Hello! The next chapter is up! I am seriously considering writing a separate fic from Merlin's POV. If I do, I will let you know! Fair warning: there is a tiny glimpse of Merlin's thought processes in here. Not exactly his POV, but, well, you'll see. Nothing disturbing, really. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. And please point out any mistakes! I've had a few people point out some historical inaccuracies and I am ever so thankful for that! I always find grammatical errors after I have posted.

Enjoy!

~Ra1n

Previously...

But they didn't get him out quickly enough.

Arthur didn't miss the way Merlin cringed when he realized how many people were near him.

He didn't miss the way some of the Druids had to step in and usher Gwaine and Percival out because the sight of their armor scared him.

He didn't miss the way Merlin's eyes slid to Arthur, just for a moment. Or the way they shuttered and grew distant.

The door closed between them right after.

And it had been roughly that way ever since: Arthur had stayed in the main room of Gaius's quarters, bored out of his skull and trying to avoid making eye contact with anybody. He'd sent Leon out to tell the knights that he'd sustained a minor training injury and would be absent for a few days.

He was afraid to inquire after Merlin's wellbeing, but he'd gotten the general gist. He sighed. He just hoped the Druids were able to keep Morgana at bay a little longer.

The moments after Merlin's reunion with Gwen and Gaius had been… awkward, for lack of a better term. After the sight of Gwaine and Percival's armor drove Merlin into a wheezing, apologetic mess, the knights had gone to their own chambers to change into their old peasant clothes.

Merlin was horribly apologetic. Even after the nights had left and Gaius and Gwen had reassured him that there was nothing to be sorry about, you could see the guilt and shame in his eyes. He was afraid of his own friends, even though he didn't want to be, even though he so desperately wanted to pretend he wasn't, even though the fear filled him with a pitiful wave of regret.

On top of all of it, Merlin was also wounded badly. And although they'd all gotten relatively used to the way Merlin's body looked, Merlin himself hadn't been lucid enough to process anything for a long while. Gaius could only imagine the way it must have felt to look down at yourself and see an emaciated, bloodied form where your body used to be. It was heartbreaking to watch.

"I guess," Merlin coughed, "I guess I should have expected this," He had muttered, staring down at the bandages on his chest. Fresh blood was blooming across the white linen, and he took a moment to look at his arms, his wrists, the yellowish tinge to his fingertips. He was chewing on his lip heavily. Gaius thought he might have been recalling where each wound had come from, cataloguing the damage and comparing it to what he could remember. Gaius wondered if he could remember all of it. He'd been delirious when he'd been brought in, and it was highly likely he'd been delirious for days before that. Each session of iron dust had no doubt rendered him weaker. Could he remember his fingers being broken by Owain? Was he lucid enough to know when they'd flayed the skin from his thighs? Gaius prayed that he'd lost touch with reality early on, although he knew that was unlikely. Merlin had a ridiculously high pain tolerance, an unlimited reservoir of magic, and a stubborn streak to boot.

Merlin looked at Gaius and tried to smile. "I'm a mess, aren't I?" he said, and Gaius could feel Merlin trying to find normalcy, blindly reaching for something familiar, trying to be just Merlin, as if he wouldn't have changed after all of this. It was a shield Gaius could see through too easily. Merlin was never an excellent liar, but this was entirely different- how could you lie away the trembling of your limbs, or the blood on your chest? How could you lie away the haunted look in your eyes? He'd only been awake for a few minutes, yet he was already trying to protect the people around him.

But before Gaius or Gwen could answer (and how could they answer? Yes, you are a mess, Merlin, but you should be dead? No, Merlin, you're fine, you've just been beaten and tortured and imprisoned?), Merlin's eyes had filled with tears, and he'd taken the blanket that lay in front of him and pulled it up clumsily with his splinted fingers until it touched his chin, hiding the mess that was his torso— only to drop it when his strength gave out. Gaius's hands were still on his shoulders, and he doubted Merlin was even aware of how little strength he had, of how much weight he was giving over to Gaius. Already, his eyes were glazing over with exhaustion.

He dropped his face towards his chest, his eyes squeezed shut, his cheeks reddening.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice thready with tears. "I can't-"

He didn't finish what he was trying to say, just started crying again instead. Gaius had the feeling that there hadn't been an ending to the sentence.

There was a stretch of time where Merlin stayed that way, his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking softly.

Then without warning, the crying stopped, and Merlin's eyes widened. He looked at Gaius, then at Gwen, and finally took in the room around him—The torn mourning cloths, the debris on the floor, the blankets on the bed— before his breathing hitched.

"Where am I?" He asked. Panic laced his tone.

Gaius felt his own brow furrow. "Your room, my boy," he shifted a little, as if he was somehow blocking the view too much.

