"Revolutionaries wait,
For my head on a silver plate,
Just a puppet on a lonely string,
Oh, who would ever want to be king?"
- Viva la Vida, Coldplay
Arthur woke up already on his feet, with his sword in his hand and his bed hangings ripped back and his heart crashing around inside his chest and his dreams still burning like fire before his eyes. Again.
Stupid, he thought, once the last, lingering threads of his broken and restless sleep had finally gone, finally fallen from off the edges of his exhausted mind, faded away into nothing, and he could finally think again, could finally slow down, could finally breathe again—stupid, this is so stupid, I'm being stupid, I'm just being stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I so—
The harsh clang of his own blade, as it tumbled from his slack fingers and struck the floor at his feet, sent another sharp jolt to his stomach—he reflexively closed one shaking hand up in a fist, so tight his knuckles went white and the blue veins bulged under his skin, but just my sword, it's just my sword, it's just my damned sword, God, stupid, this is so stupid, I'm being stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I so—?
Arthur dropped back to the edge of the bed, and rubbed, halfheartedly, at his temples, but he knew better than to believe he could banish the ache already splitting into his skull like the blunt blade of an old and ineffective axe. He dragged in a breath, face still hidden in his hands, and it—it helped, a little—the dark, the quiet, behind his own open palms, it helped a little, it eased the pounding pressure in his throbbing head, and it slowed the rapid rhythm of his racing heart, relaxed the tight knot of rigid tension in his chest, soothed the shudders still rolling every now and then through his tired body. I've got no reason to panic, he told himself, over and over again, until he could make himself believe it, don't be stupid, I've got no reason to panic, I've got no reason to panic, just a dream, just a silly dream, I've got no reason to—
Arthur's breath caught in his chest, in the back of his throat, and he had to push himself up off the bed on the heels of his hands and walk three times round the whole room before he could actually breathe again. He went to the wardrobe then—his fingers still trembled when he reached for his red tunic, but I'm going to the Lower Town, he told himself, firmly, and I'm going to go and see Guinevere, and Elyan, and I'm going to ensure they've got everything they need for their journey, I'm going to the Lower Town and I'm going to see Guinevere, I'm going to help Guinevere, like I told her I would, like I promised her I would, and the thought of her gentle face, of her smile like sunlight and her eyes like stars, was good enough to get him to breathe again. No reason to panic. I've got no reason to panic.
And then the door banged open, so hard it hit the wall behind, and Sir Gwaine charged in, full armor and all, and bellowed, like he wanted the whole kingdom to hear it, "I need a word with you!"
Arthur's breath did another funny hitch at the back of his throat at the loud noise, and he silently cursed Gwaine straight to hell. "It's going to have to wait."
"No," Gwaine said, furiously, "it's not 'going to have to wait', we're going to talk now."
Arthur rubbed at his temples again. It didn't help. "Sir Gwaine, I'm afraid I have a prior obligation—"
"Bullshit," Gwaine said. He put a hand on the sword hanging at his hip. "Is Merlin here?"
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You don't think this could have waited?"
"Is Merlin here?" Gwaine repeated, with narrowed eyes, and a sharp edge of ice to his voice.
Arthur looked, pointedly, around the spacious and sunlit and, decidedly, Merlin-free chamber. "Unless he's gone and hidden himself in the wardrobe, I wouldn't say so, no."
"You mean, you haven't seen him this morning?" Gwaine started to pace the room like a feral cat in a cage. His armor clanked with every step. "At all?"
"No." Arthur ran a hand down the side of his face, dry skin stretching under his fingers. "But that doesn't mean anything. He's never on time, Gwaine, I wouldn't worry about it." He turned back to the wardrobe, grabbed a fresh pair of breeches off the shelf, and shut the doors with a soft click.
"He didn't come home last night," Gwaine said quietly.
Arthur frowned. "Merlin?" He turned on his heel to look round at Gwaine again.
"Yeah." Gwaine's mouth twisted. "Not like him, is it?" He'd reached the far wall by now and here he turned, sharply, in a jangle of armor and a swirl of scarlet cloak, to pound his path back to the door.
Arthur leaned back against the wardrobe, the wood cool and firm on the bare skin of his back. "No," he admitted. "It's not." God knew the idiot took every opportunity he had to laze about in his bed as long as he could—but it still didn't mean Gwaine had any right to burst into his chambers barely after sunrise, and start yelling at the top of his voice about it.
