A/n: Hey guys. I'm still around, believe it or not. I know it's a while after I said I would be free, but these last couple months have been a bit rough. Since I've last posted, I've attended all of three funerals, dealt with familial mental/health concerns, and worried over a situation I am thankful didn't end in a full-blown murder-suicide (though the latter part does explain one of the funerals, which unleashed its own mess). On the plus side, thesis done, graduated with honors, and got two new puppies. Oh, and I've a new job making decent money and plan on moving shortly. After that, I'm hoping everything will settle down a little bit more. I'm not looking for any concern or condolences, but I figured given this content it would be best to tell you guys where I am emotionally right now. Writing this has been a bit difficult lately, so I would like to thank all of you for sticking around regardless. You guys are the best!

Notes on canon: Arthur has had Excalibur this whole time, even though yeah, yeah I know he gets it back end of season 4, which is essentially what this fic is modifying. Also, this chapter is going to be a little Arthur/Gwen if you're into that sort of thing. I intend for it to be platonic (super hardcore Gwen/Lance shipper here), but if you dig the ship, there you go.

Disclaimer: All I own are my mistakes, which are likely plentiful.


A Criminal's Burial

Chapter 6

"Sire?" Lewis asked, eyebrows peaked in inquiry as he watched the king, who was crouching on the forest floor and tracing a deep gouge in the dirt with with his fingertips.

"This is where it happened," Arthur stated more for himself than for his company, who had moments before told him that very fact. Unable to draw his eyes away from the small hole, the king felt his heart trench.

"Yes sire, that is where we found the boy," Staunton confirmed with a nod.

Rolling back into a sit, Arthur took another moment to examine the small mark, worn by rain, and wonder how such a small wound in the earth could cleave such a chasm in a world. Despite the odd looks from the escorting knights and Lewis's insistence he get up, the king remained in place, half-wishing that he had bitten his tongue before the question bubbled up. Eyes losing focus, Arthur's fingertips rhythmically grazed the ground in slow circles. It didn't feel right.

Sighing, Arthur pushed himself up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where exactly were the bedrolls?"

"Right over here, sire," Lord Staunton replied, gesturing to a space a few paces away.

Surveying the area, Arthur looked for anything that would remind him of the events that reportedly transpired here, but he drew a blank. It was just like any other forest clearing, nothing particularly special about it. That couldn't possibly be right.

He shook his head and walked towards the area before stopping dead in his tracks, nose wrinkling. He would know that smell anywhere. Eyes seeking the source of the odor, he settled on a glare when he found it. Gaia berries. There was a gaia berry bush. Right there, next to where the bedrolls were. Why the hell would either of them—let alone both of them—agree to settle next to a ruddy gaia berry bush? Though he had made fun of Merlin and his knights for detesting the smell, Arthur was fairly certain he had better be actively dying from a Wilddeoren attack before even considering smearing himself in the paste a third time, especially after the last time, when he had to kill all the creatures regardless.

Something clenched in the pit of his stomach. If they had settled next to this bush willingly, something must have been terribly wrong. Maybe it was even the reason he could not remember a thing. He would have to speak with his knights, with Gaius, to see determine why they had set out in the first place. If he had set out with others—others, what kind of other loss could he be returning home to?—what could have possibly happened? Had they been separated? Killed?

Dread anchoring in his throat, Arthur swallowed thickly against it. Camelot was a day away and could prove to be a world of difference. Face hidden from view, he stood there for a moment, staring off into the woods until his eyes fell on a large stick on the forest floor. Resolute, he lumbered into the thicket and snatched up the stick. Arthur snapped off the top third, which was a bit crooked and wispy compared to the rest, and headed back towards the confused convoy, who were, by now, all asking questions he ignored.

Stopping at the small hole, he paused, clutching the sticks in his clammy palm. He had killed Merlin here. He had stabbed him here. Excalibur hung heavy against his belt, a snaking reminder of his own betrayal.

Sucking in a breath, he crouched down and drove the thicker stick into the ground until he was certain it wouldn't tip over. Perspiration cooling, Arthur shuddered. He couldn't help but to remember all those dreams where he had done that very thing, stabbing Merlin as if he were returning the sword to the stone. In a way, he had.

Legs trembling, he sunk to his shins and grappled with his billowing cloak. He ripped off the tattered end and crossed the first stick with the second, carefully tying it until it stayed in place.

With a final breath and a push off the ground, Arthur examined his handiwork for a minute before turning back around to the other members of his party. Though now no one dared to voice a question, Lewis's confusion behind his crossed arms and cocked head asked them nonetheless. Arthur walked towards Llamrei and Bunny in silence with eyes burning at his back. After mounting his own horse, Arthur stated, "He was a good man."

Lewis raised a pointed finger. "But Sire, he—"

"—Saved my life on multiple occasions and deserves to have died a good death. As far as I am concerned, he did," Arthur insisted with a hard stare at Lewis and Lord Staunton in particular, "I will hear nothing to the contrary. I will not allow any uncertainty to disavow five years of his good and loyal service or besmirch his good name. Am I making myself clear?"

A chorus of "yes, Sire" rang through the clearing, and Arthur nodded sharply before turning southward. "A day more until we arrive in Camelot?"

Disjointed muttered affirmations filled the air as everyone mounted their own horses. As they set off, Arthur drifted to the back while the knights whispered their disapprovals of showing such emotion over a mere servant.