Merlin shook his head. "No," he said, his hands coming up to grasp Gaius's arms. "No, where am I really?" He tried to scoot back, but failed. His speech came faster. "I want to believe you, but he wouldn't have brought me here, I didn't tell him anything he wanted, or did I...? No, I couldn't have, I couldn't even tell him my side, and he wanted me dead, how can I be here now? Who would have brought me? This must be—"

Gaius squeezed Merlin's shoulders, giving them a little shake to snap him out of the tirade.

"I don't know what kind of dreams you've been having, Merlin, but I assure you, this is real."

Merlin shook his head again. "But how—"

"If you'd let me explain, you'd know how," Gaius said, cutting him off. "And I know you can sense the difference between reality and dreams."

"Maybe not anymore," Merlin murmured, glancing at Gwen. He kept repeating it: "Not anymore, not anymore, not anymore…" He was rocking a little, his eyes glassy. Gwen pressed her hand to his forehead.

"He has a fever, Gaius," she said. Gaius's lips were set in a hard line. It had come on so fast.

"He needs to sleep. Obviously he can't handle all of this right now."

"But how are we supposed to get him to sleep? Another draught? He's been asleep for days already." And how will it be any better the next time he wakes up? Remained unsaid by Gwen.

"I don't think we are going to need to do much of anything," Gaius said, and Gwen turned her attention back to Merlin, who was still muttering. His eyes had a far-off look to them, and his lids were sinking rhythmically.

"When his fever goes down," Gaius said. "And when he is in a better state of mind, we can hopefully explain things properly."

Gwen nodded. That… was a lot of explaining. From how he came to be freed, to the ever-growing threat of Morgana, to his predicted recovery rate— it was going to be an exhausting exercise. She just hoped Merlin would have the strength to endure all of it.

Merlin's mutterings had slowed to murmurs, and his head was bobbing up and down. Gwen helped Gaius get Merlin into a decent sleeping position before retrieving wet cloths to bring down his fever. His bandages would need changing, too, but everything had its priority and right now it was the fever and delirium, more than anything else, that was worrying them.

Neither of them dared to wonder if the delirium was a symptom of the month of torture Merlin had sustained. It was obvious that Merlin was still there, but what state was his psyche in?

Gwen was honestly not sure how she was holding it all together. It felt like she'd been on autopilot for days now, just running flat-out to keep Merlin alive and the knights informed and she didn't even want to think about Arthur, who was a whirlwind of guilt and anger and raw energy. And now there was Merlin.

Merlin, who was now snoring softly in his bed, and had been for a few hours. His breathing had evened out considerably, his fever finally broken, and she would be lying if she found relief in his quiet existence. At least right now.

Gods, his voice sounded like broken glass. She did her best to act nonchalant whenever he'd spoken to her in the last three days, but now that his fever was broken she could process everything.

It had almost been easier before Merlin had woken up. She hadn't had time to think about what steps had to happen next— it was always keep him hydrated and check his breathing and change his bandages. Now.

But now there was more to it. Because what were they supposed to do now? How was she supposed to support Merlin through this? How could this mess be fixed? It wasn't just keep Merlin alive anymore. It was help Merlin get better.

And for the last three days, it had been this sort of suspension— this limbo— because Merlin was awake and healing, but with a damned fever that kept him either silent and glassy-eyed with exhaustion or thrashing and crying with delirium.

The few things he'd said to her were far from conversation. When he was lucid it was apologies. When he was delirious it was any number of pleas to stop hurting him or begging them to end his existence. When he was in his strange, stare-at-the-walls episodes of catatonia he didn't speak at all, and it was those episodes that Gwen hated the most, that frightened her the most. What was going through his head?

Neither Gaius nor Gwen had slept that much. They learned quickly that although the absence of the collar meant Merlin was healing, it also meant that he was reacting to stimuli— and that meant feeling the massive amounts of injuries on his body and magic full-force for the first time. Sometimes they would mistime a dose of pain medication. Sometimes they'd wear off without warning. Either way, Merlin was spending a good portion of his time—while lucid and feverish, at least—in pain. (Whether he could feel pain while catatonic was another question entirely, a question neither Gaius nor Gwen knew the answer to.)

Gwen knew Morgana wasn't going to wait for Merlin to get better to attack, and Gwen had hoped that three days in, he would have at least been made aware of the situation. But how were they supposed to tell Merlin that he was already needed? That he didn't have time to rest? How much did he already know? They hadn't been able to discuss it at all, really. Merlin could barely focus on eating and drinking and breathing.

Gwen ran a hand over her hairline. What if they never got around to telling him? What if Morgana attacked before they could? Looking at him now, his face softened by sleep, the bruises only just beginning to yellow at the edges, Gwen wondered if she'd let Camelot fall for him.

For a moment, she could almost fathom it.

But the moment passed.

