"Your eyes say so much to me, your eyes say so,
Your eyes say so much to me, your eyes say so,
Nobody knows who I am,
I've got intentions of gold with my plans."

- Gold, Echos

In the cool, pale light of predawn, with the sun rising, slow and sluggish, over the mountains, their towering, snow-capped peaks nothing but dark and distant ridges on the dim horizon, shrouded in the early-morning mists and fog—in the first, tentative tendrils of the new day creeping like thieves through the narrow gaps in the thick red curtains, in the thin yellow bars slithering across the cold stones of the walls and floor, sneaking up the sides of the quilts and covers dangling off the edges of the large bed and turning the rumpled, snow-white sheets even whiter everywhere they touched—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, Arthur could close his eyes, and clench his fists, and tell himself the night before had only been a dream.

Oh. How he wished it had been.

You've known Morgana since you were a child!

The words seemed to echo, all the way through him, as if his bones caught the sound of Merlin's voice, held it there a minute, and threw it back, up into his lungs, a hard and heavy block he couldn't breathe around and up into the back of his throat, where it seared and scorched like bile, thick and hot and sour, and on up into his head where it scraped and scratched like a rabid creature at the insides of his throbbing skull, where it burrowed down into his brain and gnawed like a feral, starving animal at all the cells, the synapses, blood squelching and bones snapping under the sharp, tearing teeth of it.

You've known Morgana since you were a child!

The words seemed to echo, all the way through him, as if his bones caught the sound of Merlin's voice, held it there a minute, and threw it back, and it was still better than all the things Merlin hadn't said, better than the accusations ringing so clear in his roaring voice, in the wrath in his eyes, in the snarl on his lips.

You've known Morgana since you were a child and you didn't know, you didn't realize, you were too stupid and self-absorbed to see the magic as it took her over and hardened her heart and corrupted her and turned her into everything she wasn't, to see her friendship was a lie, all a lie—

—all a lie—

Arthur's stomach clenched.

All those times she'd smiled at him, all those times she'd laughed with him, teased him, advised him, guided him, consoled him, marched out onto the training field armed with nothing but her own thrice-damned stubbornness and demanded he fight with her—

How much of it had been a lie? How much of their friendship had been a lie, a game to her, and he a pretty, delicate, dim-witted glass pawn to move about the board as she chose, but not to know the truth about her heritage, not to know the secret of her magic, not to know anything at all, be believed in, not to be—

—trusted—

But how could she not know? How could she not have known, how could she not have realized—? Her magic would have been nothing, nothing at all, not to Arthur, he wouldn't have cared, he wouldn't have cared about the magic and he wouldn't have cared about her heritage, he wouldn't have, he wouldn't—he would have gotten her out of Camelot, would have smuggled her from the city, he would have—he would have—when he took the throne—

He would have lifted the ban on magic for her.

He would have stopped the executions. The raids. The burning, and the witch hunts, and all of it, he would have stopped all of it, and for her, all for her, he would have stopped it, all of it, in a heartbeat, all for her, anything for her, everything for her—

And how long would it have taken, then, for him to realize, how long would it have taken for him to see that his father had been right all along, that magic had no place in Camelot? He hadn't seen the true depth of magic and its evil, not yet, not then, not even then, when it stole Morgana away from him, when the crown gleamed dully amid her dark curls, and her lips twisted up in that cold, proud smile—even then, he hadn't seen, not yet, not until the old sorcerer with his lies and his treachery and his hatred—

No, the magic wouldn't have mattered to Arthur, not then, not in the slightest—none of it would have mattered to him, really, not when it came to her, it wouldn't have made him love her any less, he wouldn't have turned her in to his father, their father—he couldn't seem to swallow, when he thought of it like that.

He would have helped her.

He would have—would have taken her to Gaius, maybe he could have found something, a—an artifact, maybe, to bind her magic, so she couldn't use it anymore, and it couldn't corrupt her, and she'd be all right—and would that have even worked—?

