"I sleep all day, I prowl at night,

Do anything to feel alive,

I'm in the end just what you made me.

I look the same, but I'm not fine,

The master of my own disguise,

If you knew the truth, you'd probably hate me."

- Monster, Beth Crowley

"Holy fuck," Gwaine said, with all his usual grace and eloquence. "You look worse than cold shit."

"Oh. Another admirer," Merlin said, very flatly, because he couldn't say yes, thank you, Gwaine, I know how to look in a mirror, it's really not that difficult, you know. Even with the headache stabbing up through the base of his skull like Arthur's best sword, even with the bruises throbbing like fuck all over his body, even with the exhaustion dragging at him with merciless fingers and sharp nails, he couldn't find it in himself to be that mean. Not to Gwaine. "Whatever will I do with all of you."

"Merlin," Gwaine said, uncharacteristically serious, dark brows dipping low, "what the hell happened to you?"

What the hell happened to you? Merlin almost laughed at the question—what the hell happened to you, like there was any good way to answer that.

It was kind of a case of what the hell hadn't happened, at this point.

Agravaine had found out about his magic—his secret, illegal magic that Arthur would toss him on an actual pyre for, because that was just how it was here in Camelot, wasn't it, where existing wrong was a crime punishable by painful and dehumanizing death, and now he had to turn around and bed a man twice his age just so he wouldn't tell anyone about the secret, illegal magic that could get him killed in the first place, and if he was being honest, Merlin was about three seconds away right now from bursting into Arthur's chambers and telling his king the truth himself, because fire was looking like a better option all the time than living out the rest of his natural life like some kind of—of—tavern whore, would be the closest thing, and gods, wasn't that just the icing on the chocolate-cake-Cook-would-kill-you-for-nicking-a-bite-of at this point—and he hadn't even changed his clothes in the last two days because the idea of looking at himself and seeing what Agravaine had done to him was making him so sick he could scream, and also, he had just found out Agravaine was working for Morgana, because that man's depravity just really knew no bounds, huh, wasn't that hard to believe, and now Morgana and Agravaine had some sort of secret plan and no one knew anything about it and he was trying like hell to figure it out except Agravaine wouldn't cooperate and activate the spell and Merlin could scream about that, too, and he had tried to tell Arthur about all this, sans magic and blackmail and spells that unwilling and unwitting victims wouldn't activate for him, but he really could have just told him everything because it wasn't like Arthur had believed him, anyway, or even listened, really, and so now the entire kingdom was going to fall any second into Morgana's twisted hands, and he couldn't do anything about it, ever, even when he was trying his damndest because Agravaine wouldn't activate the stupid spell, and even if he did, would it even—would it even matter, because he was one step ahead, he was always one step ahead of Merlin, always just out of reach, and always knowing just a little bit more, and Jesus fuck, when had the world gotten to the point that Agravaine was an actual threat to—to anyone at all, much less the whole kingdom, and Morgana was going to kill everyone, or actually, now that he stopped to think about it, she was just going to kill Arthur, and maybe the knights, definitely Gwen, too—and then she'd turn around and enslave all the rest of them, and it was going to be all his fault, because for gods' sakes, Agravaine had been living and plotting and scheming right under his nose for an entire year at this point, and he hadn't ever realized, hadn't ever discovered, hadn't ever taken a closer look, because obviously, Agravaine was no threat, right, just a shallow, self-centered, vapid little man who cared for nothing but the silks on his skin and the curl to his hair, no threat at all, barely enough brains even if he wanted to do something treacherous—and for an entire year, Merlin had believed that—could he really blame Arthur, could he really blame Arthur at all when he'd been just as—just as taken in, just as easily fooled, with Agravaine's act, and wasn't it just another thing to add to the pile at this point, another failure—getting tricked by Agravaine, getting blackmailed and—and fucked by Agravaine, and failing Camelot, failing to protect her, and her king, and her people—after everything else he'd done, after—after Lancelot, after letting Lancelot die, just—just standing back and letting him die, and killing Arthur's father—he let his friend die, and he let his friend's father die, and was there really any farther for him to fall, hadn't he hit rock fucking bottom at this point—?

"Hey," Gwaine grabbed at his arm—not hard, it didn't hurt, but Merlin went still and silent and didn't dare pull away, and don't touch me, stop touching me, why is he touching me, why is he touching me—and waited until Merlin had met his eyes, "hey, Merlin, when—uh, when was the last time you slept, mate?"

