"Get the room with the heart-shaped bed,

Make something gross feel romantic,

Make me so no one will ever want me again,

Because when I sleep with faith,

I only find a corpse,

In my arms on awakening."

- Heart-Shaped Bed, Nicole Dollanganger

"Thank you, Arthur," Guinevere said.

She even smiled at him—soft, plump lips hitching up at the corners, and dusky cheeks, skin smooth as richest velvet, lifting a little, but Arthur knew her better than that by now.

Arthur knew her well enough to hear it, in her voice, that light little touch of exasperation in the gratitude, that tiny trifle of irritation, somewhere under her patient words, somewhere in her silvery voice, like a fast-flowing undercurrent, like sparkling ice over a churning river. Arthur knew her well enough to see it, the exhaustion and the sorrow in the smile she forced on her face, and even as the first itch of impatience dug at him, dug into him, even with how many times he'd had this argument with her since the sunrise, even with how many times he'd said the words, over and over and over again, how many times he'd tried to get her to listen, tried to make her see—

Even with that—even with all of that—he couldn't be angry with her, he couldn't be, he just couldn't be, not really, not here, not now, with all her exhaustion, and sorrow and grief hiding behind her eyes, not with the cold and quiet ache festering like a fatal wound inside her, something so swollen and so fevered, he did not even think Gaius could heal it.

I'm sorry, he thought, with a strange sort of pang in his chest, for the thousandth time, I'm sorry for what my father did to you, to yours, I'm sorry my father tore your family apart, I'm sorry my father took yours from you, and I'm sorry you have to ride three days just to reach his grave because my father wouldn't lay him to rest in the citadel, wouldn't let anyone lay him to rest in the citadel, and I'm sorry that this, here, is the best I can do for you now, and I'm sorry I didn't do better by you and your father when I could have, when I should have, when it would have made a difference, when it would have mattered—

"Thank you," Guinevere said, again, "really, this is—this is so absolutely wonderful of you, and it is so kind of you to do this, but Elyan and I know the way. There's no need to make more work for—"

"Guinevere." Arthur had to push the guilt down—if he let her keep going, she would just ramble herself breathless, and no one wanted that. "I'll not have you wandering the wilderness with only one knight."

Guinevere drew herself up. "Elyan is one of the best—"

"Knights of the realm," Arthur finished for her. "I know." On any other day, he would have loved her all the more for her fierce loyalty and devotion to her brother. On any other day, he could have kissed her right now. "But Elyan is still only one man, Guinevere. And you know there's all manner of rogues on these routes. You need more than just Elyan." He'd take her down there himself, come to that, he'd take her down there himself if he could, if the demands of the kingdom and the court and the people would permit it. He knew better than to believe a king could abandon his throne for a serving-girl.

Guinevere pursed her lips, and looked at the ground.

"And," Arthur put his hand under her chin, the beautiful brown skin warm under his gentle fingertips, "Elyan needs more than just Elyan, too."

Guinevere's lips hitched hesitantly back up in a small smile. "The knights will be bored," she said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Guinevere. Six years to the day her father died not a week away, and here she was, worrying about the knights, because of course she was. "They're knights, Guinevere," he told her. "This is their job."

"And Lord Agravaine—"

"Is never too busy to map a safe route for you," Arthur finished, firmly. "No one in this kingdom is too busy for you when you need a service." He nodded. "I'll make sure of that."

A lovely little flush bloomed out across Guinevere's cheeks like a scarlet flower. "Arthur—"

"You don't have to do this alone, Guinevere." And Arthur gave in, and kissed her before she could raise another protest.

Her lips, warm and soft and wonderful under his own, moved with him, merged with him, meshed with him and her small hands, so delicate even with all her years of toil, pressed into his chest, his shoulders, down the curve of his spine. Little fires sprung up on his skin under her touch, and his fingers tangled up in her thick curls until he didn't think he could get away if he wanted to.

When Guinevere finally pulled back, she pulled back slowly, lips lingering on his, her breath hot and damp against his own mouth.

"Thank you, Arthur," she whispered into his skin, and it sounded sincere this time.