Gwen wasn't certain, but she had a niggling feeling that Merlin would die before Camelot fell, even now, even when he owed the kingdom nothing.

She felt her eyes fill with tears. He was a great man— One of the greatest she had ever met. She could say that with ease now, would shout it from the rooftops. He'd always been, and nobody had ever said it, nobody had ever told him, he'd just gone on and done good until the day that fate decided to throw him into hell and leave him to die.

But no, not die. Because he was here now, breathing, free from iron restraints, and the yellow on his bruises meant they were getting better, and Gwen wouldn't blame him if he woke up and decided to walk right out the door without a second glance. He had a mother and a village in a different kingdom that he could return to. He could leave and heal somewhere untouched by Arthur's reign. No, Gwen wouldn't blame him for making any of those choices—

But she knew he wouldn't.

Her face flushed with anger.

He wouldn't leave Camelot to fend for herself, and it was so dreadfully unfair. Why had Merlin been handed this power? Why was he forced into this role? He was alone. He had always been alone, would need to make the decision alone, would face Morgana alone—

Gwen cut herself off right then. No, she thought, he won't face Morgana alone. He would have the entirety of Camelot's army behind him. And no, he wouldn't need to be alone ever again, if he didn't want to be, because she would stay by his side. And Gaius, and the knights. And probably Arthur, too, if he wanted.

She wiped the angry tears from her eyes.

She was spending too much time inside her own head. She couldn't confide in Merlin, felt guilty confiding in Gaius— and she certainly couldn't confide in Arthur.

Could she?

She glanced at the door. Iseldir had all but carried Arthur out of the room on the first day. His eyes had been on Merlin the whole time, Gwen knew it instinctively. He was probably beating himself up right now. That seemed to be his only way to pass time with his feet burned and bandaged for the last three days, but could she blame him? The guilt must have been unbearably heavy. Who could he confide in?

And Owain? She'd seen the guilt in his eyes, too. Who did he have to talk to?

Gwen sighed. This whole situation was a mess, and not a single person had benefited from it— save for maybe Morgana, but even that still stood to be determined. She mopped Merlin's brow with a damp cloth, wrung it out, and put it back onto his forehead. Hopefully, Morgana would benefit the least. Somehow.

Night had fallen only an hour or so ago, and Gaius had gone to get a few hours of sleep while Merlin seemed relatively stable. Gwen's fingers were itching to change his dirty bandages, but she didn't want to risk waking Merlin up.

She was just restless all the time now.

She looked back towards the door.

She knew somebody else was restless, too.

Merlin wasn't sure what hurt the most. His neck did— but then his neck had never stopped hurting, not in days, weeks, months, god-knew-how-long, honestly it didn't matter, everything hurt and throbbed and radiated and christ, why did it hurt more than usual? His mouth tasted like copper. He thought that death would be easier— none of this burning, coughing, heaving nonsense, the way his throat was full of phlegm and Arthur was still speaking, leaning over him, just leave me alone, just let this go— It was harder than he expected, this dying, but he didn't want Arthur to have a hand in it— he'd already done enough, had already handed his death to him on a platter, was it so much to ask for Arthur to let Merlin finish what Arthur had started? Did he need to be in Merlin's head now, begging for information about Morgana? He was too tired.

And now Arthur was speaking nonsense, some kind of lying, back-stabbing dribble, dripping from his lips like the blood was dribbling from Merlin's, and dammit, what was he saying? Even now Merlin's mind wouldn't let the words fade from his concentration:

"I don't want any information, Merlin. I want you to live so that you can save Camelot from her. So that you can see that your friends never abandoned you. So that you can fulfill the destiny that you've worked so hard for."

Merlin would have laughed, had he any breath left over. He settled for spitting a wad of bloody saliva into his lap. "Then why haven't you released me?" he managed to gasp, but the bite was gone from his words— the venom drowned with the gurgling behind his tonsils. Arthur was striking him hard between the shoulder blades, and between the shame and the pain, Merlin couldn't help but feel grateful that the force was knocking some of the bile and blood in his throat free.

"I don't know how!" Arthur shouted, and it rang loudly above the roaring in Merlin's ears. The hand on his shoulder blades stopped moving and Merlin felt like his lungs were going to explode with the pressure it took to breathe, to pull air in between his lips. He was drowning, he knew it, even now that he was above land, he was going to drown on his own fluids, this was the end—

Arthur awoke with a gasp, his hair plastered to his forehead with a cold sweat.

A dream.

Gods, it had been so vivid– Arthur could still taste copper in his mouth. He glanced at the closed door to Merlin's chambers, then groaned and flexed his feet. He debated going in to check on him. It was a constant battle of conscience— Arthur desperately wanted to be at Merlin's side for every step he made towards healing, but knew that his very presence would inhibit that healing. Sighing, he laid back against his pillow.

