"Are you deranged like me?

Are you strange like me?

Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?

Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me?

Pointing fingers 'cause you'll never take the blame like me."

- Gasoline, Halsey

Merlin had always thought that he would leave.

If Arthur ever found out the truth, if Arthur ever found out he had magic, and if Arthur ever locked him in the dungeons, if Arthur ever put him on the pyre, Merlin had always thought that he would just leave. He would get out. He wouldn't hang around and wait for Arthur to kill him, and he wouldn't waste the time to try and tell Arthur of the prophecy, of Albion, of fate and destiny and dragons that never said enough, no, he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't stop to try and explain himself, he wouldn't make a mistake like that, he would save himself, he would rescue himself, he would get himself out of the kingdom, no matter the hurt and betrayal he would leave behind, all the shattered friendships and unsaid goodbyes. He would get to his chambers, he would pack up his things, and he would run, as far and as fast as his feet could carry him.

Merlin never really made it much farther than that, to tell the truth, at least not inside his head—what he would do from there, where he would go, how he would hide himself, if he would ever get to see his mother or Gaius or any of his friends again, if he would ever come back to Camelot, if Arthur would ever forgive him, the questions had always lurked, unanswered, in the back of his mind—but it had always seemed something so simple to him, a bright certainty that burned in his brain, this steady and constant fire inside him. I'll leave, he had thought, so many times, he could recite it all from memory, and it had all seemed so simple, every time, socertain, I'll leave, I'll just leave, I'll go away, I'll go far away, somewhere Arthur will never find me, I won't let him kill me, I'll never let him kill me, I won't die at his hand, I won't do that, I won't do that, I won't die like that, I won't let myself die like that.

But—here—now—

It could happen today, it could happen now, right now, and if it did, if it happened, if it happened here, if it happened now, if Arthur found out the truth, if Arthur found out he had magic, if Arthur locked him in the dungeons, if Arthur put him on the pyre—

I can't leave him, and it jolted Merlin, to think of it like that, like lightning in his veins, I can't leave him, even then, I can't leave him, no matter what he does to me, no matter if he tries to kill me, I can't leave him, I can't do that, I can't leave him, not now, not just now, who's going to look after him when I'm gone, who's going to protect him when I'm gone, who will step up and stop Morgana, no one else can do it, God knows no one else can do it, no one else can stand against her magic, no one else has got any magic to go up against her, not like me, no one else, there's no one else but me, I have to stay, I can't leave him to face her alone, I can't leave him, I have to stay here, I have to stay here no matter what he does to me, I can't leave him, and the panic of it pounded endlessly away inside him as he rushed through the winding halls.

He deliberately lagged a little bit behind Arthur the whole of the way to the council chambers—it wouldn't do a damned ounce of good if he got himself caught and sent off to the Lower Town before he had even heard so much as a single word of the meeting—not that any of it will do any good at all, I can't leave him, I know I can't leave him, I know I have to stay, no matter what he might to do me, I have to stay with him—the thought fluttered frantically around in his mind like a butterfly behind glass—and if he kills me, what then, what am I supposed to do, then, it won't matter if I stayed if he kills me, it won't matter at all—

Merlin only barely cleared the entrance to the council chambers and slipped, unseen, to the shadowed, secluded—safe—spot behind the nearest column before the heavy stone doors sighed shut, like so many old and tired ghosts, at his back. He didn't look around the edge of the pillar—not now, not yet, that would come later, when no one cared about some wayward servant who shouldn't be there—but he listened, hard as he could, head pressed to the pillar, to the silence, loud as a scream and heavy as a stone, and somehow worse, so much worse, than all the words in all the world, and Merlin felt his hands start to tremble, again, against the cold, rough stone of the column. Maybe I should tell him, and his stomach twisted up in a thousand tight and terrified knots, maybe I should tell him, maybe I should just tell him, just get it over with, put an end to it, maybe it would be better that way, if I did, if I do, if I stepped forward right now and just said—

"Thank you," Arthur's voice seemed to ring, bright and clear as an early-morning bell, through the whole of the cavernous chamber, and so suddenly, it startled Merlin from the depths of his own mind, "all of you, for your courage here today."