"Thing is," Gwaine shook his head, hard, his tangled dark hair dragging down his unshaven cheek, "I don't think he's really been home in—" he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, "—a while. Days. At least."
"Well," Arthur wrinkled his brow, "he's—he's been here. He's attended me—"
"Gaius' desk has got dust," Gwaine cut him off, "and that hearth was cold as ice. Woodbox was empty as the Monday morning tavern, and it's freeze-your-cock-off degrees outside these days, Princess, why wouldn't he have lit himself a fire?"
Arthur had to concede the point there. Everyone knew Merlin was an absolute petticoat when it came to the cold—could catch a sniffle at the drop of a hat, and usually spent the whole winter wrapped in every last flimsy little layer he owned, like it wasn't his own idiot fault he didn't have enough meat on his bones to stave off the chill. Couldn't pay the man enough to forego a fire.
But that was no reason to let Gwaine get himself riled up about all of this. There was no reason to think Merlin was anything other than perfectly all right.
"So he's not had time to replenish the woodbox," Arthur said, calmly, and stepped behind the dressing screen. "Hardly unusual around this time of year, Gwaine. Yule's not far, and we need everyone to pitch in a little extra." He wrenched off the trousers he'd slept in, and tossed them over top of the screen.
"Look, there's something wrong with him!" There was a thump somewhere beyond the dressing screen. Probably Gwaine had knocked something over.
"What, just because he can't be bothered to refill the woodbox?" Arthur pulled on the clean pair of breeches, and tried not to ignore the acid bubbling up and burning in the pit of his stomach. So maybe Gwaine had a point. Maybe Merlin had been nattering on a lot less than usual lately. Maybe he had gone tense and quiet and distant lately. Maybe there was something strange and strained in his smile, maybe Gwaine was right, maybe there was something wrong with him, and maybe it stared Arthur in the face every damned day, but—
—you've known Morgana since you were a child—
—but no matter how Arthur tried, how he pushed at the words, plucked at them, pulled at them, stretched them out to their fullest, he couldn't push or pluck or pull them out of his mind, couldn't stretch them clean out of his skull, and he could still feel them, sitting and seething and festering, like old and infected wounds in darkest, smallest corners of his own sick and sleepless mind, burning and blazing at the back of his exhausted brain, building homes inside his head, sticking, like syrup, like tar, to the insides of his skull, and he couldn't speak anymore, couldn't fill the silence anymore, couldn't find it in himself to do anything, to say anything, just let that strange and strained something in Merlin's smile slip past him, just let the tense and quiet and distance get bigger and bigger and bigger and—
"It's not about the woodbox," Gwaine snapped. "He's not himself. Looks like he hasn't slept in ages, and if he's had a full meal in the last week, I'll eat my own sword." He tapped at the hilt of his weapon with the tips of his fingers for emphasis. "He looks about ready to collapse."
"And what do you expect me to do about it?" Arthur tugged his tunic on over his head, and stepped out from behind the dressing screen. "If he's too much of an idiot to take care of himself, I hardly think I can make him—"
"I don't want you to make him do anything, Princess, that's not the point—"
"Well, whatever you want, you're going to have to come out and say it, because I don't have the time—"
"Listen, Princess, I—" Gwaine raked a hand roughly through his hair, "—Arthur—"
Arthur raised his eyebrows. His name? Now that was new, at least coming from Gwaine.
"—someone's hurting him."
"Hurting him?" Arthur rolled the words around inside his mouth, inside his mind, and he felt his stomach tense up. Merlin? Hurt? "Why would you—?" He leaned back against the front of the dressing screen. "What's given you that idea?"
"You're telling me you haven't noticed?"
"Noticed what?" Arthur demanded. "I'm running a kingdom, I have far better things to do than pay attention to my servant," he added, sharply, when Gwaine stared at him in disbelief.
"Fine, all right, then, since I've got to spell it out for you," Gwaine said, tightly, "he's bruised. All to hell, Arthur, like you wouldn't believe. All over his wrists, and Christ, there are handprints—"
"Handprints?" Arthur echoed uncomfortably. No, no, not possible, he'd have noticed if his own servant came bumbling into work with bruises and handprints on his wrists, he'd have noticed if someone had grabbed Merlin, he'd have noticed if someone had hurt him, he'd have noticed it, he'd have seen, but his stomach still did that tense-up thing again when he thought about it. He would have noticed it.
