Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.

He missed.

Arthur didn't even realize it at first. After he had seen that those eyes had been a color that they should not have been, after he had realized what it meant, Arthur had shut his eyes. It was bad enough looking into a gaze that should have been something so very different; Arthur didn't think that he could have borne seeing the expression—or worse, lack of expression—on Merlin's face as he struck the final blow. Granted, there wouldn't exactly have been much time for him to bear it before he was killed, but still. If he was going to die at Merlin's hand, he would rather not see it. He could have faced it if it were anyone else. He hadn't had time to steel himself for the inevitable coming at the hands of the least likely person that there was.

Yet when he felt a rush of wind at his side, felt the impact next to his head, winced at the spray of rocks that scraped at his cheek, Arthur opened his eyes, unable to help himself. That was when he saw it.

Merlin had missed.

Merlin had been two feet away, and he had missed, and it was all so ridiculous that Arthur almost laughed aloud. It was only his knowledge that that one miss certainly didn't mean that Merlin couldn't just take another shot at him that helped him contain himself and behave like someone who wasn't a complete idiot. It was a temporary reprieve, Arthur knew, so he couldn't see what would be the point of celebrating it.

Then Arthur's vision adjusted in the shadows, giving him his first good look at Merlin.

And Arthur laughed aloud. He laughed and he laughed and he kept laughing until his side hurt and his eyes were blurred with tears and he could just barely register that this wasn't really all that funny.

But it was, in a way. The missing of the magical attack had been only slightly silly; but this? This was ridiculous.

It wasn't even Merlin.

So Arthur laughed.

Now that he got a closer look, he saw that this man didn't even resemble Merlin, save perhaps for the fact that he shared a gender. Merlin was tall; this man was taller, by nearly a head. Merlin was slender, but Merlin was the sort of slender that came naturally to him. Merlin liked to say that he couldn't be fat if he tried. This man, however…he had the skinniness of a man who lived by the skin of his teeth. Merlin was well enough fed by Gaius and what he snaked from the meals that he fetched for Arthur from the castle kitchens. This man was a peasant, probably a farmer. His hair was also lighter than Merlin's, a sort of brown that would have been a shade exactly between Arthur's and Merlin's, about the shade that would probably befit a child that Guinevere said that they would have produced by now if one of them had possessed the proper child-producing organs. A few days of a beard covered peasant sorcerer's lower face and, as the collar of his shirt shifted, Arthur saw that there was a significant disparity in the dark tan of his neck and arms in contrast to the paleness concealed beneath his clothing. Yes, Arthur thought distantly, this was a farmer.

And it wasn't Merlin.

After a few moments, however, it occurred to Arthur that it was slightly strange that this peasant sorcerer wasn't taking a closer aim and killing Arthur. The force that had gouged a crater into the wall made it plain that he certainly did not lack the power; why on earth would he be allowing Arthur to laugh himself into a stomachache when he could have been doing something far more sensible like blowing up his head?

Arthur stopped laughing like an a man lacking lacking all of the wits beyond those that controlled breathing and basic speech, and he took a closer look. The skinny sorcerer, who had already been swaying when he had taken his first shot, was now leaning heavily on a small cart that someone had left in the corridor, breathing very hard. His eyes still glowed golden, however, and when Arthur shifted his body into a position that would allow him to flee before the attacker would regain his strength, the sorcerer propped himself up more sturdily and extended a hand toward Arthur. The attack had clearly taken a lot out of the sorcerer, and a tiny flame of hope ignited in Arthur's chest. If this sorcerer could just miss once more, he would almost certainly be too incapacitated to stop Arthur from making an escape. Or at least striking a few blows of his own. He still had the dagger…

Then, with a wet cough, the sorcerer stood up tall once more. Taken aback at the swiftness of the recovery, Arthur tried to tense himself to tackle the skinny man.

The sorcerer reached a hand in Arthur's direction, trembling at the extension, steadied only into what was an aim that would certainly kill Arthur when he raised his other hand to support it.