Morgana knew.

The truth of it ripped through Merlin's head like a rusty blade, unavoidable, inevitable, incontrovertible, until it felt as if all the fragile bones in his aching skull had started to splinter, to shatter, under the jagged, driving edge of his own barbed and biting terror.

It settled over him like a mist, like a vapor, twisting and twining its way through his brain in its ruthless, razor-sharp coils, until it filled him up like smoke, like fire, burning unconquerably through his every thought, every breath, because Morgana knew, Morgana knew, Morgana knew.

Morgana knew about the magic. Morgana knew it all. Morgana knew—everything, everything, so much, too much, everything everything everything Agravaine knew, and Agravaine knew so much, too much, too much too much too much everything everything everything how could you have let him see how could you have been so careless so stupid so fucking stupid—

Morgana—Merlin dragged his thoughts back to her, back back back go back to Morgana, think about Morgana, and how massively fucked-up was it, really, that Morgana knows was still better, still easier to swallow, still something softer, than Agravaine knows and he's going to keep doing this and he's never going to stop and I'm going to keep letting him, I'm never going to fight back like I should, I'm never going to tell him no like I should—

Morgana. Think about Morgana Morgana Morgana Morgana—

Morgana knew. Morgana knew everything—maybe not everything everything, but everything important, everything that mattered, Merlin wasn't going to get hung up on the details now, because Morgana knew, and that was what mattered right now.

Morgana knew. Secrets and lies and walking in shadows wasn't going to work, it wasn't going to save him, it wasn't going to save anyone, it wasn't something he could depend on, not anymore, not this time, because Morgana wouldn't let him hide this time, not now, not after this, she wouldn't let him lie, she wouldn't let him walk in secrets, in lies, in shadows, she'd drag him and his sins into the light if it was the last thing she ever did, even if it destroyed her in the doing, and Merlin—

Well. Couldn't say he didn't deserve it.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and scrubbed at his eyes again, stinging with exhaustion. How had he not seen? How had he not even thought about it? Not even considered—?

It should have been the first thought in his head, the first thing on his mind, from the minute he'd found the maps in Agravaine's chambers, from the minute the final, missing piece to the strange and mysterious puzzle clicked into place, from the minute he'd said Morgana's name, he should have seen, he should have known, should have realized, should have figured it out—

If Agravaine knows about my magic—and it felt so simple to him, now, to put it into words this way—if Agravaine knows about my magic, and he's in league with Morgana, then he's told her about it, about all of it, about everything, and I should have seen that, I should have figured out, I should have should have should have—

There was—there was something, though, there was something, one single thing, so small, but it stuck in his head like syrup, like tar, and he couldn't get out, and it made his stomach turn in a hundred thousand ways he couldn't explain.

Emrys.

Morgana had called him Emrys.

Agravaine didn't know he was Emrys.

Agravaine shouldn't know he was Emrys.

How did Agravaine know he was Emrys? The man didn't have so much as an ounce of magic to him—Merlin would have felt it, would have sensed it, a long time ago, if he did, the way he had sensed it with Mordred, with Morgause, with Morgana—and anyway, even if Agravaine did have magic—and a shiver of fear, real fear, rippled down Merlin's spine at the thought, because oh, gods, Agravaine with magic and it shouldn't have scared him half so much as it did, and he hated it—even if Agravaine did have magic, it wouldn't really matter so much, it wouldn't make a difference—it wasn't like everybody with magic in the whole world knew him at a glance. It wasn't like some sort of reflex thing for sorcerers, it was really only the old ones, the ancient ones, and the powerful ones, and the creatures like Kilgharrah, and the druids—

Merlin's stomach clenched.

The burning throb of his own magic in his chest, that sharp and persistent pulse of power under his skin that had led him out to the woods last night, led him to Morgana, had sunk, had settled, back down to nearly nothing now that he'd followed it, but he could still feel it, a thin golden thread, twitching lightly with Agravaine's every word, every step, every breath, and Merlin wanted to tear through his chest, cut through flesh and blood and bone, and rip it out of him, every last tiny, radiant fiber, because I don't want it anymore, I don't don't don't I want it out of me, I don't want to feel Agravaine anymore, I don't don't don't—

But—

—he couldn't.