But—but if he hadn't—
"—and I don't think that burn on his face was an accident—"
He would have noticed if his own servant came bumbling into work with a burn on his face, but something in Arthur's chest clenched tight like a fist, like a vise, and his breath hooked in the back of his throat. He would have noticed burns, and bruises and handprints, he would have noticed, he would have seen, he would have taken care of it,but if—if what Gwaine said was true—if there was even a shadow of a chance that Merlin might—that he might be—that someone might have—
"—he's skittish as a spooked horse these days," Gwaine barreled on, "doesn't even like me to touch him anymore—" he'd taken up the pacing again, one hand still tangled in his own dark, unkempt hair, "—and, Christ, Arthur, he's tense as a taut bowstring, keeps lookin' 'round everywhere he goes like he thinks he'll get beaten if he lets down his guard."
"I'm—I'm sure Merlin's all right," Arthur said, weakly, but he burned even as he spoke the words, because if Gwaine was right, if his story was true, if Merlin was getting hurt, if anyone was laying a hand on him, if anyone had messed with so much as a hair on his idiot head, if somebody had really hurt him, if somebody had really beaten him—Merlin, bloodied and battered and frightened and defenseless, while an unseen assailant held his wrists so hard he bruised and burned his face and beat him while he couldn't fight back, flashed through Arthur's mind, and that horrible tight feeling inside him got even tighter.
"No," Gwaine jerked up short, and spun to face Arthur, "no, he's not. Iknow what I'm seeing, and I don't like it, and if you don't believe me, I'll—"
The door banged open again, crashing back into the wall behind with a tremendous blast, and Lord Agravaine walked inside.
"Sire," he bowed low, but he didn't slow down, he didn't break stride, black cloak flaring out at his back in a whirl of thick, dark cloth, "I apologize profusely for such an indecorous intrusion at this early hour, but I'm afraid I cannot—" He stopped mid-sentence, mid-step, even, and he flicked his gaze uncertainly from Arthur to Gwaine and back again. "Forgive me," he took half a step back, "am I interrupting something?"
"Yes." Gwaine's dark brows dipped down into a thunderous scowl.
"No," Arthur said, quickly, "no, not at all, Uncle." He couldn't turn his uncle away over Merlin. He couldn't ignore the Lord Agravaine for a servant. Couldn't put someone like Merlin over someone like Agravaine. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and it always would be, but it was the way it had to be. Gwaine could understand that. Merlin could understand that.
"Hang on, Princess," Gwaine snapped out, and took a step forward, "you can't just—"
"Please allow me to hear the Lord Agravaine out, Sir Gwaine," Arthur held up a hand to shut Gwaine up, and pushed down that horrible tight, tense feeling in the bottom of his stomach again—if Gwaine was really onto something, and Merlin really was in trouble—
—he could be getting hurt right now—
Gwaine glared at Agravaine.
Agravaine did not seem terribly bothered by this. "My Lord," he swept himself up to his full height at once, and clasped his black-gloved hands behind his back, "your presence is urgently required in the council room. Please come with all due haste, Sire, I'm afraid there has been a truly terrible occurrence." Here, Agravaine hesitated, however briefly, as if the words to come were too horrendous to leave his lips, and Arthur's stomach started to tense up again. "My Lord, last night, a sorcerer was spotted in the Lower Town."
Merlin had started shaking again. In the waxy, cold light of new dawn, he could see it, could see his own hands, pale and empty and open, trembling against the rough, dark burlap of his pillow, trembling like little white birds, like leaves on a cold night in the Darkling Woods, and isn't it funny, he thought, but in a very strange and distant and detached sort of way, isn't it funny, I can see it, I can see my hands are shaking, I can see the shudders jolting through my palms, I can see the short, sharp tremors, I can see the little lurches and jerks and spasms but I can't feel them very much at all, isn't that funny?
His fingers looked very white.
It was as if the sun was trying to wash him away. To bleach him to white, to turn him to grey, the sun was trying to take all the color out of him, and wasn't that odd, wasn't that funny?
Maybe I have gone to sleep, he thought, in that strange and distant and detached sort of way again, maybe I have gone to sleep, and maybe it was all a dream. Maybe this is all a dream.