Arthur clenched his fingers around the hilt of his tagger and prepared to launch forward, almost quivering. He had to wait for the perfect moment, he knew. He had to wait until the sorcerer was about to attack, when he was pooling his strength and temporarily vulnerable. He just had to wait…

Then, so very suddenly that it never occurred to Arthur to do anything with his dagger or even make a run for it, the sorcerer was blasted off of his feet, flying backward away from the king with such force that, when he hit the railing that separated the corridor from the courtyard below, he flipped over it and fell, taking a bit of the railing with him. Arthur didn't hear him hit, but he knew that, at best, the skinny sorcerer would wake to himself at dawn with a pair of very broken legs. Of course, his back had almost certainly broken when he'd hit the stone railing…at worst, the skinny sorcerer wouldn't be waking at all.

Arthur didn't hear him hit, because he was too busy yanking the cart upon which the skinny sorcerer had been leaning so that it covered him from whoever had struck down his attacker. He knew that it didn't conceal him; even if whoever this savior was hadn't had the sense to realize what the skinny man was doing, it would take a blind man not to notice a cart suddenly changing positions in an otherwise abandoned hallway.

Also, it was a cart, so Arthur was partially visible between the legs and upper and lower platforms. But it felt better than nothing.

Besides, he was more than a little bit confused. Someone had saved him from the attacking sorcerer and, while he was grateful for the fact that he wasn't dead just yet, there was no avoiding the truth that was this rescue had not been from the slash of a sword or the toss of a spear or the bolt of a crossbow. The skinny sorcerer had been flung to the courtyard by magic, and magic was out to get him. For all he knew, this "rescuer" had seen a man, assumed that it was Arthur, and flung him off of the balcony just on the off-chance that he was the man that they had all been sent to kill.

Arthur had been saved by one angry sorcerer; he was about to face another.

He took a deep breath, looking around him for anything more impressive than his small dagger that could be used as a weapon. Even a blunt object for the hurling would have been handy. He began to paw through the objects on the lower level of the cart, all of which had been upended and piled upon each other when Arthur had yanked the cart toward him. Most of it was rubbish, but he saw to his great relief that there was a table setting of dirty silver dishes and cutlery. While the spoon was unlikely to provide much help, the fork and knife at least increased his stabbing tools by two, and he could throw the cup. Plus, he thought with some excitement, wiping it clean with the sleeve that poked out from beneath his chainmail, he could use the plate as a shield or helmet or some sort of impressive attack discus that would behead this enemy sorcerer before he had the time to see spinning discus of death flying mercilessly at him…

Or, he thought, looking at it, he could use it as a mirror. That was perhaps more likely to be of some use than an impromptu attack discus. Especially when he had only named it an "attack discus" to make the throwing of a plate sound like a less pathetic method of self-defense.

Trying to make himself as small as possible, Arthur crouched at the edge of the cart and tilted the silver plate sideways, using the reflection to see who was in the corridor without risking leaning out from what little protection he had. As silver plates are not exactly designed for such a use, the image that Arthur got back was bent and distorted, but it was enough.

It was Merlin.

Of course it was.

Arthur only avoided beginning to laugh again by biting his lip so hard that he drew blood. This was so stupid…

Exasperation beginning to temper the high of the exhilaration that always accompanied the moments of looming death, Arthur took a deep breath and began to run through his options. The first that popped into his head—and by far the most appealing—was to just stand up and face Merlin. He could try to talk some sense into Merlin, try to remind him of all that they had been through together, try to bring him back to himself. At the very least, he had to imagine that there was some dignity in facing his death head on rather than hiding behind an entirely inadequate cart for the sorcerer to come and deal it standing over him.

Then again, there was far more dignity in not dying. As much as he would hate running away without even trying to stand up for himself, he had to imagine that living to deal with the shame was preferable to dying. As Merlin liked to say, "dignity" was often synonymous with "stupidity." Maybe Arthur should just shove the cart at Merlin and make a run for it.

Or, Arthur considered, he could just follow the example of the skinny sorcerer and jump over the railing himself down to the courtyard below. Granted, there was no way for him to land without breaking something important, but if he could just inch or roll his way back into the shadows, he might stand a chance.