The rest of the day and night had passed in silence, Arthur deep in his own thoughts. He hadn't slept much, unwilling to give into the nightmares that had plagued the previous nights. If he was to tell everyone Merlin had died during an attack (in which they were severely outnumbered), he couldn't very well be haunted by nightmares that insisted everything to the contrary.

As Camelot's walls came into sight, Arthur's breath hitched. It was the same as it always was, flat across the clearing, walls a resplendent white, towers grasping for the heavens. Though he had been looking forward to coming home for the better part of a week, he could not bring himself to spare Camelot another glance. Head hung low, Arthur's body tensed, reality crashing around him. He was home in a place he feared would never feel at home again.

They drew nearer, and the king could catch a glimpse of the guards standing erect at the gate, watching as people go about their business bringing carts of fresh harvested vegetables into the city walls for the morning market. The people fussed about, not entirely noticing the small convoy until they saw Arthur near the middle, clad in his sweeping Pendragon red cloak.

A man leaving the city stopped dead in his tracks, chin dropping to a gawk, and the woman behind him bumped into him. Her face contorted in annoyance before she noticed what he was staring at, and the inbound citizens stopped to turn around. Within seconds, everyone near the gate had stopped, parted a respectable distance, and stared, watching as their beloved king—and the most frequent topic of the castle gossip—returned home.

Arthur momentarily shrank beneath their gazes before he straightened up and took a deep breath. He was the king now; he had to appear as such. The moment eyes flicked to the horse trailing behind him, however, Arthur frowned deeply as he saw a few people search the entirety of the party, only to come up short. One woman, who was carrying a basket of herbs in the crook of her elbow, used her hand to stifle and audible gasp, fingers curling in front of her mouth as she closed it.

They had not known; they had not known Merlin was not coming home. Gripping the reins tighter, Arthur picked up speed to avoid their stares as his own lips thinned into a grimace. While the king pushed through to the bustling courtyard, everyone silenced, crowding around the convoy to catch a glimpse of the king.

And then they noticed, the courtyard booming into whispered comments and averted glances. Though Arthur searched the crowd, no familiar faces slid through the crowd. No Gaius rushing forward amidst a morning market trip, no Gwen passing through, no knights, heading back to their quarters after a morning of training. No one.

Throat constricting, Arthur looked around for one of his stable boys. Spotting one, he quickly dismounted and thrust the reins into the boy's hands, telling him to unpack the horses and have the contents delivered to his chambers. Before taking on two other horses from the now-dismounted knights, the boy called over to his friend, who appeared from behind one of the baker's sweet stands in the market. Together, the two of them collected all eight horses and set off towards the stables.

With a clenched jaw, Arthur turned to his guests and led the six men towards the castle itself, thankful that he could make his way out of this claustrophobic crowd. He still searched the surrounding faces, and while he could now recognize a few of the castle servants clustered around him, he could not put a name to a single one. Fist balling and unfurling, Arthur entered the castle and sighed in relief as the voices muffled behind the closed door. In the next room, he spotted the seneschal sitting at his desk writing something. "Stuart," he began, startling the man, who scratched a line across the page he was writing on.

The young man dropped his quill on the table and screeched back in his chair, nearly knocking his inkwell off the edge in the process. "Sire?"—he dove to right the inkwell, which had only splattered a few splotches onto his hand—"You're back?" Procuring a kerchief from his pocket, he blindly rubbed at his hand and stood, starting expectantly at the king for his orders.

"Yes, and I would you to personally assure that Lord Staunton and his men receive rooms and a good meal. They were the ones responsible for my return."

"Yes, Sire, right away, Sire," the man nodded, bobbing his head in reverence. Turning towards the six men, he clapped his hands together and said, "If you gentlemen would follow me this way, I will find you rooms and a servant to attend to each of you, at which point we can discuss breakfast and redirecting your belongings to your own rooms."

Arthur turned to the lord and patted his arm. "You are in good hands. Now, if you will excuse me, I must catch up on matters of state." Lord Staunton barely got out an "of course, Sire" before Arthur swiftly shook his hand and set down the hall towards the physician's chambers.


Though he had been resolved to visit Gaius first, his hand froze mid-knock on the physician's door. Shaking his head and eventually his whole body out, trying to rid himself of his nerves, Arthur tried again, hand rapping loudly on the door. A familiar voice bade his entrance, and Arthur swallowed hard as he pushed the door in. Not only did entering the space mean he would have to explain Merlin's ill-met fate, but he would have to learn how any number of his knights had fared.

The king took a deep breath as he took a step inside. Gaius was standing behind a table as usual, grinding some herbs with his pestle and mortar for some foul potion or another. The old physician glanced up, a pleased smile cracking across his face, "Sire! I had not expected you back today." Abandoning his work, he rushed forward, and his physician's gaze quickly caught sight of the wound healing on Arthur's temple. As Gaius's hand reached out to assess the damage, Arthur shooed it away, assuring the other man that he was fine and that Lord Staunton's physician had already attended to him.

Regardless, the old man bristled with concern until Arthur interjected, voice serious, "Gaius,"—he pushed the older man towards the bench behind him with a shaking hand on his shoulder—"You had better sit."