This wasn't over, not yet, not even close, not anywhere near, and Merlin knew better than to lift the spell, even if every repulsive thread of Agravaine's existence slipped, slick like oil, over his insides and under his skin and through his muscles and across his bones and merging with his blood, and it made him sick, made his stomach wrench, made his insides writhe and warp, but he couldn't stop it, he couldn't lift the spell, he wouldn't lift the spell, not yet, because this wasn't over, not yet, not even close, not anywhere near, because Camelot wasn't safe, Camelot wasn't safe, Camelot wasn't safe, this kingdom wasn't safe, not the castle, not the citadel, not the Lower Town, and Merlin could try his damndest but it wasn't going to be enough, it wasn't going to be enough, it wasn't wasn't wasn't—

"Beswápan," Merlin breathed, and he let the magic sit for a minute, in the air, arching gracefully over the house, a faint flicker of radiant gold, before he moved onto the next bit. "Bregoweard." The power crackled and pulsed under his skin, irritated from overuse, but he pushed it away, pushed it down—don't be such a girl, Merlin—and kept going. "Bordrand. Anhealdan friþsum."

It wasn't going to be enough.

If Morgana came marching through, when Morgana came marching through, a flick of her fingers, and these barriers and boundaries and defenses could crumble, would crumble, and she'd hurt everyone, anyone, she didn't care, she didn't care, she'd hurt even if she didn't need to, she'd hurt just to hurt, and it wasn't going to be enough, this, here, it wasn't going to be enough when the time came, when Morgana attacked—and, after everything he had heard from under the window, he knew she was going to attack, and she wasn't going to wait, and this wasn't going to be enough, what he was doing here, it just wasn't going to be enough, all this, all these barriers and defenses and shields and protections and precautions and it wasn't going to be enough, but—

But it was going to have to be.

Merlin circled around to the next house.

"Beswápan." Let the magic sit a minute. Move on. "Bregoweard." Let the magic sit a minute. Move on. "Anhealdan—" The warm pulse of power in his chest flickered feebly, the final spark of a dying fire, and fell back again into cold, into dark. Merlin winced, and rubbed a hand over his heart. "Anhealdan—"

His hands were shaking as he lifted his arms, palms out, to complete the spell. A hot trickle of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, the first little alarm bell—stop stop stop, too much magic, that's too much magic—but he wiped it off on his jacket sleeve, and he pushed on. He had ignored the first little alarm bell before—and the second, and the third, and the fourth—and he could ignore it again. He'd be fine.

"Anhealdan friþsum."

This time, it stuck.

Merlin moved onto the next house—last house, he realized, with a sharp, fervent relief, last house, this is the last house, I don't have to do anymore after this one—

"Beswápan." He pushed forward too fast to let his magic feel the pain this time. "Bregoweard—bordrand—" His breath hitched. He smothered a wince. "Anhealdan friþsum." He rubbed at his heart again, and scrubbed away a fresh, sticky track of blood running down his chin. His hands were shaking again, and his legs, and he had to stop, had to sink down to his knees in the scrubby grass all around him, and let the shudders run their course, let the blood fall from his lips.

It seemed to take an age, but he finally pushed himself back to his feet, and made his way back, through the Lower Town and the citadel, and up to the distant spires of the proud castle. He stumbled sometimes, in the dark, over the cracks and nicks in the cobbled streets, thin boots slapping loudly on the split stones in the heavy silence. His skin prickled under his clothes at every gust of winter wind, every frigid rush, every frosty flurry, every icy blast, bursting through the town.

He took every shortcut he knew, every secret passage, every hidden corridor he had ever found, and he had found a lot of them—all that sneaking was good for something, after all. He rounded the last corner, climbed the narrow stairway, and pushed the heavy door open with a soft creak of old wood. His fingers trembled on the rough, uneven surface, but everything smelled of herbs and spices and the dusty old books Gaius loved so much, and things are okay, because I'm home, and it was a stupid stupid stupid thing to think, because things weren't okay, things had never, ever been less okay, and he pushed off the door, hard, and he turned and he—

—he stopped.