Well, there you are, then, can't tell him now, can I? He's gone and started his speech now. It would be pretty rude to interrupt him, after all. The thousand tight and terrified knots in his stomach loosened. Can't tell him now. Best not to tell him now.

"—truly a noble thing you do this day, to aid your kingdom in the fight against sorcery—"

Oh, don't—Merlin swallowed hard and shut his eyes, but the heavy lump in his throat wouldn't go away—don't, Arthur, don't do that, don't say that, don't talk like that, please, don't talk like that, don't you see yourself, don't you hear yourself, don't you know how much you sound like your father—?

"My Lord—?"

Merlin's eyes snapped back open again with the shock of it. Maude? Yes—he stole a quick glance 'round the side of the column to be sure—that was Maude, certain as the sunlight, he knew it from the plain brown shawl wrapped around her hunched, withered shoulders. Sweet old Maude from the Lower Town, who never missed Mass and made cherry pies for the poor children every other Sunday and still mourned her husband ten years after, and oh, God, what if it was her, what if it was Maude, the same sweet and lonely little lady who made Merlin steaming cups of hot, strong tea and let her grumpy grey cat curl up in his lap every time he came 'round with Gaius' special salve to soothe her old and aching joints, would it be Maude to say it, to tell Arthur—?

Will it be Maude, Merlin wondered, and his heart crashed, recklessly hard and fast, in his chest as he thought of it, will it be Maude, then, to put an end to everything, to drag all the secrets and lies into the light, to show him what lies hidden in the shadows, will it be Maude, then, and not me, and not Morgana, and not even Agravaine, to look Arthur in the eye and finally tell him the truth, finally tell him what I should have told him—?

"I saw nothing of the sorcerer," Maude said, in her quiet, steady voice, soft and lilting like a song, soft and lilting like the sea. "He moved as a shadow, Sire. A phantom." A shudder rolled through her ancient frame, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her.

Something like hope stirred in Merlin's stomach to hear it—she didn't see, she didn't see, she says she didn't see, it's okay, she says she didn't see—

"Nothing? You saw nothing to identify—?"

Merlin ducked back behind the pillar again—on instinct, on reflex, he didn't mean to, he didn't want to, and it was stupid, wasn't it, to try and hide, like a startled rabbit, like a frightened child—he didn't need to hide, not from Agravaine—

"No, my Lord," Maude said simply. "Dark and distance did much to hide him from me. But I pray to God my king and his good knights will find him soon."

"I pray the same," Arthur said seriously. "Thank you for your information."

Merlin edged, tentatively, around the side of the pillar again to look out upon the room. It's all right. She doesn't know. She's said she doesn't know. She's said she didn't see.

"The sorcerer did move quickly, Sire," a man stepped forward this time—Hugh, baker in the Lower Town, kindly smile, soft voice, fantastic pastries, always covered in flour, lost his wife six years ago, loves his daughter Lillith more than anything, asks for a headache remedy or sleeping draught every other week, Merlin's mind reflexively reminded him. "I'm afraid I didn't manage to get a good glimpse of him, either."

"Like a shadow, Sire," Anisa nodded, and her pale pink headscarf shifted slightly with the motion—tailor's daughter, Merlin remembered, loves flowers, kisses you on the cheek if you say you're all right with it— "Cast his curse over every house within the hour."

"—horrific to witness," Wilhelma broke in, and shuddered. "A terror to behold."

"—could have been the devil himself—"

"—sure he was going to murder us all in our beds—"

"—won't let the little ones out alone until he's caught—"

No one—and God, Merlin could hardly believe it, but it was true, it was real—no one had seen him, no one had seen him, no one had seen him at all, and as the truth of it started to sink in, he really thought he might faint with the fierce, heady relief of it. No one had seen. It was all right after all. No one had seen. No one could say it was him. No one could tell Arthur the truth, no one could tell Arthur about Merlin, no one could tell Arthur anything at all. It was all right. Everything was all right. No one had seen.