"Why?" Gaius protested, searching the king's face for any wavering indication, but complied regardless, a sinking feeling sitting with him.

Hand still on his shoulder, Arthur began, "I'm sorry Gaius."

"For what?" Gaius's lips thinned as he glanced between the king and the closed door behind them.

"Merlin..." Arthur trailed off for a moment, and Gaius's face fell. "Merlin won't be coming back."

"Oh," the old physician breathed and stared blankly into the silence. Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to say something, only to promptly shut it again. His face fell as he drooped all of his weight onto the arm against his shoulder.

Arthur's own face morphing into a frown, he continued, "I wanted to tell you first..."

Gaius merely nodded and drew his hands to mouth, thick eyebrows bowing to the news. "Did he suffer long?"

Shaking his head, Arthur answered, "I do not believe so, no." Physically anyway, he solemnly admitted to himself. "He was stabbed."

"By the beast?"

"By man," Arthur corrected.

Gaius's lips drew into a thin, grim line, and Arthur was not quite sure he could read the sour look on the older man's face. "Were you with him, Sire?"

"Yes," Arthur said, "We set up camp together, and we..."—Arthur shook his head—"It was my fault," he confessed.

Gaius's attention shot up, hand broaching his disagreement before voicing it, "No, Sire, I am sure there was nothing—"

"No, Gaius. There has to be something—" Arthur insisted. Even if he had not been the one to deal the final blow, Merlin had been killed with his sword. "I should have protected him," he finished quietly, eyes downcast.

At that, Gaius slapped his knees and stood, Arthur's hand falling back to his side. "Merlin could have protected himself better than you could ever understand, Sire," the old physician alluded, hoping Arthur had at least learned the truth. No such luck it would seem, with Arthur's eyebrow quirked in confusion. This close, Gaius could clearly see the pink, healing injury on Arthur's temple, contorted with his upshot brow. Physician's gaze assessing, his shaking hand reached out, stopping cold as it prodded the injury, checking for any further signs of concern. Satisfied, he dropped his hand to Arthur's shoulder and thanked any power responsible—likely Merlin's—that he wasn't going to be losing both. "Are you sure you are alright?" Gaius asked, voice steady, eyes searching for any sign he may have missed.

Arthur nodded, still stuck on Gaius's cryptic comment. He could only assume he meant that Merlin had gotten on better with a sword, which was, to some extent true, but given who his opponent was, it could not have been a fair fight.

Patting Arthur's shoulder in parting, Gaius apologized, "I am sorry, Sire, but I must excuse myself."

"Of course, Gaius," the king agreed, swallowing the pain in his throat back down to the bubbling pit in his stomach.

"I will...check on you later tonight, Sire," Gaius promised as he walked past him towards the stairs to Merlin's room. Hand gripping the railing, he turned back a moment and said, "For what it is worth, I am glad you were with him, Sire. He always did care for you."

Eyes watering, Arthur swallowed before mustering, "He was my best friend."

Gaius smiled for a moment at the admission, only to slip into a deeper frown before pulling himself up the stairs by the railing. Arthur, for his part, stood in the silence, heart contracting with each trudged, dreaded step, and watched Gaius reach the top, visibly tremble as he opened the door to Merlin's room, and close it again, shutting it behind him. As Arthur heard a small thud and the start of a croaked sob, Arthur set for the door, rubbing at his eyes, which had decided to run with him.

Suddenly exhausted, Arthur breathed to regain his composure outside the physician's chambers. He hadn't known what to expect, delivering that news, but he certainly hadn't expected that noise, that raw wail, torn from his body as it ripped from his heart.

Hand to chest, vainly attempting to quell the pain residing there, Arthur caught sight of a boy, one he knew had recently been hired as a page, and called out. The boy froze, having never been directly addressed by the king before, but turned to face him nonetheless. Though his young face was wrought with confusion at the king's appearance, he was more than wise enough to not question it. "Yes, Your Majesty?" he squeaked out.

"Are my knights returned?" Arthur asked, voice as kingly as he could manage.

The boy nodded. "Yes, Sire, all but Sir Frederick."

"He never returned?" the king pressed, eyebrow quirked.

"No, Sire. The servants thought he would return with you..." the boy silenced, unsure if he should divulge servant's gossip to the king himself.

Arthur nodded, processing the information. He had at least set out with Sir Frederick and Merlin, though that was an unlikely combination if he had ever thought of one, given that Merlin—for whatever odd Merlin reason—always shot the man sideways looks when he thought no one was looking. "And what of the others?"

The boy looked up, meeting the king's eyes for a moment before he turned attention back to the floor. "Sir Leon, Sir Gwaine, and Sir Percival all returned three days after you had set after the beast terrorizing the towns near the Forest of Ascetir." Strange, Arthur thought. How had he gone from fighting a monster there, a short jaunt to the east, to being treated so far to the northeast in Stauton's land, which shared a border with Mercia? "They sent out search parties, but when the messenger from Lord Staunton arrived a few days ago, they called them off."

Now that was the only bit of information that actually made any sense. If the messenger arrived a few days ago, then Arthur would have been home by the time Camelot's messenger had so much as arrived in Staunton's lands. Then again, given the dates, if he had stayed with Lord Staunton for a whole week prior to waking up, shouldn't a messenger have arrived sooner than a few days ago, around the time he himself had left. Perhaps the messenger had experienced trouble the the road? He would have to ask later, assuming the messenger was still within the city walls.