Merlin didn't want to laugh. Not this time. It wasn't—it wasn't funny anymore. It never really had been, and he didn't—he didn't know how to answer Gwaine's question, he didn't know how long it had been—a week, two, but he didn't know anymore, and it felt so much longer than that, like a thousand years had passed since Agravaine had kissed him at the coronation, and he didn't—he didn't care to count it out, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see and all he could feel and all he could hear, Agravaine's face and Agravaine's hands and Agravaine's voice, waiting for him, so patiently in the dark, his black eyes gleaming and his hands all over Merlin's own shaking, shuddering body and his voice low and husky with desire as he whispered oh, so you do like it a bit rough, don't you, Merlin, and I'm sure the stable boys can't keep their hands off you, and if I am to keep your secret, I do deserve some form of recompense, and every time Merlin jerked awake, he jerked awake in the freezing darkness of his own bedroom, in his own rickety bed, with his own thin and fraying quilt, and he told himself, a thousand times as the hitching and jagged and sharp and aching breaths ripped at his lungs like the claws of wild things, he told himself I'm not there anymore, I'm not with Agravaine, I'm here, I'm here in my room and how am I going to protect Camelot if I'm weak like this, how am I going to protect Arthur if I'm weak like this—

"I—" Merlin shook himself—goddamn it, pay attention to Gwaine, I need to pay attention to Gwaine— "—I'm fine." He wondered if he sounded as pathetic to Gwaine as he did to himself.

Gwaine snorted. Well. That answered that. "Bullshit. You look worse than the princess after he's had a spar with Percival, and that's sayin' something."

Merlin rolled his eyes. Of all the fucking times for Gwaine to start getting perceptive, and noticing things. "Thanks."

"Merlin," Gwaine said seriously—even more seriously than before, more seriously than Merlin had ever heard him, "y'know, if anyone's givin' you any trouble—"

"Wh-what?" For a split second, Merlin's heart stopped beating in his aching chest—if anyone's giving you any trouble—

"Don't look at me like that." Gwaine cocked an incredulous brow. "You're walkin' roun' like a beaten horse. And your cheek's got a burn the size of my sword."

"I-I'm fine," Merlin managed, even as his mouth went dry and his hand flew on instinct to his cheek and his brain fell into a monotonous loop of shit shit SHIT. No one ever noticed the things he didn't want them to notice. No one ever saw the things he didn't want them to see. That was the way it worked. And if they did—if they ever caught the shadow of a bruise under his shirt, or a puckered pink scar trailing up his wrist when he hitched up his sleeve, the circles under his eyes or a spot of blood soaking through his trouser leg, it never took more than a second to throw them off the scent. To shut his mouth and smile wide, and then they knew he was okay, they knew he was fine, and everything worked out for everybody, and nobody ever had to know about the three sleepless nights standing at his back, or the knight who'd hit him in the armory yesterday or the evil sorcerer plotting against Camelot who wanted Merlin to join him and who could conveniently tear open the skin of anyone who refused to join him without ever actually touching them—

"So," Gwaine continued seriously, as if there'd been no interruption, "if anyone's givin' you any trouble—"

"No." Merlin was ready for it this time, and he snapped the answer out of his mouth like a taut rubber band, like something pulled, and stretched, and strained, at every inch, every corner. This wasn't—this wasn't a conversation that was going to happen right now. Or this week. This month. This year. Ever. He didn't have much to call his own right now, but he had the my-friends-don't-know-I'm-fucking-someone-because-he'll-have-Arthur-kill-me-if-I-don't card, and he didn't intend on throwing it away just because Gwaine got nosy. "I'm fine."

"If anyone's givin' you any trouble," Gwaine repeated, very loudly, like he hadn't heard, or like Merlin hadn't even said anything to start with, "you know I'll give you a hand, right? You know I'll give that bastard a—"

"I said I'm fine, Gwaine!" Merlin said sharply, and he jerked, out and away, from the strong, black-gloved hand still holding onto him, still gripping at his arm—Gwaine wouldn't give him a hand, Gwaine wouldn't give him anything, not if he knew the truth, the whole truth—even if he could get past the magic bit, there'd still be the rest of it to deal with, and Merlin knew better than to believe that what he'd done with Agravaine was something he could come back from—

Gwaine stumbled back a pace in surprise—had to be surprise, no way Merlin could knock him back like that, he had a good hundred pounds of pure muscle on Merlin—and he stared, for a second, like Merlin had reached out and struck him.