Then there was that final option, the choice that he so very much did not want to even consider. He could abandon the plans that were sentimental and unlikely, the plans that were undignified but just possible, the plans that involved more grievous injuries than Gaius would be able to treat, the plans that meant that everyone would make it out alive—save perhaps the skinny sorcerer that Merlin had flung over the railing—and it would all be okay when it was all over and the sun rose…

Yes, there was another choice. It was probably even more suicidal than the option of taking a dive down into the courtyard, but it felt more…natural to him. He would die with weapons in his hands, even if they were only a dagger and goblet. He would die looking forward rather than running away. He would die, almost certainly, but he would make his final stand. It was what a king should do.

Besides, it was so stupid a plan that it would probably have the element of surprise.

But could he do it? Could he leap at Merlin with a knife in hand, aiming to…aiming to do something terrible? Granted, Merlin had every intention of doing something terrible to Arthur, but it wasn't his choice. Arthur had a choice.

Arthur swallowed deeply, closing his eyes. Yes, Arthur had a choice, but he also had a wife. He had a kingdom. He had responsibilities. He had more to worry about than the life of a manservant who was, by all of the existing laws of Camelot, a traitor of the worst kind. He had a duty to attack Merlin, didn't he? He should want to attack Merlin.

Of course he wanted to attack Merlin, Arthur told himself. He wasn't an idiot, no matter how many times Merlin had conked him on the head. By all laws of logic and rationale, he wanted Merlin dead. Logically, attacking Merlin was the right and sensible thing to do. His subconscious clearly agreed; why else would he have drawn his dagger so instinctually? Attacking Merlin was the smart thing to do, and Arthur was a king. So the king grasped his dagger as tightly as he could, tucking the spoon and fork into his belt for good measure, taking a deep breath in preparation. He shifted into a crouching position, and the king prepared to jump out and do what he could to kill his manservant. The king was ready.

But Arthur wasn't.

So, cursing his own stupidity even as he did it, Arthur stood up from behind the cart and looked at his friend.

It didn't look like his friend. It was the same frame, yes, and he still wore the same combination of garments that he had worn every day since Arthur had met him. His hair was still mussed with the ease of a man who didn't have to look like a king and the comfort of a manservant who never bothered to dress for his highest of positions in the royal household. His boots were the same as ever, beaten and brown and possessing what Arthur was positive were far too many buckles than could possibly be necessary.

But it was all wrong. There were scratches on his forearms and face, giving the impression that Merlin had hastened back to the castle with such uncontrolled speed that he hadn't bothered trying to avoid any bushes or branches that happened to get in his way. Merlin wasn't fidgeting or squirming with energy contained as he usually did when instructed to stand still, such as when he stood—unnecessarily, as he claimed—in the back of the council chambers as Arthur presided over a meeting. Even his posture was wrong. He stood up straight without leaning so unsteadily on one leg in the way that Arthur claimed explained a great deal about his lack of general balance. His knees were locked and his frame stood at its full height. Arthur tended to prefer Merlin's slouch; it allowed him to maintain the illusion that he was, in fact, taller than his manservant. But this man wasn't standing like Merlin.

And the eyes…

Arthur didn't much like looking at the eyes. They looked…painful, as though little bits of what Merlin had been were burning up as they glowed. If he was honest with himself, Arthur knew, it wasn't the scratches or the stillness or the standing that was so unnerving. It was the eyes, completely overtaken by a color that was not their own, that made Merlin look like a completely different person. In a way, Arthur wished that it were just the pupils that were golden. Arthur had seen magic before, and he had only seen the pupils and irises—words that he had learned from Gaius and had not until this very moment realized that he'd been paying close enough attention to recall them—change color. But now, the entire eye socket was glowing to the extent that his brow and cheekbones were ever so slightly illuminated. It wasn't right. Merlin looked as though he was a corpse supported only by some terrible energy that shone through from his eyes. There was nothing of him in his body, and it occurred to Arthur that perhaps his plan to talk Merlin out of his homicidal mission was even more foolish than he'd already believed.

Still, it was too late for him to do anything else. Inhuman though he seemed, Arthur had the feeling that Merlin-even in his current state-would be bound to notice if he tried to sneak behind the cart again.