"Any injuries?"

The boy shook his head. "None that I have heard of, Sire."

"Good," Arthur breathed, relieved. Servants usually had the second-best information, aside from the sources themselves. "Now, could you find them? Tell them I am awaiting their arrival in the throne room."

The page readily agreed and eagerly supplied, "I believe that is where Sir Leon is already. He has been attending to matters of state with Sir Agravaine."

"Excellent." Another weight off Arthur's chest.

With a farewell and an awkward bow, the boy left in a hurry, running with a bounce only a child could possess.


Upon entering the throne room, Arthur was grateful that Leon alone had occupied it, sitting in his place at the Round Table. The man, up until that very moment, had been staring intently at a document in front of him, a look of consternation on his face as he tried to read whatever illegible scrawl composed it. Suffice to say, the king had been a sight for sore eyes, and Leon rose to greet his king. In the first few moments, he filled Arthur in on the basic information that he had missed in his absence, including the basic requests peasants had made and how everything seemed utterly uneventful in the last week. Despite the fact that her king had been missing, no one had taken the opportunity to attack Camelot, a fact Arthur was pleased to hear.

"I hear Sir Frederick has yet to return," Arthur began, hoping the issue would incite Leon to tell part of the story.

"He didn't return with you?" Leon frowned. "We had assumed the three of you stayed together after we were separated by the wyverns. It hadn't been the span of twenty minutes, and you three seemed to have disappeared. We found, well, a trail of wyvern parts, and later the...remains"—the knight paused, remembering how the monster appeared to have exploded from the inside—"Of the monster we could only assume had been responsible for all those deaths in the neighboring villages. But you three? The trail ran cold as soon as we had set on it, what with that storm." The knight waved his hand vaguely, assuming the king would recall such a violent and unexpected downpour that had them seeking shelter in low land and stripping the metal off their bodies as to not tempt the earth-trembling thunderclaps above.

"No, I...Don't know where he had gone," Arthur stated, trying to remember anything about wyverns, this mystery creature, or a storm. "I"—he considered the story Lewis told him—"I only had Merlin."

Before Leon could ask about what his king wasn't letting on, Gwaine's booming voice erupted from the now-open doors, "Merlin? He promised he'd go to the tavern with me for once when we got back! Hey Princess, you already send him off to do chores?"

As Gwaine and Percival walked into the room, grand doors drifting to a close behind them, Arthur began in a grim tone, "Gwaine."

Completely ignoring him, the knight pressed on, "Sent him to stable the horses or wash your socks—"

"Gwaine," Arthur repeated with a deep frown, and it suddenly clicked for Leon, who dropped a hand to the table and braced himself on it. Percival, eyes flitting between the two strained faces, placed his hand on Gwaine's shoulder, which shook the man from his joke and into concern.

Shaking his head, Gwaine bit his lip and continued, "Tell me he stopped to pick some pretty flowers, gather some herbs for Gaius—"

"Gwaine," Percival muttered, his hand heavy on his friend's shoulder.

Brushing Percival off, he just shook his head and visibly deflated. "Merlin isn't coming to the tavern tonight"—Gwaine looked up to Arthur's face—"Is he?"

"No, he isn't," Arthur confirmed, and the room stilled.

"Or ever again, will he?"

"No. He won't."

Gwaine turned towards the door and ran a sweating palm through his hair. Hand clenching momentarily at his locks, he asked, "How did it happen?"

Stealing a glance at Percival and Leon, who were visibly stricken but eager to listen, Arthur rubbed at his arm, mentally preparing the lie he had been practicing in his head all morning. He and Merlin had set up camp and were attacked in the middle of the night by a troupe of men. Merlin had awoken first, but all he had was one of Arthur's daggers until he had taken a sword from a dead bandit. They thought between the two of them that they had gotten them all, but had, in actuality, missed one. His death was instantaneous—painless—and Arthur had buried him in the forest. Heavily concussed himself, he was fortunate that Lord Staunton and his hunting party had stumbled upon him or he might not have made it back. He repeated it to himself until Gwaine grit out, "How. Did it. Happen?"

Adam's apple bobbing against the betrayal, the words stuck in Arthur's throat. He swallowed, trying again to no avail.

Turning back around in a flash of anger, Gwaine stomped nearer, fists tightly balled. "What the hell happened?"

Percival wrapped a hand around Gwaine's shoulder as Arthur admitted, "It was my fault."

"What?" Leon and Percival chorused. Gwaine jolted forward, and Percival immediately yanked him back.

"I should have protected him..." From myself, Arthur finished silently, mind flashing to the image that was becoming a recurring nightmare: Merlin, stabbed, Excalibur half-buried in the earth. The very sword—the traitor—still hung at his side. Soon, soon he would be able to discard the treacherous thing, but he knew it would be of little help; Arthur could hardly ever tell a traitor apart from himself.

When Arthur looked up to see the faces of his knights, all posed with questions unasked around the table, he knew he had to elaborate, "He was stabbed"—Arthur's voice cracked—"at our camp, and his grave marker is in the woods."

A loud slam echoed against the hard wood, and Gwaine kicked at his own chair, cursing as it cracked under his force. He ran his hand through his hair again before he rubbed at his face, stopping, frozen in horror, over his mouth. Arthur caught a quiver of a lip, the downturn of a brow, before Gwaine turned on his heel, stomping out of the room in a hurry.