An instant later, and a cold wash of guilt crashed over Merlin like a frigid ocean wave, stinging every last inch of him, all the way down to his bones.

Why did I do that, why did I do that, what the fuck is wrong with me—?

"All right," Gwaine said at last. "So you're fine."

"Undress," Agravaine whispered into Merlin's ear, lips wet and voice low in the dark, in the shadows, and he trailed one hand delicately along Merlin, fingers spidering slowly down the skin of Merlin's cheek, Merlin's throat, Merlin's shoulders and spine and ribs, "undress for me. And—" he pressed a soft, swift kiss to Merlin's mouth, "and give me a light, because I would very much like to watch."

Merlin hissed out sharply through his teeth at these words—I would very much like to watch, because of course he would, the foul, depraved pig—but he didn't say anything, he didn't—he didn't say no, he didn't say he'd rather chew broken glass than undress himself for Agravaine, he didn't say anything at all, because there was still a burn, blazing angry red and pink on the side of his face, and it still hurt to move, and it still hurt to even breathe, and I can ruin you in a second and what—what would even be the point anymore? No matter which way he tried to turn, no matter what he tried to do, Agravaine could always block him, always stop him, always find a way to get him right back where he'd started. There was nothing he could do. Not yet, not right now, not at the moment. Not until the spell activated.

Then—then—

Well. Then, he was taking Agravaine down, even if he had to burn on a pyre to do it.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and reached out for the tinderbox. The metal felt shockingly cold under his fingers.

"No," Agravaine's hand, warm and firm, closed around his own. "No. Use your magic."

"My—?" Merlin couldn't seem to get the word off his tongue. His magic. Agravaine wanted him to use his magic. Maybe he'd—maybe he'd misheard. He had to have misheard. No one ever wanted him to use magic. Gaius didn't want him to use his magic. Gaius didn't ever want him to use his magic—what if someone were to walk in and see you, he said, at least a hundred times a day, every time Merlin raised his hand, every time he flicked his fingers or let his eyes flash gold, and Merlin wondered more than he should if it was really the thought of him being discovered that scared Gaius so much, or—

—or just him.

Just him.

Just him, and the sheer magnitude of the power he held inside his body.

"Your magic," Agravaine said quietly. "Use your magic. Give me a light like the ball you made. Last time."

Merlin hesitated, a fraction of a second longer—trap, it's a trap, it's a trap, don't do it, it's a trap—but at last he lifted a shaking hand up in the dark, and with a brief, searing burn behind his eyes, the familiar, bright silver orb dazzled brilliantly in his palm, warm and solid and throwing its cool radiance into every shadowy corner of the chamber. He could see Agravaine's face, mere inches from his own, and the gleam of metal from the tinderbox still on the desk.

"You— " Agravaine said, voice strangled, and slightly hushed, "you are—"

Bad. Evil. Wrong. Defective. Terrifying. Dangerous. Corrupt. Too powerful to live. Too powerful to be human. A monster.

A million different paths to go down here, but only one real way this sentence could end, so Merlin set his jaw and waited for it, waited for that inevitable you-shouldn't-exist, that unavoidable you-were-born-wrong—he wondered if a day would ever go by without the echo of King Uther burning the insides of his ears—

"—beautiful," Agravaine said, and there was unbridled awe in his black eyes and a wild sort of wonder in his voice, and—

—it wasn't a trap, it wasn't a trick, he'd just—he'd just asked to see Merlin's magic because—because he wanted to—no one had ever—no one had ever wanted to see it before—not ever—not once—

"You're not—?" The words stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. He couldn't seem to settle on the right one. Horrified? Disgusted? Repulsed? "You're not afraid?" He didn't even know what made him say it, he did not even know what made him say it, and that—that scared him.

"Afraid?" Agravaine laughed lightly. "What is there to be afraid of?"

Oh. Merlin had to push back, hard, against the warm, swooping rush of joy surging up into his chest at Agravaine's words—what is there to be afraid of, like he didn't—like he didn't think magic was dangerous, like he didn't see anything wrong with it, like he didn't think anyone who had it was a monster for something they couldn't even control—

Of course he's not afraid of magic, he's working for Morgana, it's safe to say he's seen it up close plenty of times, and he's dragged you in here to make you bed him just because you have magic, do you really think he's some sort of selfless champion for sorcerers just because he likes your stupid ball of light?

Right, yes, of course, Morgana, the man in front of him was working for Morgana, and gods, Merlin, what were you thinking?