This felt like a dream now that he thought about it—his head felt the way it did in his dreams, very heavy, and far too big for the rest of him, like someone had gone and stuffed his skull with thick, fluffy cotton, or wool blankets, maybe, like the sort Arthur liked to sleep with in the winter, and it felt like maybe he was under water, under an awful lot of water—maybe I'm under the lake, maybe I'm with Freya, and then he could see her face when he closed his eyes and he couldn't breathe and his chest ached and he thought he'd die with the pain of it even when he knew he had said his goodbyes to her a long time ago.
He was under the water, and he had a thousand miles to go before he reached the surface, and the whole world around him wanted to drag him back down into the dark.
He tried to sit up.
It took him a long time—or maybe he was just imagining it, maybe it was all a dream, maybe he was making everything up, inside his own mind, but that was the way it felt to him, like he struggled for hours, for ages, forever and ever and ever, until he finally leaned up on jerking, shuddering arms, and stayed there.
It was all a dream, he thought, again, and he felt better, then—the awful, aching pressure in his chest didn't weigh so heavy on him anymore. It was all a dream. Last night was all a dream. I made it up inside my mind. But it didn't really happen. Nothing happened. Nothing ever really happened. It was all a dream. It was all only a dream.
His torn, patched trousers lay in a mud-brown heap at the bottom of the bed, the thin cloth tangled up around his bare, pale legs.
His breath hitched.
I dreamt it, he told himself, again, I dreamt it, I dreamt it all, it didn't really happen, it was all a dream.
The soft, white insides of his thighs had stains. Long, sticky trails of fluid—of filth, and sour bile burned hot as fire at the back of his throat—streaked in thin lines along his clammy skin.
It was all a dream, he said, over and over and over again in his own mind, like a song stuck in his head, like a spell he couldn't forget, like a story, but he didn't know the end, it was all a dream, last night was a dream, I made it up, I made it up, and it's all right because it didn't happen and I made it up and it was all only ever a dream, but he could feel the brittle, flaky crust under his fingers when he let himself touch his legs, and—
—can't you take a compliment, Merlin?—
His stomach clenched like a vise, like a fist, so sharp and tight and it hurt, and he had to press a trembling hand to his mouth, fingers shaking on his own lips, just to stop the sick from spilling out—
—you look beautiful when you writhe naked on silk sheets—
—a dream, he howled in his own head, over the frantic, frenzied hammer of his own heart, a dream, it was a dream, it was all a dream, it was only ever a dream—
—you're beautiful, absolutely divine—
—it didn't happen, like a song stuck in his head, like a spell he couldn't forget, it didn't happen—
—oh, yes, just like that, Merlin, just like that—
—like a story, but he didn't know the end—
Merlin lurched off the edge of the bed. He snatched for his trousers in a pool at his feet, and he wrenched them up to his waist, and cinched the string as tight as it could go. The rough cloth still sagged down the slope of his narrow hips, and thick violet fingerprints glared furiously back at him just above the thin waistband, the smear of purple startlingly vivid against the smooth white of his skin.
—you look like mine—
Merlin dragged in a breath, and dropped his hands back to his sides. Little tremors still spiraled through his fingers every few seconds.
He dressed—tunic, belt, jacket, boots, scarf, he had to run through the list a full three times in his mind before he realized he had gotten everything—and he went down the stairs. He could still feel last night on his legs, and the homespun cloth on the insides of his ragged trousers rubbed painfully at the mess. It would be all over him, all day, until he finally undressed again, and to think of it sent a trail of revulsion skittering down his spine, clawing up the back of his burning throat.
Soap and water would never wash him clean again.
Something's wrong.
Merlin knew—from the second he slipped into Arthur's bedchamber, breakfast tray balanced precariously in the crook of his left arm, and the low, furious voices fell on his ears, heavy as hammers, he knew, and his stomach pulled almost painfully tight with the tension of it—Arthur had that same strained, pinched look on his pale, exhausted face that he got when he thought of Morgana, when he didn't think he'd made the right decision, or when he didn't think he made a good king, or when he didn't think he'd done enough to protect his people, and over on the far side of the room, Gwaine paced from the bed to the dressing screen to the wall and back again, like some wild, restless animal, and over by the window, Agravaine—
Merlin felt himself pull up to a sharp stop—felt the sudden stall in his steps, the stumbling falter to his feet, and the ground tilted violently beneath his boots, until he thought he'd fall—can't you take a compliment, Merlin—he ground his teeth together until his jaw ached, and he put Arthur's breakfast down on the table with a light little thump, quick before he could drop it.