He would have helped her.

However far down the path of sorcery Morgana had strayed, she could have turned back. She could have come to him.

He would have helped her.

And what had he done so wrong to make her think he wouldn't?

Had Morgana really thought so little of him, even then? Had she really thought he'd turn his back on her? Haul her down to the dungeons? Toss her in a cage? Hang her on the gallows? Burn her on a pyre?

And why not? Said the horrible voice Merlin had used in the corridor last night. Why not, you've done it before, haven't you, a blind eye, that's what you always do, isn't it, gods know you're so good at it—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, Arthur had to close his eyes and clench his fists and tell himself the awful sound ripping its way from his mouth was not a sob.

Morgana could have come to him.

He would have helped her.

But she hadn't, because she hadn't realized he would help her, she hadn't known, and how could he blame her, how could he ever blame her? After all the times he'd condemned magic, all the times he'd spat the word sorcery like an obscene profanity, all the times he'd stepped aside and let innocent citizens die in agony and terror, all the times he'd laughed at her fears, all the times he'd dismissed her nightmares as nothing, and all those times, every single one, he'd been pushing her, hadn't he, farther and farther away, farther and farther out of his reach—she must have thought he would have slaughtered her without a moment's hesitation if he'd known, and if he could just—if he could just go back, and try again—if he could just do it over again, he'd do it so differently, he'd be kinder, braver, nobler, better—she wouldn't have had to succumb to the magic, she wouldn't have had to become a monster, he would have found a way to stop it, he would have found a way to take the magic from her, just get it out of her, just get it out—Morgana would never have had a doubt in her mind that she could trust him with the truth, never a doubt that he would have done everything in his power to save her—

You've known Morgana since you were a child, said the horrible-Merlin-in-the-corridor voice, and this, then, was what his servant had left unspoken last night, wasn't it, you've known Morgana since you were a child, but you still weren't good enough to save her.

In the cool, pale light of predawn, spilling like water through the dusty glass of Gaius' uncovered windows, gleaming dully on the clear sides of crystal bottles and vials, bleaching the pages of books lying open on the benches a blinding white, shimmering in faint, golden whispers all along the floor, creeping coils slinking up Merlin's knee and crisscrossing over his stomach, gliding along his shoulders, snaking up to his face—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, with the hard edge of the bench digging into his back, into the bruises, and he pressed himself into the rough, uneven wood and let it hurt, like the fork in Gaius' chambers, a thousand dots of striking radiance and sharp silver on his skin and pain, and it hurt him, and it brought him back to himself, and he let it.

He scrubbed a sluggish hand over his tired eyes, itchy and aching, lashes dry and crusted with the strain of another sleepless night, and pulled his cracked lips up in a small, painful smile.

He murmured the words, over and over and over again, tasting the strange and ancient language on his tongue—maybe taking every last relevant word of the Old Religion and mashing them together like a proper incantation had been overkill, but it didn't matter now. It was better this way, anyway. He didn't want to take any chances, didn't want his magic to misunderstand him.

He whispered the spell into the small and sunlit and silent chamber one more time, letting the old stones surrounding him soak up the sound of the forbidden. Even with the words scarcely more than a sigh on his lips, it tore furiously at the back of his bruised and throbbing throat, and he winced and rubbed gingerly at the tender, swollen beneath his scarf.

No matter what—Merlin shut his eyes against the blazing radiance of the rising sun, and he could see Agravaine's hand on Arthur's shoulder, could see the shadow of a smile ghosting across his thin lips, hear the honey in his voice, too thick and too sweet—no matter what, I will take care of this kingdom.

Arthur expected Merlin to start talking.

He waited for it, even—goddamn it, but he actually waited for it, he lay as still as he could in the tangled sheets and he listened for it, because Merlin, well, he always talked, didn't he—it was just what he did, wasn't it, and Arthur couldn't shut him up, and certainly not for lack of trying either—no, Arthur could never shut him up, it was part of what made him Merlin, and if he started talking, if he just started talking—please, Merlin, open your big stupid mouth and start talking—if he started talking, Arthur could close his eyes and clench his fists and tell himself the horrible-Merlin-in-the-corridor-voice was wrong.

