.

"They will not come. And even if they do, they will not obey your orders."

"Why not?"

"Because if they had to choose me over you they would pick me every time." You open your mouth to rebut the notion, but I push on, capitalising on the flash of weakness you show. "Come now, have you not noticed? The increase of guards around your vicinity: the minute pause preceding their response?"

You try not to let me see, but you freeze. A dull horror is slowly colouring your features. Betrayal is a honeyed dish to create, and how delightful it is that I am the one to serve it to you. I take another step forward and you flinch.

"Arthur would never -"

"Oh Arthur would. They are under strict instructions to report your movements to him, and they have the authority to override your instructions if they deem it is against the wishes of my Prince." Another step. There is fear in your eyes, and it is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. "So even if you could convince them to take me to the cells, Arthur will release me as soon as he wakes - and he will wake - what little freedom you have left will vanish."

"I don't believe you." Your voice is small. It is so pathetic, I almost take pity on you.

I do not.

"Shall we test it?" I say jovially. "Why don't you call Sir Leon in, I'll stab him using my magic powers, and then we'll let the Court decide?"

"Sir Leon is an excellent knight and a good man. You wouldn't-"

"SIR LEON!" I shout, striding over to the window to let in some air.

You catch my wrist as I go past, pulling me to a halt. I let you do so, curious as to what you'll do. It is the first hint of backbone that you have shown in a while.

"Why?" You ask. It is plaintive; a child's voice.

Bringing my wrist towards me, I heave you in. It is not difficult, for you are made of skin and bone whilst I am made of muscle and righteousness. I lean in to whisper in your ear, my lips curling all the while, "Because no-one will ever believe you."

I sense you trembling and I withdraw to find your eyes closed. A tear snakes down your cheek and drips onto your shirt. I bask in my victory of finally putting you in your place. No more will Arthur be subjected to your poison that you drip into his ear. No more shall our ideals be corrupted by the venom in your unsolicited suggestions and advice.

Finally, we are free.

Your wrench your eyes open, and they are misty with the fruits of my success. Then they widen and -

"Arthur?"

I pivot so fast the room swirls by, off- balancing me. I find the prince sleeping as peacefully as he had been when I left him. For you. I scowl, annoyance rising as a suffocating wave within for succumbing so easily to your tricks.

Then his eyelids flutter.

"Arthur?!"

Excitement clouds my tongue and relief dizzies my mind. He mutters something in response. The unconscious realm still grips firmly to him, and it is nigh impossible to understand what he is saying. Yet that doesn't matter - for my prince is returning to reclaim his life.

I sprint back to his bed, leaving you frozen behind me. Sitting down, I lean towards him in earnest."You're in your chambers. You're safe."

Again Arthur murmurs unintelligibly. Something dull presses into my wrist, and I glance down to see his fingers twitch. Another mumble and his fingers move more insistently against my wrist, searching -

I cannot breathe. My heart is thudding so loud it resonates like the footsteps of an approaching army as gently, ever so gently, I shuffle my hand back to grasp his fluttering fingers and interlock our hands. It's the most mindful movement I have made in a long time, as if I was the forgemaster and he was made of glass.

He stills and I smile. Care floods my voice as I say, "You're fine. I'm here, Arthur."

Suddenly, he begins to struggle, attempting to peel his fingers apart even as he swims closer to consciousness. I clench our hands together to thwart him.

"You're fine Arthur, I promise! You're safe now. It's only me. I'm -"

Eyes fly open. An electric blue unfocused gaze settles on mine. A sleepy open smile brushes against his lips, and the world has dawned anew. Arthur opens his mouth, and his tone is of worry and of relief and of joy -

But it's not my name that he breathes like a man dying of thirst finally able to quench his need.

It's yours.

I think it's a mistake. I know it's a mistake -

And then I realise that it is not the sleep that is making his gaze unfocused. He says your name again and again and tries to wrench his hand out of mine. He reaches for you and smiles and it is blinding and I cannot -

I drop Arthur's hand and lurch back. Nausea swells within as you go to him. I feel like I'm deep underwater as the room erupts with motion the moment you take his hand. Gauis has somehow been conjured from his chambers and is running forward to take his pulse and a shaggy haired knight is blocking the doorway he moves and though his movements are bulky and his voice is loud no sound emits. I am a stranger. I do not understand and I am a stranger and I am drowning and I do not understand -

Suddenly I am in my room, and I don't remember how I got here. My head is filled with the buzzing of enquiries from courtiers I must have passed and the clamour of your voice and the hateful shrieks of her. Roaring fills my veins and the in-between is engulfed by the silence of my Prince when he dismissed me without a single glance. I am screaming and I cannot tell if it is loud or if it is silent and I don't care I don't care I don't care -

Because how wrong had I been? How long have I lied not only to others but to myself? It is not true that I hate you and it is not true that I am apathetic towards you. No. It is better.

I loathe you, I abominate I abhor I despise you with every sense of my being. I have watched many burnings and witnessed many twisted punishments and they are all that I demand for you and more and it's now all so clear that -

I was wrong to listen to their whispings. I was wrong to charge my destiny to others. I was wrong to trust myself. Because they all lied. Because the bogeyman of my dreams and the stalker of her nightmares was not me.

The monster I am destined to defeat is not out there and it is not within: it is you.

The realisation sweeps me off my feet and my head thunks against the floor. The pain offers some breathtaking clarity, and the knowledge is dull that later I will need to stand up and attend to my duties as if this never happened but it did happen it did it did it did - and that's fine that's good because that is in the future and I am in the present.

I am in the present, here now, lying broken on the floor. It is with glee, with grief, with heartbreak that I lie trapped in the shreds of myself as I tear through my memories. Scouring for a piece a sliver a fragment of what I thought I knew. I need evidence, hard evidence that they cared - that he cared.

But I cannot find them.

And so I lie, tortured with memories of the Lady I had lost and the Prince I might never have had.

There we are!

The two point of views are Uther Pendragon and Merlin. Did you guess anybody differently? As before, this should be able to be read as the POV of either one. Once again however I did actually have one specifically in mind.

Wierdly enough, in order to write this I ended up having to write the dialogue and description separately. I think this is likely due to the almost toxic love that appeared in my writing this. I have never written Uther's perspective before, and I'm not a Merthur shipper (though I understand why people support it!) but writing this I suddenly got it? The majority of this first established itself as set 'pieces' which I had had to stitch together. Even when I thought I had a good idea at the time of writing in my notebook where it would come in the chapter, several times the placement was altered when I actually wrote it all up. I'm honestly staggered at the final word count: 4779!

As always, concrit is very welcome! I'm dyslexic and bless spellcheck it doesn't catch all my mistakes, so if you spot any (or have advice about my writing in general!) please let me know. :) Additionally, if you have an idea about another mystery POV pairing than be in contact! The fandoms are limited to Merlin, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson and Star Trek :)

Who's POV are we in? If you'd like to know the 'right' answer, comment/PM and I'll let you know. As always, there is no wrong answer.