Merlin tore his favorite scarf from his throat with rough, inelegant fingers, and tossed the heap of red to the desk with one short, sharp jerk of the wrist. "Stop looking at it. It's just a ball of light."

"It's extraordinary," Agravaine said, still with that unbridled awe and wild wonder.

"It's a ball of light," Merlin said harshly, and ripped off his jacket—he'd rend another hole in it, at this rate, but he was too furious to even care.

"Slowly, Merlin," Agravaine admonished him, finally tearing his eyes from the stupid light and turning to look at him instead. "Slowly. I want to see."

Merlin ground his teeth together. "I'm sure you do."

"Why wouldn't I?" Agravaine's dark eyes danced over him. "You're quite a pretty thing, you know."

"You're quite a pig, you know," Merlin said, but under his breath, and put his jacket down on the desk beside his scarf. He hesitated, half a second, one hand fisting in the hem of his tunic. He didn't—he didn't want to see what was waiting for him under his shirt, under his—under his—he didn't want—

"Whatever are you waiting for, Merlin?" Agravaine raised his eyebrows coldly. "Keep going."

"You said slowly," Merlin murmured bitterly, and mostly to himself, but he pulled his shirt up over his head anyway, quick so he didn't have to think about it, so he didn't have to see, because it was the only way he was going to get through it at all. As the coarse fabric scratched at his skin, and fell from his body, he could see the bruises—in the ball's pool of blinding silver light, he could see the bruises, could see them winding their way over his skin like a river on a map, he could see them spreading and blossoming like the perverse imitation of purple flowers, burgeoning and blooming along the swollen flesh of his stomach, and he could see them trailing away to his back in a stream of inky blue and pale green, and he could see them straggling down his ribcage in little bursts of blazing violet, and stringing lazily along the hollow of his throat, he could see them, and the ones he couldn't see, he could feel, and he had to stop then, and he had to swallow, hard, because he didn't want to see, he didn't want to see—

"Magnificent," Agravaine hooked an arm around Merlin's bare waist, pulling him closer. "Just when I think you couldn't be more beautiful." He pressed his fingers lightly into the mottled skin of Merlin's stomach, and pain flared up, like wildfire, at the place where his hands met flesh.

"Magnificent," Merlin repeated incredulously, after a moment, voice strained and taut with pain, "well, that's a relief to hear. I'm so glad you like it." His breath hitched as Agravaine's hands traced a path of agony along his ribs, but he didn't let himself stop talking, didn't let himself shut up—it would feel too much like letting Agravaine win. "I live to please, you know."

"Of course I like it," Agravaine whispered, his touch fire on Merlin's spine, fingers wreathing his flesh in flame. "You look like mine."

The spell activated a week later.

Starlight spilled in bright silver streams through his glassless, uncovered bedroom window, leaving narrow bars of brilliant ivory along his floor when he felt the light little tug at his magic—come here, but no human voice spoke it, no voice spoke it at all, he just—he just felt it, from somewhere in the castle—

Merlin jolted up off the bed in one sharp lurch, and the wooden frame creaked and rasped in ardent protest, piercingly loud in the silence of the room. Everything was piercingly loud in the silence of the room—his own footsteps, his own hitching breath. He hadn't bothered to put on his nightclothes or even kick off his boots—it was too cold now at night to bother shedding his layers at all—so he didn't have to stop, and thank gods, because he wouldn't have anyway—he ripped open the door, and he threw himself down those stairs, and he ran.

This was the best shot he had at protecting Camelot, and he was not going to let it slip through his fingers.

He streaked soundlessly through the darkened castle, the hushed hallways and the dead-silent chambers, heart pounding against his ribs so hard it hurt—Agravaine had a head start, that much was a given, but if he could just keep up—he glided past the patrols, knights and guards with their torches blazing like beacons and their armor clanking—he threw himself around corners and down staircases, through corridors and past alcoves and he didn't even know what else—he followed the magic blindly through the castle and out into the courtyard, his boots thumping on the cobblestone streets of the citadel, his breath coming in short, rattling gasps as he hit the Lower Town, and there—

Merlin skidded to a stop.

There, Agravaine strode through the dark streets, straight-backed and bold and not even trying to avoid notice, his purple traveling cloak flaring behind him in a great fan, his tall, proud figure a sharp sillehoutte in the starlight, standing as he was on the very edge of the labyrinthine city. The Darkling Woods. He was going into the Darkling Woods.

They all go to the Darkling Woods, Merlin thought wryly, even when it's negative five hundred degrees out. He kept to the shadows now, and he kept on.