"What—?" Fury flared to life inside him, a fire burning, blazing so bright it must be shining out through his bones like the sun, like a beacon. "What are you doing here?"

Agravaine got up from the chair—Gaius' chair, the man had made himself at home in Gaius' chair, and hadn't he already ruined enough, hadn't he already defiled enough in this castle, in this chamber, and if Merlin closed his eyes, he could still smell the smoke, still feel the flames as the scorching orange tongues licked his skin—

"Where were you?"

Merlin pushed his eyes open. "What?"

"Where were you?" Agravaine said, again, and he stepped around a stack of books, around the cluttered worktable, around the overcrowded bookshelf, to get closer to Merlin, to get to Merlin, and his black boots thudded heavily, deafening in the dark, in the quiet, and his cloak flared out behind him, sweeping along the stones in a soft and whispering swish.

Merlin reflexively stepped back. He hated it. "Sorry," he said, and he clenched his hands into fists so Agravaine wouldn't see him shake, "guess I missed the part when where I go became any of your damn business."

Agravaine lifted his brows. "Strange. I seem to recall you asked me the same question not a week previously."

"Yeah, well, I'm not off rubbing shoulders with Morgana in my spare time, am I?"

It was stupid. It was stupid, to say that, to say anything, because it didn't really matter, he knew how this was going to end, he knew what Agravaine wanted, and he wouldn't fight back and he wouldn't say no, he would let it happen, he would just let it happen, and he would let it keep happening, he would let Agravaine take from him, take and take and take, over and over and over again, as much as he wanted, as long as he wanted, and Merlin wouldn't fight back, and he wouldn't say no, and he would let it happen, but he wouldn't, he couldn't let it happen in anything like silence, in anything like submission.

He would do what he had to do. But he wouldn't do it quietly.

Agravaine flicked a little piece of lint off his sleeve. "That was not an accusation, Merlin. Perhaps my memory's betrayed me, but I don't believe I said you had anything to do with the Lady Morgana."

He didn't deny his own ties to Morgana, though, he didn't deny it, he didn't even try, he didn't defend himself, he didn't even try, and why would he? What would be the point of that?

Agravaine knew, didn't he, he had to know by now that he couldn't lie to Merlin, he couldn't fool Merlin, not the way he lied to Arthur, not the way he fooled Arthur, and something—a fierce sort of—of pride seared through Merlin's chest, up the back of his throat, a fire burning under his skin, because at least Agravaine wasn't going to treat him like an idiot, pat him on the head and pretend he didn't understand anything at all.

No, he just treats you like his little plaything, like his whore, and isn't that so much better—

"No," Agravaine said quietly, "it wasn't an accusation. I think it would be more of a—ah—" he hesitated, "—grievance."

"I've got a grievance, and it's called you," Merlin bit out.

The corner of Agravaine's mouth turned up. "Well, I don't like a very long wait, you see."

"Sorry I'm not constantly at your beck and call."

"That," Agravaine arched a brow, and stepped a little closer, his dark eyes raking slowly over Merlin's body, his tongue running across his own lip, "would be something, now, wouldn't it?"

Heat flooded up Merlin's face in an unwelcome wave—why is he looking at me, why is he looking at me, stop it, stop looking at me, what did I do, what did I do to make him look—and he grabbed, on instinct, for his scarf, coiling his fingers in the fraying cloth. "Are we going to your chambers, or not?"

"Must we?" Agravaine leaned down a little. "Forgive me, but I was under the impression you had a chamber of your own."

"No," Merlin said, on reflex, on instinct, something automatic and uncontrolled, because please, not there, haven't you ruined enough, haven't you defiled enough, don't ruin this, don't defile this, and this was stupid, this was ridiculous, this didn't make any sense, who cared about a little room with a bunch of boxes shoved in the corners and a rickety old bed pushed up against the wall, who cared about it, who cared about any of it, but Merlin did, because Gaius had given him that room.