So Arthur decided that he would employ the most practical method to talk Merlin into becoming himself again.

"Hello, Merlin!" said Arthur as heartily as he could manage. "I see that you stole my horse!"

Arthur smiled as best he could and waved, feeling silly even as he made the motion. Was this really the best that he could do? He'd never felt so pathetic.

Merlin apparently agreed, and Arthur didn't really blame him as Merlin gave a sort of disinterested swipe of the hand in Arthur's direction. Even as he skidded backward down the corridor, his armor drawing sparks from the stone floor, he found that the panic that had begun to pool in his chest upon seeing Merlin clearly and closely for the first time since he had broken the gate was beginning to recede. This magical blow was certainly more powerful than the one dealt him by the skinny sorcerer, but Merlin hadn't slammed him into the wall or over the railing as he could have. Arthur was just skidding backward, and he was more than willing to disregard what pain there was from the attack if the comparative gentleness of it was not giving him so much relief. Perhaps he was just toying with Arthur...

On one level, Arthur knew that it was fairly ridiculous that being attacked by a sorcerer clearly far more powerful than the first should have reassured him. He knew that. Yet the fact remained that Merlin, with that half-hearted wave of a hand, had thrown him back with enough force to kill him, had he hit anything from the momentum. Merlin had thrown him down a corridor, and Arthur knew that he'd be sore in the morning from how he'd landed. But Merlin clearly hadn't meant for Arthur to die.

Merlin was in there. He had to be. Glowing eyes aside, Merlin was in there.

Wasn't he?

Arthur stopped skidding and, as he heaved himself up, he realized that he had a stupid smile on his face. He was glad that there was no one else there to see it. Except Merlin, but Merlin wouldn't tell anyone. He'd tease Arthur, of course, but Arthur tended to let that go whenever they were alone.

Arthur stood up and looked around for Merlin, certain that he would have followed Arthur as he slid down the hallway. He was even half-surprised that Merlin had not offered him a hand to pull him to his feet. But Merlin was still where he had been when he'd made his attack, alone in the middle of the corridor. It was only by squinting in the gloom and the brightness in Merlin's eyes that Arthur could begin to discern Merlin's expression.

There wasn't one, and Arthur was just beginning to grow concerned about the implications of blankness when Merlin extended an arm toward Arthur. He saw the fingers clench into a fist, but it was not until he felt a sudden pressure on his abdomen that he realized what was about to happen to him.

"Oh, hell," Arthur whispered. Then Merlin yanked his arm backward toward his side, and Arthur was be pulled along the floor right back in the direction from which he had come. There was no time for him to do any smiling or hoping this time; he had to muster all of his strength to flip himself off of his belly and onto his back, sparing his face the injuries that would come from being dragged at such great force down the corridor. The speed was so significant and the pressure on his abdomen so distracting that he almost didn't even notice as a great scrape was drawn up on the right side of his face, from chin to temple, covering his entire cheek and only just sparing him a break to the nose that would have been utterly irreparable.

After a few seconds, the pressure was released from his abdomen, and he was no longer being pulled. His momentum, however, carried him forward until he was stopped only by a collision with Merlin's legs, which bent slightly at the impact before one leg kicked gently forward to roll Arthur away.

Too unnerved now to be properly angry, Arthur sat back and pulled one of his gloves off with his teeth. Refusing to look up at Merlin, he raised the back of his naked hand and brushed it over the right side of his face. Wincing at the contact, he felt wetness that meant that he was bleeding. Pulling his hand away and looking down to see just how much blood he was losing, he saw a small clump of blond hairs that had been loosened from his scalp by the terrible skid.

Now he was angry.

He forgot his pain and shoved himself into a standing position, so irritated that for a moment, he was able to overlook the golden eyes. He wiped the black glove along the side of his face to soak up a bit of blood before hurling it at Merlin in what he was certain was one of the most unwisely petulant moments in his entire life.