But Merlin didn't start talking.

He slipped soundlessly into the room, a shadow as he moved through the chamber, his steps swift and silent and sure. He set down the breakfast tray balanced on his arm—set it down, on the table, without so much as a clatter. He pulled open the curtains. He stared out at the city through the dirty glass, fingers fisting around the stiff red drapes. He didn't call for Arthur to "rise and shine, Sire!"

You've known Morgana since you were a child.

Arthur shut his eyes.

But you still weren't good enough to save her.

It took all of two seconds to actually place the spell on Agravaine—hours of preparation and memorization and furious practice distilled down to a single moment, less than a heartbeat, the familiar burn behind his eyes, the pulse of power thrumming in his veins, the rush of magic as it left his body—

—and then it was done, it was over, it was complete, and a fine golden mist settled lightly over Agravaine's tall, thin form, invisible to all but Merlin, and his smile was a triumphant twist of the lip, a savagely satisfied baring of the teeth, as he tipped the metal pitcher, heavy with the wine still sloshing in the bottom, over the rim of Agravaine's goblet.

No matter what—and every step hurt like hell with the stretch and pull of bruised and battered skin, under his shirt, under his scarf, up and down his legs, where Agravaine had hit him, had kicked him, hadchoked him, had fucked him, but Merlin kept his back straight anyway, and he didn't think about it, he didn't he didn't he didn't, because if he did, if he let the bruises on his body be real, if he let last night be real, if he let what Agravaine had done be real—

His fingers, trembling with the force of the power he had only just unleashed, tightened around the cool metal handle of the pitcher.

No matter what, I will take care of this kingdom.

Arthur rubbed blearily at his burning eyes for what felt like the millionth time, grinding in, hard, with the heel of his hand, shaking fingers still clutching the thin scroll, Sir Ulfius' tiny, tidy handwriting blazing stark and black amidst the sea of bleached white. Just another report in the mass of thousands, all gathered up on his desk in a disorganized heap—

"Sire."

Arthur swallowed a groan. Brilliant. So Merlin had decided to open his idiotic mouth now of all times. He'd been so silent so long now, a mere shadow at Arthur's heels—the odd yes, Sire or no, Sire, or once even a let me get that for you, Sire, but that was—that was it, that was all, because gods forbid things could be that simple—if Merlin would just give one of his stupid smiles and start chattering away, Arthur could know, he could be sure that things were okay and the horrible Merlin-voice-in-the-corridor had been wrong and—

"Sire." Merlin stepped forward, the soles of his thin boots slapping against the stone floor. "It's late."

"Well spotted, Merlin," Arthur sniped, before he could stop himself. And if you'd like to leave, you might as well just leave, I'm hardly going to keep you here all night, and you know that and I know you don't want to be here, I know that, I know that, I know—

Merlin admirably ignored the jibe—he lifted his chin by the barest fraction, that familiar, stubborn set to his jaw. Oh, wonderful, the idiot really wasn't going to let this go, for some unknown Merlin-reason. "Sire, you've been working on those reports for a while now. You should get some rest."

Arthur stilled in his seat, hand halfway to his smarting eyes to try another ineffective scrub. Oh. So that was—that was—that was unexpected. All right. He straightened, and unfurled Sir Ulfius' scroll again. "Thank you for your concern, Merlin." He smoothed the paper flat on the desktop with his palm.

Merlin huffed somewhere above him—Arthur instinctively tightened his hold on the report—his servant had been known to snatch things out of his hands if he felt he wasn't being listened to, which was really—improper, now that Arthur thought about it.