Gaius had given him that room. And it was his. It was his room. He'd never had a room before he'd come to Camelot. Not all to himself like that, at least, and it had been—it had been special, it had been special to him, it had been important to him, and he didn't want—he didn't want this, in there.

Agravaine didn't listen to him, though. So it didn't really matter.

And Merlin let it happen.

He didn't fight back. He didn't say no.

He let it happen.

He let Agravaine lead him upstairs, let Agravaine press him into the wall and kiss him, warm wet lips all over him, his face, his neck, his cheekbones, his jaw—he let Agravaine push his jacket off his shoulders, let the man fumble, with broad fingers, for the knot in his scarf, he let Agravaine slide his tunic down, let him leave a trail of hard, hungry kisses all down his chest and stomach, and he let Agravaine shove him back onto the bed, and he let himself fall, and he didn't fight back, and he didn't say no.

"Noisy old thing, isn't it?" Agravaine murmured, into Merlin's open mouth, as the bed creaked under him, loud in the silence of the dark room, and he grabbed for Merlin's trousers, thumb running lightly along the thin, straight line of the waistband. He hadn't taken off a stitch of his own clothing yet, not even his heavy, dark cloak, not even his black boots. "If it were up to me," he whispered, breathlessly, into Merlin's ear, "if it were up to me, you'd have far better accommodations."

"So you could fuck me in comfort?"

Merlin didn't mean to say it. He didn't mean for the words to leave his mouth, he didn't mean—he didn't want—it just sort of burst out of him, and Agravaine's rough hands shoved shoved shoved at the line of his trousers until worn brown cloth pooled around his knees in a heap, and his stomach jolted.

Agravaine still hadn't even begun to undress.

"Well," Agravaine said, quietly, "yes." He trailed a hand down Merlin's cheek. "You look beautiful when you writhe naked on silk sheets, you know."

"Stop," Merlin said, and he didn't mean to say that, either, he didn't mean to, he didn't want to, buthe didn't, he couldn't— "Stop it." His breath hitched. Please just make him stop.

"Can't you take a compliment, Merlin?"

Even in the dark, Merlin could see it, when Agravaine's mouth twitched, and he wanted to fight back, to say no, to say terrible things, to curse Agravaine until his breath ran out and Agravaine's ears bled, but greedy, grasping hands over his skin, and you look beautiful when you writhe and would it make a difference, would anything he said make a difference, would anything he said make Agravaine stop—

"It is a compliment, you know. You're beautiful. Absolutely divine." Agravaine pressed his lips to Merlin's chest again. "I don't know a man alive who can resist those lovely blue bed-me eyes of yours."

No. Merlin didn't know if he ever even said it, he didn't know if he ever even said anything at all, if he said no or stop or please, and he didn't even know, really, why he should say no, why he should say stop, why he should say please, what difference was it going to make, what difference was it supposed to make, what was he fighting against, what was he fighting so hard against, what was he—I didn't make Agravaine want me like this I didn't I didn't I didn't I didn't—I didn't mean to, I didn't try, and how could I have made Agravaine, how could I have made anyone, want me when I didn't mean to, when I didn't try—?

"Let me see," Agravaine pulled back a little, but he didn't lift his voice above a whisper—in the silence, he didn't need to, "let me see you," his fingers dragged, slowly, deliberately, over Merlin's cock, "pleasure yourself."

"What—?" Merlin's breath hooked in the back of his throat. No. Agravaine didn't want that, Agravaine hadn't waited here so long for that—?

"I trust you know the—ah—fundamentals?" Agravaine's dark brows rose a bit.

Merlin felt himself flush. At least the surge of color to his cheeks couldn't be seen in the dark. "Yes," he snapped, "of course I know the—" he bit down, hard, on his bottom lip, to make himself shut up.

Agravaine laughed, low and deep and rumbling, in his throat, and his hand slid lightly up the bare inside of Merlin's thigh, broad fingers mere inches from his cock. "Yes. Yes, of course you do." He pressed a quick kiss to the inside of Merlin's thigh. "Have you ever," he whispered, against Merlin's skin, lips warm and wet on his naked legs, "have you ever pleasured yourself to me?"