Plus, it didn't even hit Merlin. The glove landed at his feet. Annoyed by his own foolishness, Arthur opened his mouth to shout. He was just drawing in a breath that would permit him a lengthy rant when he saw Merlin bend down at the knees and pick up the glove in an action that was so automatically familiar that Arthur's anger drained away as quickly as it had flared. Merlin was so wrong and so alien and so unnatural and so off that it hadn't been difficult for Arthur to dismiss his sympathies in the face of a facial injury that would almost certainly leave one hell of a scar. But as he bent down to pick up something that Arthur had thoughtlessly tossed aside, Arthur's heart ached. He was wrong and alien and unnatural…but that was still Merlin, and Merlin was in trouble. How could Arthur turn on him when he needed help?

Well, if he listened to the little voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like that of his wife, he could easily turn on Merlin when he needed help. But Guinevere wasn't there, and Merlin was, and…

"Just so you know," Arthur coughed, rubbing at his abdomen with one hand and gesturing at the thrown glove with the other. "That wasn't a challenge to a duel or anything. That was just retaliation for you throwing me up and down the corridor. Granted, it wasn't the most impressive of retaliations, but I seem to have lost my sword and I don't have a crossbow and you happen to have magic handy for this situation, but it was the best that I could do with what I—"

Arthur was cut off when he saw Merlin look up at the ceiling above them and blink. Swearing at the fact that he seemed to be spending most of his time on the floor of this damn hallway, Arthur flung himself backward, landing hard and protecting the side of his face that would probably show cheekbone if it went through another skid.

His jump had only just been in time; a large chunk of ceiling fell right where Arthur had been standing only a moment before. Extremely shaken by the fact that he couldn't explain away as halfhearted the attack via falling rock the same way that he could being thrown about the hallway, Arthur completely missed his opportunity to try to run as Merlin was momentarily blocked by his own destruction. With steady legs and without wobbling in the slightest, Merlin climbed over the fallen rock and jumped down.

Once again, Arthur inhaled deeply and tried to pretend that the voice telling him to try to run was the one that was irrational. He wasn't going to run or attack. He was going to do the only right thing. He was going to make Merlin remember, or he was going to die trying. And he was going to ignore that the odds were very heavily in the "die trying" category.

"When this is all over, you're going to have to fix that," Arthur said breathlessly, steeling his courage as he gestured up at the sky that had been previously concealed by stone. "Don't think that just because you're my manservant that I'm going to let you get away with tearing apart my architecture."

Arthur suppose that, with that particular admonishment, he shouldn't have really been surprised that Merlin chose the tearing apart of architecture as the basis for his next attack. Granted, Arthur would have only been able to pick up a piece of the debris and hurl it in Merlin's general direction, but the idea would have been the same. Fundamentally, Arthur supposed that he could understand.

Realistically, however, Arthur was too busy shouting out in displeasure at the length of railing that Merlin—with another bat of his eyes—tore off in a 10 foot long strip that spanned the width of the corridor. As it began hurtling in Arthur's direction, he became grimly aware that the only practical reaction would have been to climb atop the railing and wait for free space. As it was, leaping down onto the courtyard was beginning to seem like the best plan for survival.

Unfortunately, the best plan for survival wasn't exactly what Arthur was going for. Not that way. So, as the waist-high strip of railing flew toward him, knocking aside the debris that had fallen from the collapsing rock, Arthur saw the overturned cart a few feet in front of him, on its side at about the height of Arthur's knees. Ignoring every instinct that reminded him that he heading in the opposite direction for this scenario, Arthur jumped atop the cart and, just as the strip of corridor was about to make the collision that would at the very least injure him with such severity that he wouldn't have the chance to do anything except wait.

The good news was that Arthur did in fact manage to avoid being crushed beneath the sliding stone. The bad news was that he timed his jump just too early, and when he came down, his left foot caught on the length of railing. It was only by covering his face with his forearm that he avoided smashing his face bloody. The bumps and scrapes and bruises elsewhere could be dealt with; a reassembled face could not.

Distantly, he knew that he ought to be pleased that he had avoided the facial destruction. Presently, however, he was much too distracted by his attempts to not cry out in pain from what he was almost certain was a broken forearm.