"—the hell of it," Gwaine said, impatiently, and jerked his head to the side to get the dark, shaggy hair out of his eyes. "How do we know—?"
"It's nonsense you talk, Sir Gwaine," Arthur said sharply, blue eyes glistening bright with fury, "and well you know it. When has a sorcerer ever sought to do anything but bring hurt and harm to the innocent?"
The ground did that tilting-under-Merlin's-boots thing again, and he grabbed for the edge of Arthur's table to stay on his feet. Sorcerer? His stomach pulled even tighter. Why—why are they talking about sorcerers, what's happened, is it a sorcerer, is there a sorcerer, has Arthur found a sorcerer, has Arthur killed a—? Has he been attacked by a—?
"What's—what's going on?" Merlin forced the words through dry lips, and flicked his gaze to Arthur first to find his answer.
Arthur stared back at him for a second too long—Merlin thought he seemed to be looking for something, searching, hunting, almost, but then he threw his shoulders back, and he stood up perfectly straight and he turned back to Agravaine, and the second was over, and Merlin supposed he must have imagined it. Made it up inside his own mind.
"Thank you for bringing me this news, Lord Agravaine," Arthur said, in a very tight, very formal sort of voice, and it was as if Merlin hadn't said a word. "If you and Sir Gwaine could proceed to the council room," he tipped his head toward the door, "I will join you both in ten minutes' time."
To Merlin's surprise, it was Gwaine who left first, with a little jerk of the chin in Arthur's direction as he headed out the door, and Agravaine who lingered.
"My Lord," he protested, "surely this happenstance takes all precedence, does it not? You cannot ignore—you must focus on the safety of the people—"
"Lord Agravaine, your concern for Camelot is truly admirable," Arthur said, except there was the barest edge of steel in his voice now, and Merlin had never, ever heard Arthur speak to Agravaine, of all people, that way—as far as Arthur was concerned, his uncle could do no wrong. "But I'm afraid I have another responsibility I must attend to, and I have already left it far too long."
Agravaine fumbled, for a moment or two, his thin lips parting, his mouth opening up and closing back again every few moments—his dark eyes snapped to Merlin, and his jaw tightened. His heavy black brows dipped low in a scowl.
"Very well, Sire. It shall be as you wish." Agravaine swept down low in a bow so exaggerated, it was nearly derisive—Merlin felt his own hands close up in fists at the sight of it—and, in a whirl of thick black cloak, turned abruptly on his heel, and strode, straight-backed, out the door. It shut back behind him with a sharp snap.
The instant his uncle had gone, Arthur sat himself down, heavily, on the edge of his unmade bed, pushing the rumpled, snow-white sheets out of his way with the back of one hand. He ran shaking fingers lightly down the side of his tired face. "There's a sorcerer on the loose in Camelot," he said, very softly, but in the silence, it seemed very loud.
"Sorcerer?" Merlin's heart thudded, painfully hard, in his chest, at the word, and he skimmed the tip of his tongue lightly over his own cracked lips. "What—what do you mean, 'sorcerer'?"
"I mean sorcerer," Arthur said impatiently. "What, are there supposed to be different sorts of them or something?" He leaned down, and dug around underneath the bed for his boots. "Eyewitnesses say he tried to lay some kind of curse over the Lower Town. That's all anyone knows." An exhausted sigh slipped through his lips.
Lower Town? Merlin's mouth went dry as the first cold trickle of suspicion crawled down his spine. Last night—in the Lower Town—he had—but no, that was—that was mad, wasn't it? Completely and utterly mad. He had been careful enough. Hadn't he? Yes. He had. Of course he had. Careful. That was what he was. He was good at careful. Even if Gaius would disagree.