"No,"Merlin said, vehemently, at once, even as the flush flared up again like a fire, because how could Agravaine even suggest—?

"You have," Agravaine breathed, delightedly, his voice practically a purr. He rubbed his crotch lightly over Merlin's thighs.

"I haven't," Merlin said, through his teeth. He didn't know why it mattered so much, not really, because it wasn't going to make any difference at all, nothing he said was ever going to make any difference at all, Agravaine wouldn't believe him, no matter how he denied it, but it—but it mattered, it mattered to him, because he knew, he knew the truth, even if he was the only one, and he may have given up his body, but he hadn't given up his mind, and that—that mattered, that distinction mattered, it mattered to Merlin, in a million ways he couldn't really explain.

"Show me." Agravaine pressed his mouth to Merlin's ear. "Show me."

Merlin's heart thudded.

He had never done this where somebody could see him. Where somebody could hear him. Where somebody could watch him. He had never done this where somebody could see him, where somebody could hear him, where somebody could watch him, and—something inside him, in the pit of his stomach, gave a tiny, uncomfortable little twist—Agravaine will see me, Agravaine will hear me, Agravaine will watch me, like it's a performance, like it's a show, and it's not, it's not, I don't want it to be, don't make me do this, don't make me do this, make him change his mind, make him change his mind, don't make me—

He dropped his hand down between his legs. His fingers were shaking.

His heart pounded, painfully hard, in his chest.

He had never done this where somebody could see.

He wrapped his fingers, slowly, around his own cock, hot and already a little hard at the first touch, and he shut his eyes. Just get it over with, just get it over with, just get it over with—he set the fastest rhythm he could manage, rocking a little, back and forth, on the bed as he moved, and the rough pressure of it pushed him, hard, into the first rolling wave of pleasure.

"Fuck," he said, hard as he tried not to, his voice a breathy gasp, his hands shaking as the heat started to sweep through him.

"—oh, yes, just like that, Merlin, just like that—"

That tiny little twist in Merlin's stomach just got so much tighter—like it's a performance, like it's a show, like there's something to see, but there's not, there's not, there's nothing here for him to see, there's nothing here I want him to see, make him stop looking at me, gods, please, don't let him look at me anymore—another surge rocked through Merlin's body, flooded him like a river, flooded him like the sea, and if I can just get it over with—

Downstairs, the heavy door creaked open.

Merlin froze, on the bed, with the blankets scraping at his bare skin, one hand wrapped around his cock, his blood pounding like a drum in his ears, his heart a frantic, frenzied pulse in his chest. He opened his eyes.

Agravaine had frozen, too. His dark eyes had gone wide, enormous black pools too big for his lined face, and he lifted his head by the barest fraction, and looked over his shoulder at the thin door to the little bedchamber.

"Merlin?"

Even through the stone walls standing solidly between them, Merlin could hear it, could make it out, even through the wood of the closed door, and even now, he knew the way his own name sounded in Gwaine's boisterous, inelegant voice, he knew the heavy thump of Gwaine's boots on the ground down below, the clank of his armor and the swish of his cloak, Merlin knew, Merlin knew, and for scarcely a second, for barely half a heartbeat, he couldn't help but to think how Agravaine couldn't do anything in front of Gwaine, could he, Agravaine couldn't do anything in front of Gwaine, anything at all, this had to stay a secret, this had to stay between them, and—hope flickered to life in Merlin's chest, like the sputtering flame of a midnight candle, because maybe he'd stop now, maybe he'd leave, maybe Agravaine would get up and leave, maybe if Merlin made a noise, maybe if Merlin got Gwaine's attention, it would make Agravaine leave, it would make him go, because Agravaine would have to stop, if Gwaine were here, Agravaine would have to stop then, he would have to, he wouldn't have a choice, he would have to stop, he would have to leave, he would have to leave Merlin alone, he would have to stop, he wouldn't have a choice, not if Gwaine came up here, not if Gwaine found them here, not if Gwaine walked in, not if Gwaine saw—

The twist in Merlin's stomach wasn't tiny anymore.