Arthur sighed. "Percival, could you make sure he doesn't..." Destroy all of Camelot? Make a fool of himself? Do anything too reckless?

"Got it." Percival nodded, lips thin as he sprinted to catch up with Gwaine.

"Leon," Arthur addressed, and the man startled at his name, ripped from his own thoughts. "I appreciate your assistance in these weeks. Leave the remainder to my uncle for today."

"Of course, Sire," Leon agreed, deciding he would try to find Gwaine and Percival shortly.

As the two set for the door, Arthur added, "Please tell him I am well, but in need of rest. I will speak with him in the morning."

"I assume you do not want to be disturbed?" Leon asked as he opened the door for Arthur to exit through.

"You would assume correctly," Arthur confirmed, sighing as he set for his own chambers, boneless and exhausted.


Not two hours later, a knock sounded on Arthur's door. He shouted, "Leave me!" from his place on the stone floor next to a massive chest of drawers, a chest of drawers, it seemed, Merlin had never actually put anything inside. Heedless of his demand, the door swung open and Arthur scoffed, leaning his head against the chest that was currently functioning as a backrest. Rubbing his temples, Arthur shouted once more, "Didn't you hear me? I said leave me!" The logs in the hearth crackled, doing their best at filling the cold room with warmth as the footsteps pressed forward. "I will not tolerate such insubordination!" he called, hoping to dissuade the figure from continuing their plight. "I could have you thrown in the dungeons for this!"

"Arthur," a soft voice tutted from the other room, and the king's face fell. Gwen. Mouth snapping shut, he watched as she entered the room with a tray, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed as they sought him out. "Where are you?"

"Right here," he responded, head despondently lolled against the hard chest of drawers, a pile of miscellaneous items seated beside him.

Eyes following the sound, she gasped. "Arthur, why are you on the floor?" Moving to him, she placed the tray of food in front of him before gathering her skirts and dropping beside him. In an instant, her cold hand touched his forehead. "You're not ill, are you? I mean, I know Gaius said he hadn't properly checked you over yet, but I wouldn't have thought he'd have let you out of his sight if he didn't think that you were—oh, you're so warm!" Gwen fretted, hand slipping to his neck.

"Gwen," Arthur began, pushing her arm back down to her own lap, "I'm not ill, I swear. The halls are probably just a bit drafty. And you're babbling again. You haven't done that in a long time."

Hands wringing themselves, she flashed a tight, watery smile at him. "I know. I just..." she trailed off for a moment, contemplating her words but drawing a blank. Huffing, she dropped back against the wall, said something that vaguely sounded like a grumbled "budge over", and laid her head against his shoulder. The two sat in silence for a moment before Arthur, too, slumped against her steady frame. "So what is all this?" she asked, waving her hand about the small pile of clothing beside them, a pile that, from her estimates, contained no fewer than three shirts, two belts, a couple pairs of pants, an unmentionable number of smalls, half a dozen socks, one single boot, a broken bowl, some loose mail rings, a book, a whetstone, and one of Arthur's jackets that Gwen knew for a fact Merlin hated because the buttons were not exactly flattering to the king's...kingliness and Arthur knew it. And complained about it. Loudly.

"It seems Merlin was either a very bad servant, or a very good squirrel," Arthur mused, eyeballing the pile he had found by sheer coincidence when he decided that next to the chest of drawers would be a great place to sit. At first he had laughed at the blatant disregard for his things, how he hadn't ever caught Merlin in the act, but his laughter had soon dissolved after he had fished everything out during his excavation project. Now, he just felt empty, like the underbelly of his drawers, where there shouldn't have been anything in the first place.

Gwen laughed despite herself. This was a very Merlin-like thing to do.

"So," Arthur started, mimicking Gwen as he waved about the tray of food, "What is all that?"

"Food. For you. Thought you might be hungry," she replied as her hands automatically moved over to his laundry to identify if the pieces were meant to be thrown out, repaired, hidden, or washed.

Though he knew he should be, Arthur shook his head. "No, not particularly." He considered the bread, but left it sitting on the tray.

Gwen nodded, not feeling particularly hungry herself despite the fact that it was now well into the afternoon and all she had was a small, early breakfast. "That doesn't explain why you're on the floor," she said, nudging him with her shoulder.

Arthur looked up at his bed across the room, eyes following along the untucked sheets and uneven blanket. Upon entering the room, he had realized it was the last thing he remembered Merlin doing: hastily making his bed, grumbling about how he would fix it later. In that instant, Arthur was no longer tired, though his body was making every effort to drag him down. He had tried sitting in just about every chair in his chambers, but he could not escape the ghost of Merlin's memory. "He's everywhere," Arthur stated simply with a shrug of his shoulder, eyeballing the mess of Merlin's own making. He always had a way of inserting himself exactly where he didn't belong.

Gwen frowned and pat Arthur's thigh, letting it rest on his knee.

"I miss him," Arthur admitted, voice small as he drew his knees up to his chin.

"We all do," she said. "I just saw Gaius, and he told me. He was just cleaning, scrubbing out the leech tank with the whitest of knuckles while a potion boiled over. I don't think he believes it yet, you know?"