"—thankfully, the magic has yet to manifest itself in any visible way—"
Arthur's voice dragged on and on and on, and Merlin knew he needed to listen, he knew he needed to hear, it could help if he knew, if he knew how much the council knew, if he knew how much Arthur knew, it could help, but—but if someone had seen him—if someone had seen his face—if anyone had gotten even half a look at him, in the light of the lanterns flickering on either side of the narrow, cobbled streets, if the fire had lit him up even for a moment, if anybody had—if anybody had seen—
"—and many citizens have sought refuge in taverns and inns within the citadel walls to ensure the investigations of the incident can proceed with all due haste—"
—no one could have seen, no one could have seen, it had been far too dark, the odds were just insurmountable—
"—unfortunate Gaius could not be here—we could use his expertise—"
—but if anyone had, and something cold and heavy settled deep in the pit of Merlin's stomach, to think of it—
"—hardly a reassurance, when you really—"
"Arthur," Merlin said, sharply, as much to shut Arthur up as to pull himself back from the world of what-if and could-have, to pull himself back together before he could even begin to fall apart, "what else have the witnesses said?"
"I don't know." Arthur scowled. "Lord Agravaine tells me he has gathered them together in the council room, to give me their testimony when I arrive. Let us hope their accounts will prove useful to us."
Let us hope they won't, but Merlin bit his tongue, and forced a nod.
Arthur clambered back off the bed—the heels of his thick boots thumped lightly on the ground—and brushed off his breeches with the flat of his hand. "Merlin," he said, quietly, "Guinevere and Elyan stayed in the Lower Town last night."
"—oh." It was barely a word, barely even a breath, come to that, and Merlin had to ball his hands back up in fists just to stop that damned shaking starting up again. If I could just tell him, if I could just explain it to him, if I could just—
"See to them," Arthur said, so short and sharp he sounded as if he might shatter. "Go to the Lower Town, and see to them. Make sure they're all right. Inform Elyan of the council meeting, if he's—" Arthur's eyes squeezed shut for a second or two, "—if he's still fit to attend."
He will be, Merlin thought, with a desperate pang of his pounding heart, he will be, Arthur, if I could just tell you, if I could just make you see, if I could just tell you it was me—
"And then you will stay and assist Guinevere in any way possible. She and Elyan intend to visit their father before the week is out, and I've no doubt they'll need aid to prepare for the journey in such short time."
"Yes," Merlin said, "yes, of course." If I could just tell him, if I could just show him he has no reason to worry—
"I intended to do so myself, but—" Arthur stopped, for a long moment, "—but plans have changed."
"Nothing's happened to them," Merlin blurted out, almost before Arthur had finished speaking, because he couldn't stop himself, he couldn't help himself, he could not stand to see Arthur so miserable, so afraid, "nothing's happened, Arthur, they're going to be all right."
Arthur pressed his lips together. "Thank you, Merlin. That will be all." He stopped just long enough to get his crown from off its stand as he headed for the door, and he jammed the circlet clumsily on his head, as he marched from the room.
Merlin hesitated, in the open entryway, half in and half out of the bedchamber, but—
—but Gwen and Elyan weren't really in any danger at all, even if Arthur didn't know that, even if Arthur couldn't know that, and Merlin—
—Merlin stepped out into the corridor and followed after Arthur.
He had to know what the witnesses knew, what the council knew, what Agravaine knew, what Arthur-
What Arthur was about to know.
Notes: *insert that gif from Atlantis: The Lost Empire where that guy flicks the match in the dark and goes, "All right, who's not dead? Sound off."*
But seriously there is absolutely no valid reason why this chapter took me from April to June? I didn't even realize how long it had been until I checked the "last updated" slot at the bottom. honest to God lads. I'm Shook. But I'm real pumped to be back on this fic again! This was technically supposed to be the Big Chapter - the one where it all happens, if you will, but I didn't get too far in before I realized I was just trying to say too much with this one, and no matter how long I kept at it, this one was going to turn out sloppy if I didn't cut it down a bit. So! I split it up into two, and the NEXT chapter will be the one where it all happens, and y'all can hold me to that! Y'all can quote me on that! Y'all reserve the right to quote me on that!
Also, fun fact here, I used Viva la Vida specifically because, before I decided to officially call the fic Do You Feel Like a Young God, I debated between Who Would Ever Want to Be King and Puppet on a Lonely String. Still really attached to both of those titles, hence this chapter name lmao.
Oh! I almost forgot! Soo, the amazing and lovely and incredible ouroborosasunder on Tumblr gifted me with some of their amazing and lovely and incredible art based off this fic! Ahh, I'm on cloud nine ~