If—if Gwaine saw—if Gwaine saw—

Even if he could get his clothes back on before Gwaine got up here, even if he could cover himself back up again, Agravaine would still be here, in his bedroom, and Gwaine would wonder about that, there was no way he wouldn't wonder about that, he would ask about that, he was never the type to keep his questions to himself even when he really, really should, and if he asked, Merlin wouldn't have anything to say, no more little white lies, no more ways to water it down, or pretty it up, and—

—and no one could ever know, ever, about this, about Agravaine, about Merlin, about tonight, about all the nights that had come before, about all the nights that would come after, no one could know, because—

—because no one can know about my magic, Merlin told himself, again and again and again, no one can ever know about my magic, but—

—but it was bigger than that.

It was bigger than that now.

It was worse than that.

When Agravaine had gone inside Merlin, when he had—had crawled and crept, like something—something not human, when he had crawled and crept his way inside Merlin's body, inside Merlin, when Agravaine had gone inside, he had—he had taken something, and Merlin had thought, that night, that first night, that first time, he had thought, I'm empty now, and I'll be empty like this forever, Agravaine hollowed me out to make room for himself here, Agravaine hollowed me out so there would always be a space for him to come back to, for him to fill up again—

But that was wrong, wasn't it, that was wrong, because Agravaine hadn't—hadn't taken from Merlin, he hadn't taken from Merlin and left him empty, left him hollow, because there was something too simple, too neat, about that, wasn't there?

He hadn't emptied Merlin out so he could come back, hadn't hollowed Merlin so he could return. He had taken, and taken, and taken, until Merlin could have shouted, could have screamed, and his whole body would have echoed it back, but he had filled Merlin back up again.

He had filled Merlin, inch by inch and ounce by ounce, had filled him with terrible things, with rotten things, with waste, with filth, with garbage, with trash, with decaying, dead things, with horrible things, with putrid things, with awful, with bad, with vile—Agravaine had—had emptied him, had hollowed him, and then filled him back up again with all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see, all the—the bad, the ugly, the wrong, and it had all made homes inside his hollow bones, shards and shrapnel had blended in with his blood, and a thousand evil things nested inside him now, and Agravaine had filled him up with it, Agravaine had left it all there, all the bad, all the ugly, all the wrong, all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see.

And even if Agravaine stopped now, even if he stopped right now, even if he walked away, if he walked out of this room and out of Merlin's life and never, ever touched him again, it wouldn't make a difference, it wouldn't change anything, it wouldn't take the bad and the ugly and the wrong out of him, it wouldn't take away the dead and decay, it wouldn't wash him clean, it wouldn't return him to what he had been, and he wasn't empty, he wasn't hollow, he was rotting, from the inside out, caving in and in and in on himself, a little farther every day, warping and withering into nothing, into all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see, and if Gwaine came up here, if Gwaine found them here, if Gwaine walked in, if Gwaine saw—

"Merlin?" Gwaine called, again, a little louder this time, a little higher. "Merlin?"

And Merlin shut his eyes, and shut his mouth, because rotten rotten rotten Agravaine's made me rotten and maybe I've always been rotten, always, forever, why else would I be like this, why else would I be the way I am, why else would everyone I ever touch always die, or get hurt—

The door creaked shut again.

There was silence.

Gwaine had gone.

Notes: All right, so, originally, I had a lot more to this chapter - and I mean, a lot more, I honestly don't know how I thought I could condense it into one, even if I'd made it a monster chapter, like chapter 4 - but in the end, I slowly whittled it down to just this. Not a lot really happens here, but this chapter, and the next - of which I've already written a lot, as the events in it were supposed to be in this one - mark the most major turning point in the story, the most major turning point in Arthur and Merlin's character arcs, and I really wanted to emphasize that. I'm so sorry about all the unnecessary internal monologue, there was really absolutely no need for quite that much, but I really wanted to make sure everyone knows what Merlin's feeling right about now, as his emotional state here is pretty important to me.

Thank you guys so much for all your lovely and kind and encouraging comments on this fic! You're all so amazing and wonderful, I can't even believe the response I've received on this piece!