Arthur let out a strangled laugh into her hair. "I don't think I believe it yet." Though he was fairly certain Merlin had died, there were so many details that were just foggy in his mind. It didn't feel like it could possibly be real, not when he hadn't seen his body, hadn't touched his cold face. "I keep...You know, when my father died," Arthur uttered with far more acceptance than he thought he could ever muster, "Merlin was sitting just outside the door. On the floor. He was half-asleep against the staircase when I held vigil, and the next morning, when I found him sitting there, I asked what he was doing there. He just said the damnedest thing." He paused, replaying the memory, focusing on the earnestness in which Merlin spoke, and he teared up a bit.

Gwen, concerned about the pause, took one of Arthur's hands into both of hers and squeezed. From her vantage, she could see his chest rise with a deep, slow breath, and she briefly wondered if he was hesitant to share such a personal memory. After a second breath, Arthur's cracking voice broke the silence, "He said, 'I didn't want you to feel you were alone'."

It took a moment for Gwen to fully process the statement, face flitting between a soft smile over Merlin's compassion and a frown, which had solidified when she realized the implications of Arthur's statement. "Oh, Arthur, you aren't alone."

Arthur weakly smiled and squeezed one of her hands back, unable to voice just how untrue that statement felt. "I know," he began, unsure if he should elaborate further.

"But it's not the same, is it?" Gwen's voice shocked the silence, and Arthur deflated, relieved that she understood.

"No, it isn't. I keep...I just keep expecting"—his voice hitched, and he swallowed thickly—"I just expect that if I step outside, he'll be right there." Arthur's free hand lifted towards the door, and it bobbed to accentuate his words, "Right there, slumped against the wall, half-asleep. I keep walking to the door with half a mind—he would have made fun of me for that phrase." After a stunted chuckle, he mocked, "Oh, but Arthur, isn't that how you always walk around? Well, it probably would have been better than that, and he would have poked fun at that impersonation, too. Or he would have argued, claiming he does not sound like that." His fond smile fell to the dead silence, realizing to his horror that he had begun to use 'would have'. "I just keep walking to the door, hoping that if I wrench it open, I will see he's still waiting there." Tears now slipping, Gwen entwined her fingers with him, and he clutched onto her. Though a few of his own tears slid down his cheek and fell into Gwen's hair, his eyes narrowed and lips thinned, nostrils flaring in indignation. "He was always supposed to wait for me. He was never supposed to go first." As fast as it had swelled, his vitriol lessened, and Arthur laughed, "He was always so disobedient."

"But he loved you, you know that, right?" Gwen asked, gently prodding at his side with her elbow. "He would do anything for you."

"I know," Arthur breathed, voice barely audible. It was humbling, Merlin's pure devotion, and he let out a pained groan. He had known for years that Merlin was willing to die for him. "I didn't deserve him."

Gwen grimaced and squeezed his hand. "Well, Merlin clearly thought you were worth it."

"Well, Merlin was an idiot," Arthur stated as he squirmed his way out of Gwen's grasp.

"Arthur! That's no way to—"

Now on his feet, Arthur shot, "Well, he must have been! To trust me!" He turned away from her, hiding his tears as he scrubbed at his face. "It was my fault, Gwen," he confessed, tone softer.

Standing herself, Gwen walked over to his back and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. "Arthur, what are you talking about?"

"It was my sword," Arthur admitted as he took a few paces away from her.

"Your...sword?" Gwen parroted before her eyes widened with realization. "You mean, your sword?"—she pointed to Excalibur, which was discarded on a nearby table—"Your sword...killed Merlin," she finished. Horrified, her hand flew to her mouth. Stepping back, she continued, "You didn't?"

"I-I don't know. I can't remember." He shook his head, a hand pressed against his temple as if the pressure could possibly jog something.

Gwen's mind flashed to the incident earlier in the year with Merlin and the Fomorroh. "You don't remember?" she asked as she stepped closer, visually inspecting the back of Arthur's neck. She could neither see a scar like the three Merlin had from the multiple extractions, nor could she see a creature, squirming beneath the skin.

"I know I must have hit my head at some point"—he touched the pink scar on his temple as he turned around—"But there are just so many things I cannot explain."

"Like what?" Gwen asked.

Arthur glanced to the side, trying to remember every odd thing he had heard and noticed. "Well, for one, I don't know why we went out after a creature near the Forest of Ascetir, only to wind up in Staunton's land near Mercia. Assuming we even had a good reason to be that far out, why would we have camped near a bloody gaia berry bush? Of all things, gaia berries, Gwen! And where on Earth did Sir Frederick go?"

"Sir Frederick?" Gwen repeated, eyebrow hitched in interest.

"Yes, why?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's just...I don't think he and Merlin exactly...got along," Gwen said, unwilling to meet his gaze as he looked up.

Arthur stopped dead. "You don't mean to imply he had anything to do with it?"

"Well," Gwen began, drawing the word out. "He hasn't returned, and we all knew the two were not on the most friendly of terms...And the knights swore the three of you had to be together when they returned to regroup for the search parties."

"'The most friendly of terms'?" Arthur repeated slowly. Perhaps she knew why he and Merlin always seemed to be exchanging distrustful looks.