His best shot at protecting Camelot. He would not let it go to waste.

Morgana lived in a hovel now. Apparently.

There was a slight stick when Merlin tried to follow Agravaine through the magical wards—like he stepped in syrup, or molasses, or tree sap, and his legs didn't want to go with him the rest of the way, or like his jacket caught on the brambles and branches behind him, and hauled him back again—but a brief touch of his own power sent the whole thing crumbling at his feet, and he stepped easily over the boundary without a backward glance.

Agravaine bent at the waist, lifted his black-gloved fist, and knocked lightly on the little dilapidated door.

If this wasn't Morgana, who'd murdered innocent citizens and tried to do the same to Arthur more times than he could count, Merlin might have felt sorry for her. Actually. Yeah. He did feel sorry for her.

Even Morgana didn't deserve all that had happened to her.

She didn't deserve what he'd done to her.

The splintering door swung open on its hinges, and the second Agravaine disappeared inside, the door slammed shut again.

Merlin edged a little farther out of the trees, a little closer to the hovel—near enough to be heard, near enough to be seen, but he had to take this chance. Without Agravaine to lead the way, he might never even find this place again. He crouched beneath the nearest window, as wide open as his own, and listened, with the crown of his head pressed to the dirty sill.

"My Lady," Agravaine said, in his best bootlicker voice, his I-grovel-before-your-greatness voice—Merlin could practically see him dropping into one of those sweeping, exaggerated bows. "It's been far too long since I have had the pleasure of—"

"What news, Agravaine?" Merlin could hear the eye-roll in Morgana's voice. She didn't seem to care much for Agravaine's bootlicking, either. "Have you brought it?"

It. Something—something Morgana needed? Maybe something that would help her take over Camelot? Something that would make her magic stronger? Something that would force people to follow her, or bend to her will, or—?

"Of course," Agravaine said, easily, and Merlin could see the smile on his face, hear it in his voice, that aren't-I-clever twist to his lip, "of course. Anything for you, my Lady."

The soft, crinkling rustle of a velvet cloak sounded out through the open window—his cloak, then, Agravaine had hidden it, whatever it was, somewhere under his cloak—which meant that, whatever it was, it was small enough to fit beneath his clothes without any obvious lumps or bulges. Morgana, in the hovel, hidden from Merlin's sight, drew a sharp breath.

"Oh," she said, wild and exultant, and there was something so savage, so vicious, in her triumph, that Merlin swallowed hard outside the window, and prayed to the Triple Goddess herself, there on the ground in the Darkling Woods, that whatever Morgana held in her hands at this moment, whatever Agravaine had given her, it wouldn't harm Camelot, it wouldn't harm a single soul in the kingdom he so loved, "oh, yes, this will change everything." Merlin could hear the smirk in his voice, and it made something in his stomach turn. "You have done well, Agravaine. Camelot," she spat the word from her mouth like a profanity, like a curse, "doesn't stand half a chance without its precious protector, Emrys."

Emrys. Emrys. Emrys. The name rolled around in Merlin's head, from side to side, back and forth, one dark and dusty corner to the next, and his heart seized up in his chest, valves and vessels clenching and constricting in a single, awful moment of raw and unconquerable terror. Emrys.

Agravaine was up to something. Agravaine had something up his sleeve. Agravaine couldn't be trusted. Agravaine had allied himself with Morgana, of all people, and with her, he'd set about plotting something horrible, something loathsome, and if it went through, everything would fall apart, and Morgana would make herself ruler of Arthur's kingdom, seat herself on Arthur's throne, put Arthur's crown on her head—yes, Merlin knew all that, he'd known all of this since the beginning, but it hadn't—it hadn't really occurred to him, he hadn't stopped to think about it, he just hadn't—not once, not ever—but it only made sense—it only made sense—if—

—if Agravaine knew about his magic—

—if Agravaine knew about his magic—

—then Morgana knew about it, too.

A/N: This chapter was brought to you by the fact that I FELL DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS in the final week of February, and the impact tore several muscles in my foot. The week after, I caught a wicked strain of the flu, and it's taking me forever to get back to one hundred percent, and pretty much the only good thing is I've had plenty of time for writing, since I really can't do much else. I've been on orders to rest since the last week of February, and I'm honestly going a little insane.

Anyway, while I wrote this chapter, I spent most of my time in an unending state of internal anguished screaming. Merlin is such a dumbass. But I would die for him.