But he did manage it, because deep down inside him, way down past the pain from his forearm and the throbbing of the scraped side of his cheek and the exhaustion of trying to do and feel too many things at once, Arthur remembered why he'd done the stupid thing and remained in this corridor long enough to break his arm and scrape his face and wear himself out. He remembered why he was being so terribly foolish, and he knew that shouting at his attacker wouldn't do either of them any good.

So, cradling his broken arm—unfortunately, his broken right arm—Arthur continued in his strategy to recover his manservant.

"I'll have you in the stocks for this, Merlin," said Arthur brightly, trying so desperately hard to sound normal, because maybe if he sounded normal then Merlin would be normal again. He was the king, damn it, and if Merlin didn't want to stop this on his own, Arthur would will him out of this enchantment. He was the king, Arthur thought again, and it was only very distantly that he realized that he was beginning to cry. "And I'll do it when there's lots of rotten food for the villagers to throw at you, even potatoes, which I understand are still very hard even after they've gone bad. You just wait. I'll have you in the stocks…"

Merlin crossed his arms over his chest, looking irritatingly put-together. Arthur wished that he could at least have the decency to be out of breath. The skinny peasant sorcerer probably would have keeled over and died from the exertion before the rock tossing had even begun. Merlin wasn't even swaying, for heaven's sake. He looked more steady and in control of his movements than he did when not under an enemy enchantment.

Stupid powerful Merlin.

But Arthur didn't have the time to think about all of the reasons that the whole situation was unfair. He had to believe that Merlin's arm-crossing only meant that Arthur was in for a whole new attack, and Arthur tensed, holding injured his arm tightly against his abdomen, stabilizing it while he had to chance. Oh, he just knew that there was going to be jumping again…

Yet when Merlin blinked again, nothing was hurled at Arthur. Arthur wasn't hurled anywhere. Merlin didn't collapse the floor below him to send him down into the rooms below. Merlin didn't do anything at all to Arthur, and it wasn't until Arthur registered a bang in the distance that he understood that Merlin's magic had been directed at something else.

Distracted despite himself, Arthur looked out over where the railing ought to have been. It was just beginning to grow a tiny bit lighter outside, and he saw a puff of dust shoot up from somewhere beyond the castle walls in the lower town. It took a few moments but when Arthur realized what it was, he laughed aloud, as much in relief as incredulous hysteria.

Merlin had blown up the stocks.

Of course, it shouldn't have been the most reassuring thought that Merlin could explode a structure that was hundreds of feet away with alarming specificity and without so much as turning his head in that general direction, but still. There had to be some vestige of Merlin in there. There had to be. Why else would he blow up the stocks? Surely someone entirely devoted to the enforced mission at hand would be far more intent on destroying Arthur than destroying the occasional punitive structure. Merlin's sense of humor was in there, he thought desperately. It was still there, just…amplified. And aggressive. And angry.

Still, Arthur had the sense to think that perhaps he ought to start to inch his way backward. He was still intent on not fleeing, but there was always the possibility of more jumping. The more distance between the two of them, the better.

"I'd throw you in the dungeons," Arthur babbled, still backing away and looking at Merlin as directly as he could without staring him in the eyes. "I'd say that I'd throw you in the dungeons, Merlin, but I don't want you to blow those up. I think that we're standing on top of them, and I'd rather not collapse through the floor because you've decided that the dungeons should be the next thing to go. And even if we're not on top of the dungeons, I still don't want them destroyed. Where would we house all the prisoners in the meantime? Of course, we could just hang them faster, but we still ought to have dungeons. And honestly, it's bad enough that we're going to have to repair this corridor, but it would be a nightmare to have to rebuild those…right? Not that I would do the actual rebuilding, of course, but I would have to go to trouble of making other people do it for me. That's a job too, you know. Bossing people around is exhausting business."

Laugh, Arthur thought desperately, trying to move past the gap in the railing. If he was going to be thrown sideways, a collision with intact railing would mean more pain. A fall to the courtyard would almost certainly result in a bit more than that. Oh, please just laugh, he thought again. He didn't care if it would be a laugh with him or a laugh at him or a laugh just at the idea that it would only occur to Arthur now that the dungeons could probably use a bit of updating. It did seem like an awful lot of people escaped from those dungeons…and that could be funny, couldn't it?