"Look, all I know is he was talking—and I don't mean just talking, but they were arguing about something in the armory before you left. Something crashed apparently. I don't particularly know the details, one of the squires ran and told me about it, and when I asked Merlin about it, he said it was nothing, but for one of the boys to come tell me about it, I know that just couldn't have been nothing." Gwen took a deep breath, realizing she had been babbling again. "Just, you have to consider that it could have been someone else, bandits or..." she trailed off, implication thick in the air.

Arthur just shook his head, eyes darting to the ridiculous pile still on his floor. The idea was absurd, that a knight—his knight—could have found himself bothered enough by a servant to do such a thing. Then again, the whole thought of him killing Merlin was not far behind.

"I don't mean to accuse him, Arthur, but do you think you could have possibly hurt Merlin?" Gwen pressed on.

"Even if he committed treason"—Arthur's thoughts lingered on yet another absurd notion as Gwen held her breath—"I don't think I could." He had even thought about it, what he would do if his father had sentenced Merlin to death for confessing to sorcery all those years ago. He knew he would smuggle the idiot out, just like they had with the druid boy.

"Even if Sir Frederick had nothing to do with it, it could have been anyone else," she explained, "But no one has found anything of his. We were expecting him to have come back with you, but he is just missing. Arthur, they searched for days after that storm. They would have surely found something, but he vanished completely."

Though it was suspicious, Arthur was still unwilling to concede to such a notion; Merlin's death was still on his hands. "But it was my sword," he objected, gesturing to Excalibur, sitting on the table.

Gwen frowned, brow furrowing as she asked, "Arthur, if you don't remember how Merlin died, how do you know it was your sword?"

"Lord Staunton and his hunting party all verified the story," Arthur explained. "When they found me, they said I was saying something about how 'he' had betrayed me."

Gwen's eyes popped. "And you have been assuming this entire time it was Merlin you were talking about," she said, finally understanding. "Arthur, unless one of you were possessed by something"—she waved vaguely, indicating any wild array of magical or chemical causes—"I don't think either one of you would do such a thing to one another."

"But the camp was only made for two," Arthur objected, voice wavering as he realized that was a terrible excuse. "Then again, he could have just packed up and left us both for dead."

"It makes sense," Gwen said, "I mean, I would still talk to Gaius about it, get yourself checked over, but I just can't believe that either of you would harm one another." She shook her head, "I just won't."

Arthur just nodded, trying to comprehend the possibilities. Though by no means did he want to possibly accuse one of his knights—new as he was—of killing his servant and attempted regicide, he could not possibly ignore how everything seemed to line up. "I still should have protected him," Arthur concluded, exhausted by the thought. There was nothing he could do now, but there had to have been something he could have done then.

"No man is perfect, Arthur," Gwen said with a sad smile as she brushed a hand against his cheek. "Now come on, why don't we get you to bed?"

Arthur agreed, letting himself be led to the bed, where Gwen pushed him to sit on the edge. She muttered something about finding him some bedclothes as he sat there in contemplation, trying to compile a list of people to find, of people to ask. He needed a reason; he needed someone to blame, though regardless of the result, he was not sure if he could live with it alone.

When Gwen returned with his softest bedclothes, she set them beside him and left with the promise of asking a servant to bring up a tub for later. Arthur, for his part, obediently dressed, going through the motions as he kicked off his boots and halfheartedly pulled at the bindings of his clothing. He ran his hand across his topmost blanket, feeling the uneven edge before he laid down and pulled the covers up to his neck. Today would be the last day he would ever lay in a bed made by Merlin, and tomorrow would be the first morning he would wake up without his servant's stupid face saying something stupid as he opened his blasted curtains. Never in his life did he ever think he would miss being called a "lazy daisy".

Sinking deeper into the bed, Arthur settled into the comfortable warmth and let himself drift off entirely, mind too tired to make further conjecture. By the time Gwen had returned, the king was fast asleep.


True to her word, Gwen had ensured the tub brought up to Arthur's chambers. He had not been awake to hear the commotion of two servants dropping it in the other room, so Gwen decided to postpone the task until tomorrow, leaving instead a couple of buckets of now-cold water, some soap, and a couple towels near a basin in case he wanted to do some washing up later in the evening. She had even returned the food she had originally brought to the kitchens, bringing back a fresher selection of fruit, bread, and dried meat, which she left on his small breakfasting table. A new pitcher of water as well as a clean goblet had even appeared on his bedside table, which Arthur was eternally thankful for when he woke up not three hours later, unable to sleep any longer.

Arthur had stayed in bed, eyes blankly set on the objects in his room, not particularly inclined to get up. Though he was too tired to dream, he was too wired to keep sleeping. After a while, the king had arisen, downed a cup of water, and looked to the floor, only to see his clothing had been taken to what he could assume to be the laundry. The fire still burned low, wood crackling with the last bits of warmth it could muster. He would have to add a log or two more if he wanted his chambers to be warm throughout the night.

As he got up to stoke the fire, he noticed a small vial next to the pitcher on his nightstand, a note beneath it reading 'for the scar' in Gaius's familiar scrawl. He set the vial back down, unsure if he even wanted the scar to heal completely. Chances were, its angry visibility would lessen as time passed, but that prospect seemed too far ahead to even comprehend.

After poking at the fire and lighting a few candles, Arthur sat in his windowsill, face pressed against the cold glass to combat the headache he was developing. The sun sank low in the sky, and he watched as the guards lit torch after torch to keep the citadel safe in the growing darkness. A majority of Camelot's citizens had returned to their homes, likely to prepare and eat dinner with their families. By large, nothing had changed.