Merlin slumped back against the pillar—the rough, uneven stone of the column dug deep, bruising fingers into him, his back, his shoulders, the hollow curve of his spine, but he shut his eyes and he dragged in breath after gasping, ragged breath as the fervent relief of it rushed through him again and again—euphoria, even, the giddy sort of glee that set his whole body to shaking like a leaf caught in a high wind. No one had seen, no one had seen, no one had seen. The words pulsed, over and over again, through his numb brain. Even now, he hardly dared to believe it. To believe he could have been so lucky. It was all right. Everything was going to be all right. No one had seen.

Arthur would never know.

Arthur would never, ever know.

Merlin dragged in one last, slightly unsteady breath, and slipped back out of the council room.

A hundred thousand times now, Merlin knew, he had seen Camelot like this, just like this, a hundred thousand times before—Nimeuh's plagues and afancs and poisons, Aredian's hunts and arrests and accusations, Morgause's knights and duels and undead armies, Kilgharrah's flames and blasts and unending siege—but his heart still thudded in his chest, so hard it hurt, to see the vacant roads and shuttered shops and blank windows, staring back at him in a silent, deafening condemnation on every side, sad shadows and hollow shells of bright and bustling homes.

And all because of me.

The guilt settled slowly, like sour bile, at the back of Merlin's throat.

Everything that had happened here had happened because of him. His magic, his spells, his wards and barriers and defenses and I just wanted to protect them, that's it, that's all, that's all I wanted, to protect them, to look out for them, that's what I meant to do, that's all I meant to do and it didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered but the way the empty streets stretched empty in front of him, on and on, as far as he could see—nothing mattered but the way that door creaked, long and low, where it still dangled limply off old, rusted hinges and swayed wearily out of its splintered frame and nothing mattered but the way the awnings and tarps over the abandoned market stalls had come loose, colorful cloth bowing under the weight of the fresh white powder of the early morning, and the snow sparkled silver as it fluttered and fell in great dancing flakes all about the town and the ice glistened, bright as glass, on the edges and undersides of the rooftops and everything and nothing slammed into him like a mace, like a stone, and it all came back to him in the end, didn't it, everything came right back to him again, 'round and 'round and 'round again, in a circle, in a hoop—and it's my fault, it's my fault, it's all my fault, this is all my fault, this is all because of me, all this pain, all this fear, all this bad, it's here because of me, it exists because of me, I did this to the Lower Town, I did this to everyone, and I did this and I'm rotten, I'm rotten all the way through, I'm filled up with filth and it spills over and bursts out on anybody who gets too close to me, on everybody who gets too close to me, and maybe if I ripped myself open wide enough, all this filth would just fall out of me—and even when Merlin moved, again, when he made his way down the crooked, labyrinthine street to the little house Gwen and Elyan still shared, even when he tapped lightly on the door, the circle, the hoop, wouldn't stop spinning, 'round and 'round again, in his head.

The latch rattled a little at Merlin's touch, and the noise of it echoed again and again in his ears. It unsettled him in a way he couldn't really explain. Not even to himself. Looters and thieves were common in this stretch of town, he knew, but to think of that with a sorcerer on the loose—to take the time to bolt up all the doors, seal up all the windows, with a sorcerer on the loose—for the first time since Arthur had ordered him off to the Lower Town, the first prickle of fear, real fear, for Elyan and Gwen, stirred in his stomach. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he hadn't been the only sorcerer in the Lower Town, and all this pain and all this panic really meant something after all—

The lock clicked, loudly, on the other side, and Merlin looked, incredulously, to the rattling bolt. Gwen and Elyan had stayed? Even through all the fear, all the panic, all the sorcery—?

The door scraped open, scarcely an inch, a rough and grating rasp of wood on wood, and through the hairline crack of it, Elyan glared furiously back at him, the blade of his sword a silver gleam in one fist, and his eyes narrowed to nearly nothing but dark brown slits in his tensed and tired face. "What—?" His dark brows lifted up in an arch that would have made Gaius proud. He moved back a bit, and pulled the door wide, one hand out to wave Merlin in. "God, Merlin, what are you doing here?"

"Arthur sent me," Merlin slipped through the narrow entrance as he spoke, "there—there was a sorcerer—"

"I know." Elyan slammed the door shut. "Hard to miss." He clicked the lock firmly back into place.