Arthur was never going to heal at this rate. Every time he fell asleep, he was plagued by dreams and nightmares. One second he'd be inside Merlin's head, living through a vivid rendition of something that had happened in the dungeons. The next, he'd be standing before Merlin with a torch, ready to light the pyre. He dreaded sleeping. Either he was doing something terrible to Merlin that he hadn't really done, or he was experiencing something terrible happening to Merlin that he had really done. It didn't matter, really. All of it was horrible and disturbing, and to know that half of it was real just made Arthur nauseous whenever he woke up. There was no talking himself out of the guilt, no whispers of it was just a dream when most of it wasn't just a dream. The only thing he found solace in was when he awoke from a nightmare in which Merlin was dead, and he was able to tell himself that wasn't true, that Merlin was still alive.

Not that he knew more than that. It had been three days since the two of them had emerged from the Druids' spell, and Arthur wasn't sure if anything had changed. There was a nearly constant stream of visitors coming and going from Merlin's quarters, but Arthur hadn't spoken more than a few words to any one of them.

The Druids simply looked at him with their wide, glowing eyes as they walked past, filled with something between wonder and disdain, as if they were staring at a villain from a childhood fantasy story. Arthur didn't like it; he avoided talking to most of them unless they spoke first. They were like skittish colts to him, ready to bolt at a sudden movement. Only Iseldir seemed solid in this world of Druidic phantoms, and they'd only had a few short, stunted conversations since the spell had been cast and finished and done.

The knights who came through to see Merlin ignored Arthur almost entirely, although it seemed to be more out of an all-consuming concern for Merlin than it did an active avoidance of Arthur. Which was almost a comfort; at least there was no active hatred of him. Still, it was odd to be a king and be the least noticed person in the room.

Gaius was really the only one to approach him regularly, sometimes with Gwen in tow. They'd check his feet and have him stand up and do small exercises to see if they were healed yet, and sometimes they'd make light small talk before walking away. Arthur had to admit that Gwen was an excellent healer, and would make an excellent physician's apprentice if the position wasn't already technically filled by Merlin. That, and Gwen was still queen, even if she and Arthur were on the most unfriendly of terms.

But Arthur never asked about Merlin. He didn't feel that it was his right. He'd made a mess and he'd done what he could to fix that mess, and now the situation wasn't his anymore. It wasn't his to ask how Merlin was doing, wasn't his to know whether he was healing or dying or staying the same. Merlin had been rather explicit in the last few moments of their spell- he didn't want Arthur's involvement anymore, and Arthur couldn't blame him. He hadn't earned the right to nurture Merlin and make sure he was okay. He'd just earned the right to fix what he could and let Merlin heal on his own.

Which wasn't to say that Arthur wasn't being driven mad by the waiting. He'd thought that perhaps Iseldir or Gaius or maybe Gwaine would have at least mentioned Merlin's wellbeing to him at this point, even in passing. But it was like an unspoken pact had been made, and nobody told Arthur a thing. Leon, too, was utterly out of the loop.

The only information Arthur had pertaining to Merlin's status was what he could gather from listening through the walls, and what he could hear was awful. Long bouts of silence followed by screams and crying and begging and then apologies. Sometimes there would be crashing or thumping in there, too, and Arthur could only picture Merlin thrashing about violently, or perhaps breaking things in fits of some sort.

And those weren't even the worst.

Arthur had never thought pain could be a sound, but he had been wrong.

The worst started the same night Merlin had woken up: long, pain-filled noises in the middle of the night. Arthur had gathered from hushed conversations that the pain draughts given to Merlin in the day always wore off at some point in the night, waking Merlin up with agony. The moaning only stopped when Gaius awoke and administered a new dose of medication, but that in-between time was torturous. Arthur would lie there, staring at the ceiling, and wonder if this was what the dungeons had sounded like all the time. Was this what Owain had listened to as he sat by his post? No wonder the poor man was so traumatized. It was nearly unbearable for Arthur, and he only had to endure listening to it for an hour per night at most, along with some sporadically spaced throughout the day. And how could Merlin stand any of it? Surely he'd be driven mad by the pain now. His mind might have been fractured and protected before, but now he was 100% Merlin, and he was experiencing every moment. Did Gaius keep him drugged? Was he kept unconscious until he'd healed? Was his magic helping him recover, or was it still recovering just as Arthur's was? Arthur didn't know the answers to any of these questions, and he didn't see anybody being forthcoming with answers in the near future. So he sat there, and he waited. He waited for someone to tell him what was going on. He waited for Morgana to attack. He waited for Merlin to heal. He waited for the the walls to crumble around him. Waited for the world to turn upside down. For anything other than staring at nothing and thinking.

He only had to wait another fifteen minutes before the world gave him exactly what he was waiting for.