But Merlin didn't laugh.

"You've been in those dungeons, haven't you?" asked Arthur, speaking so rapidly that he wasn't entirely sure that Merlin could have heard him even if he'd been properly in his own mind. "Plenty of times. I've thrown you in, my father's thrown you in…I've been in the dungeons too, remember? When you drank the poison for me and I went for the flower and my father was so angry that he threw me in the dungeons? That was ages ago, wasn't it? What a laugh that was. Well, in hindsight. It wasn't so funny at the time, was it? It shouldn't be funny now, really. You know, I'd lasted two decades as a prince without requiring much discipline from my father. You're not even half a year in my service, and I'm being thrown in the dungeons. I should've known then that you were going to be trouble."

Merlin uncrossed his arms, and Arthur took a deep breath, preparing. But Merlin didn't do anything. He just stood there, motionless and with his arms at his sides, standing like a poorly dressed and not particularly interesting statue. His eyes remained open.

Arthur decided to take this as a good sign.

"It was odd that I would go to the trouble of imprisoning you, now that I think about it," said Arthur, his voice shaking as he tried to keep it conversational and pretend that he wasn't particularly bothered by the repeated attempts on his life. He forced himself to stop backing away. He didn't walk any closer either, but he thought that stopping the backward movement was something, at least.

"I should have just sacked you. That would've have made much more sense, wouldn't it? Of course, I did sack you once. Remember? It was just after you came to work for me, and you did something that wasn't fitting to your station—it was early on, so I didn't know just yet that you would never really behave as befit your station—so I just went ahead and sacked you. Remember? Oh, please," said Arthur, his voice suddenly growing very quiet. "Please remember that. I took you back, remember? The one time that I behave like a proper prince and sack you, it lasts for about a day. And we didn't even like each other then, remember?"

Merlin still didn't move and he remained as expressionless as he had during this whole encounter. But Arthur thought that he saw something that was either very promising or very foreboding for what would happen next. He saw Merlin sway.

Slightly encouraged, Arthur inhaled deeply, preparing for another incoherent speech. His voice was hoarse and his pain beginning to grow more distracting, but that didn't matter, really. Whether his admittedly poorly thought-out plan was beginning to work or if he was just hastening his own demise by annoying the sorcerer who wasn't really Merlin, this was at least progress, wasn't it?

So Arthur chose another memory and started up again, forcing himself to hold his ground.

"And remember when I had to go on that quest to the Perilous Lands, all on my own? And you nagged at me and complained that since I got to pick the quest that I should have picked something somewhat less perilous? But I went anyway and I was doing just fine until I passed out—and you weren't even there to conk me in the head with anything! But I passed out for whatever reason and I woke up and you were there and so was Gwaine and I'm still not entirely sure how that worked out, but—"

And Arthur choked, his throat going utterly dry so quickly that it hurt, and he tried to raise his right hand to clutch at it before he remembered that trying to use that arm for anything nonessential that did not involve flopping it around uselessly was a slightly bad idea. He would have cried out in pain, but he didn't seem to be able to make a sound. Even his breathing felt strained.

His voice was gone.

Well, that resolved the mystery of whether he had been getting through to Merlin or just annoying him with the speeches.

It was not a promising resolution.

Arthur's voice was gone and, for the first time, Arthur raised his head parallel with Merlin's so that, if Merlin's eyes has been in their normal state, he'd've been holding Arthur's gaze. Why the hell not? If he couldn't speak to try to make it all better, he could at least look his killer in the eye before the final spell was chosen. He could do that now. After all, this was no different than an execution, really, was it?

The thought gave him shivers.

And it hurt. This was it. He had failed, and this was the end. And it was Merlin.

Holding his head as high as he could, he waited for Merlin to say something. Even if Merlin couldn't be Merlin, even if he hadn't so much as opened his mouth to utter a single word thus far, surely the sorcerer who had cast this spell would have arranged for whoever was to strike the killing blow to have some sort of last words to deliver, a final condemnation, a declaration, a rationalization, a boast, something.