"Arthur," Merlin said, and he—he called him Arthur—Arthur—not Sire— "c'mon, you've got to be exhausted. It's not good to do this to yourself. The work will still be there tomorrow—"

"No," Arthur cut him off, "it won't be there tomorrow, Merlin, I have to get it finished tonight. The patrol routes have to be finalized tomorrow, and I have that meeting at midday, and—and—"

Merlin plopped himself down, entirely without prompt or invitation, into the chair round the opposite side of the desk, grabbed at least a dozen papers off the top of the stack, and dragged them across the polished desktop toward himself.

Arthur blinked. "Merlin."

Merlin ignored him.

"Merlin."

"Do you mind? I'm trying to read."

"Merlin!"

"This Sir Bedivere," Merlin said thoughtfully, flicking the page in his hand over to reveal more writing crammed on the flip side, "verbose, isn't he?"

"Yes," Arthur huffed, thoroughly displeased with the entire situation but at a complete loss as to how to rectify it, short of summoning a few guards to physically haul Merlin from the chambers. "I've often thought the two of you would get along wonderfully."

Merlin smiled—barely anything, really, a small quirk at the corner of his lip, nothing like his usual stupid, beaming grins that showed all his teeth and made it look like he was about to split his face, but—

—but—

—but Arthur, for some absurd reason, felt a tug at his mouth, too.

Gaius' chambers were dark and silent and shockingly cold when Merlin eased the door open and slipped inside, his breath spilling out of his mouth in pearly silver wisps—it wasn't proper winter, not just yet, but the last of the leaves had left the trees last week, and the first snow couldn't be far off—it seemed every year he managed to forget, in the heat and light of beautiful summer, how the cold set in at autumn's end, all the way down to his bones.

Merlin kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and stretched his aching arms up over his head, wincing at the pain pulsing, wild and sharp and furious, through his bruised body—fucking Christ, maybe he just needed to grit his teeth and take a few potions to dull it—maybe he just needed to take a few potions that would let him close his eyes and fall asleep tonight—that might be a lost cause already, he admitted ruefully to himself, as he weaved his careful way, in the darkness, through the cluttered chambers over to the narrow staircase—even if he wasn't straining with every last ounce of magic to feel when the spell over Agravaine finally activated, the cold that pierced through his clothes and down into his skin like needles promised to keep him wide awake. There was no way he was going to get warm enough to slip into slumber—maybe—Merlin glanced at the darkened hearth—he ought to get a fire going and sit up by the grate until morning—

—and what do you think he will do when he sees you for what you really are—

—the flecks of ash and cinder on the hearthrug and the flames on his face and the smoke in his lungs and burning burning burning and the pop and crackle and hiss and snap and no please not fire anything but fire please and that is what Arthur would do if he knew who you really are—

No.

No, on second thought, fire didn't sound so good, after all.

Notes: O O F IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. I'm SO sorry for such an extended and unexpected absence, but if it helps, it was a surprise even to me, lmao. I DID NOT expect to take so long with this chapter at all, but writer's block hit HARD, and then a thousand little things kept getting in the way until it was literally a miracle when I got even so much as a word per day on this. (I'm not going to lie, I didn't get a goddamn word on this last Friday. How to Train Your Dragon 3 fucking shattered my heart. I spent, like, half the day just sobbing.)

Anyway, so this was a fun chapter! It was great, getting to explore Arthur's perspective to this extent, as Merlin and the brief snippet we got at the end of chapter 2 can really only tell us so much. I'm not one hundred percent sure how in-character Arthur's acting, exactly, but I'm hoping it turned out okay anyway. And, yes, I'll be the first to admit, this chapter's a little slow, but I figured, as the fic is going to get a hell of a lot worse from here on out (for the characters, I mean. Hopefully it won't "get worse", as in, my writing/plot/characterization etc. takes any more nosedives. I'm literally a monkey playing with alphabet blocks when I sit down to write okay fgfgfvb cut me some slack pls). Anyway. Basically, it's only going to get darker from here on out, so it seemed a bit of a respite was in order.