There he sat for what felt like an eternity, watching the guards' torches methodically complete their rounds, only getting up to snag an apple to appease his aching stomach. Between crunches, he swore he heard his door open, creaking quietly on its under-oiled hinges. He froze and listened, hearing the door close. Though it was likely any servant entering his chambers would be quiet, thinking he were still asleep, the uneven footfalls unnerved him.

As he heard something fall, Arthur was on his feet, discarding his apple in favor of the dagger he had left abandoned next to Excalibur. He could hear ragged breathing from the other dark room, which was only softly illuminated by its flickering neighbor. "Show yourself!" he commanded as he caught sight of a figure, which sat in the center of the room.

The figure looked up, eyes shining with fright, and Arthur froze, recognizing those eyes even in the low light behind a mask of filth. As he heard his name, saw a hand stretch to reach him, Arthur took a step back, dropping his dagger as he stared slack-jawed at figure. Merlin.

He shook as a hand flew to his mouth. Before he even realized what he was doing, the king dropped to the floor next to his hyperventilating manservant. As he went to rub circles in the younger man's back, Arthur felt a dampness seeping through the thin cloak. Merlin's back was bleeding. Biting his cheek, the king abandoned that effort for later and instead spoke in soft tones as he pulled the boy a bit more upright.

Arthur continued his litany of encouragements and assurances for several minutes until Merlin's breathing slowed into a reasonable rhythm, at which point the king changed topics entirely, telling Merlin that one of the castle cats—Count Flufferton, whom Merlin had named before he knew the cat's sex—had six adorable kittens that were probably mischievous like their progenitor.

As Merlin shook out the remainder of his adrenaline, fingers twitching and clasping at Arthur's clothing, he chuckled, a couple of stressed tears slipping down his face as the aftershocks wore off. Though he too was fighting back tears, Arthur detailed weeks-old castle gossip that he pretended to have previously ignored and smiled as Merlin contributed where he could.

Once he was sure Merlin could withstand a move, Arthur suggested it, and the sorcerer responded with an assenting nod. Carefully, the king stood, pulling his manservant up with him, and guided him towards the table where he took his breakfast and sat him down.

Now in the light, Arthur could clearly see some of the injuries marring Merlin's body. He first noticed a large bruise, which extended from one of the boy's sunken cheeks up into his hairline, where it ended in angry, jagged gash that was mostly clotted over with exception of a few places spotting with new blood. The bruise was relatively old, likely doled upon Arthur's supposed poisoning, and was a myriad of colors, yellowing around the edges, but barely greening where his cheekbone and frontal bone had likely collided with something. A single line of blood, which ended at the matted pool of Merlin's brow, pulled Arthur's attention back to Merlin's eyes, which were begging with him to fix something, anything.

The king, whose own shock-induced adrenaline was beginning to settle, nearly slumped all of his weight onto the arm of Merlin's chair. "Merlin," he began as evenly as he could to guise his worried thickness, "I'm going to take your cloak off, alright?" The weathered man nodded, and Arthur began to remove it as he continued, "I'm going to send for Gaius, and he'll fix you right up, okay?"

"No!" Merlin cried, eyes widening, startled by his own outburst. He shook his head and lamented its heaviness as he tried to dispel the fog. Arthur, for his part, froze, his hands still at the cloak's ties, and stared, waiting for his friend to continue. "No," Merlin repeated, softer this time, "No, someone—someone came, right? People came back with you."

"Yes, Lord Staunton, a few of his vassals, and the healer," Arthur confirmed as he started to put together the pieces, his hands falling dead weight to his sides. "You—did they?" the king began, almost unable to finish the statement as thickness crept into his tone. As he was taking a deep breath to regain his composure, Merlin nodded again.

As Arthur was left stupefied, Merlin took the chance to explain, "It was a trap, Arthur...Staunton, he wants the throne. He just—he just doesn't have the force to take it outright. So he did this"—Merlin gestured between them—"instead. He figured that he could poison you, confuse you just enough, to convince you of some story." Merlin closed his eyes and shook his head, muscles tightening as he geared himself for the next part. "Th-they f-f-figured they could take you h-home," he explained and took a look around, gripping his thigh tightly as he reconfirmed his surroundings. "And when you came for breakfast"—his voice cracked—"They'd kill you."

Still trying to process the information fully, Arthur licked his lips and asked, "So they wanted into the citadel, but amiably? To betray us?"

Merlin nodded again, copying his king's nervous gesture. "That's not just it. Th-they w-wa-wanted in-in-formation," Merlin said, fingers kneading each other.

Concerned that details of his obvious abuse were straining his friend, Arthur finished, "So they decided to get it from you."

The sorcerer's lips thinned as he steadied himself. "Yes, and what's worse?" Merlin's face contorted in remorse. "I gave it to them."

End of Chapter 6


A/n: That's it for today, folks! I would like to thank all of you who decided to keep reading despite the obnoxious wait, and I would like to thank any new readers I obtained who reached this far! Next chapter will feature the last part of this reunion and how Arthur conceals Merlin while preparing for battle and betrayal. Please keep reviewing and favoriting to encourage swiftness!

Thanks guys!

~gecko