But Merlin didn't say a word.

It was dreadfully quiet.

The sky was black as ink.

Merlin was standing very still and Arthur was giving one final desperate consideration to the plan of leaping over the railing onto the courtyard when he saw something that caught his strained breath in his chest. Merlin's eyes…flickered.

At first, Arthur was sure that he'd imagined it. After all, hadn't he spent the last ten minutes hoping and praying that Merlin's eyes would turn blue again, that he would be regular old annoying Merlin again? Surely, his mind had just conjured up the image in a subconscious effort to keep him from diving down onto the very solid stone of the courtyard. But, before he could help it, he looked at Merlin's face with more intensity than he'd dared since he'd discovered that Merlin had become—for that terrible night—an enemy.

And Merlin's eyes flickered again.

It was only for an instant, and Arthur became aware that Merlin's body seemed to be indicating for the first time the same sort of genuine stress that was affecting the other sorcerers. He was breathing very hard and, although he didn't sway or stagger like all the others had, his joints all seemed to be shivering, as though his body was either trying very hard to move or very hard to stand still.

His eyes flickered.

Gold.

Blue.

The pressure on Arthur's throat released, and he gasped.

Gold.

The moon illuminated the corridor.

Blue.

Everything was still.

Blue.

Blue…

Arthur exhaled a laugh, not even knowing why. It was as though all of the tension that had built in his chest and all of the frightened tightness in his lungs was released all at once, and the only way that his body could possibly deal with it was to laugh. All at once, he shuddered, and realized that he'd been sweating profusely. His shirt was all but soaked through beneath his mail, and a breeze was beginning to blow over them. Probably from the brand new hole in the roof, Arthur thought distantly.

Blue.

Merlin shook his head back and forth. He blinked.

And his eyes remained blue.

Arthur realized that his eyes were wet again. It didn't seem to matter.

To Merlin's credit, it only took him a few seconds to seem to register what was happening. Of course, he'd known about the enchantment, Arthur recalled. He'd fled with so much haste that he surely must have seen the possibility of this happening. Merlin glanced around him, looking exhausted and not even appearing to notice Arthur, and he seemed to realize where he was. For a moment, Merlin hung his head in what Arthur recognized as shame, and the he looked as though he was going to collapse to the ground and weep.

Then, Merlin saw Arthur. The devastation that had crept into his eyes upon the realization of where he was and what he must have been doing there vanished in an instant, and heartbreaking relief flashed across his face before being replaced by fear and terrible uncertainty. His body swayed and his eyes flickered again, and Arthur understood. Merlin needed to focus. Although distantly offended that this seemed to mean that his attempts to bring Merlin back to himself had been entirely eclipsed by Merlin's internal struggles with for control, Arthur hoped would have the chance think about that later. Right now, he could shut up and let Merlin focus.

Arthur stood very still and watched as silently as he could manage without stopping breathing altogether.

Merlin's whole body shivered, and he closed his eyes. His fists were very tightly clenched, and his nose began to bleed. Then he looked up again.

Gold.

Blue.

Blue.

Merlin shook his head again, looking dreadfully pale, the red of the blood on his face giving him a ghastly complexion more grim than Arthur had seen on many a corpse. His expression as he once again came back to himself quickly grew frightened and confused and so very sad. He didn't seem to want to look at the king. There was something strangely determined in him that Arthur couldn't understand.

"Merlin..?" Arthur said, very quietly.

Merlin's eyes flickered.

His nose bled.

Finally looking at Arthur with the blue eyes that Arthur liked to see, Merlin gave a tired half-smile that lasted just long enough for Arthur's heart to leap and begin to hope that maybe it was all going to be okay now.

Then, Merlin raised a palm to the side of his own head. Shrugging apologetically with such controlled deliberation that Arthur was suddenly frightened, Merlin's eyes flashed gold. Immediately, Merlin crumpled to the floor. His body twitched once, twice…and then was still.

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Well, this was just obscenely long. I considered breaking it into two chapters just to save myself the embarrassment, but here it is. Hopefully some of you actually made it through the whole thing!

Thank you for reading, and please review!