Merlin looked away—he didn't want to see, didn't think he could stand to see, all the pain and exhaustion and fear in Elyan's face, in Elyan's eyes, and know he had put it there, to know it was his fault, and to know he couldn't do anything to fix it, he couldn't do anything to make it right—I'm filled up with filth, see how it spills over onto Elyan—

"Arthur shouldn't have sent you," Elyan said, and so suddenly, and so sharply, it pulled Merlin back out of his own mind again at once. "It's not safe."

Oh. Merlin couldn't help it—the corner of his lip just flicked up in a little grin. Oh, Elyan. "I can handle myself."

"Not against a sorcerer," Elyan said the last word like a curse—like it's something rotten, Merlin thought, hard as he tried not to—something filled up with filth.

Gwen clicked her tongue. "Oh, honestly, Elyan," she came to the door, and dried her damp hands on the front of her plain dress as she went, "you could at least give Merlin a moment or two by the hearth before you start in on him. Look at him, he's frozen through." She reached out a hand and brushed a few powdery flecks of snow from Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin had not even noticed the sparkling crystals where they clung to the cloth of his jacket. "I'm fine," he said, a little blankly, and so quickly, he knew Gwen wouldn't believe him, wouldn't listen to him, but it hardly mattered, because it hit him then, right then, that he had started to shake again—really shake, not just in his hands, but all over, everywhere, jolting shivers and sharp, jerking shudders rolling through him, and he could hardly even feel it at all. He could hardly feel the cold, he could hardly feel the shudders, he could hardly feel much of anything at all and isn't that funny—?

"Oh, don't be silly, Merlin," Gwen took his hands up in hers, and his numb fingers tingled with the sudden warmth of her skin, "you're like ice. Come here and sit a minute, it's really no trouble."

"N-No, I—" Merlin couldn't look to the hearth, couldn't look at the fire—what do you think Arthur will do when he sees you for who you really are—not for more than a moment before he felt his stomach pull tight. "—I'm all right. Arthur's called a meeting," he added, hastily, and turned back to Elyan before Gwen could try and take up the argument with him again. "He's asked me to send for you. He needs you there."

"I—I can't." Elyan glanced at Gwen. A heavy frown settled on his lips. "I can't—that sorcerer is still—"

"Oh, go on, Elyan, I'll be all right, you know that." Gwen put a hand, reassuringly, on her brother's arm and pulled her mouth up in a smile. "You shouldn't worry about me. It's Arthur who needs you right now."

"I'll stay with her." Merlin tilted his head at Gwen.

"There's no need," Gwen shook her head, "really, you don't have to—"

"It's all right," Merlin assured her, "Arthur already sent me here to help with the preparations for your trip."

"The—the preparations?" A faint, tired smile tugged at one side of Gwen's small mouth. "You're joking, Merlin, he still remembered that? With all this going on, too?"

Merlin cocked an eyebrow—he didn't think he could manage a smile today even if he tried. "Come on, it's Arthur. Have you ever known him to break his word to you?"

The lift of Gwen's lip rose a little higher, and she ducked her head. A bit of pink crept into her dusky cheeks.

"You'll—?" Elyan hesitated a moment more, one hand stretched out at his back for the door, and his strong fingers gone slack around the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicked from Merlin to Gwen and back again. "You'll look after—?"

Gwen glanced up at her brother and arched her eyebrows. "I'll try my best."

Merlin huffed out a half-chuckle under his breath, and the thin, serious line of Elyan's mouth twitched, for a minute or two, before his brown eyes snapped firmly back onto Merlin, and he clenched his jaw.

"Take care of her."

"Always."

With one last nod, Elyan ducked out the door and disappeared into the street, his sword still clutched in one broad, white-knuckled hand. Gwen stared, the lines around her mouth and eyes gone hard and tight, at the empty entranceway for several moments after, the exhaustion and the strain of it all spelled out, clear as words on a page, across her taut, dark face.

"He'll be all right," Merlin said, quietly, because he couldn't say I'm sorry I did this to you, I'm so sorry I did this to you, I swear, I never meant for this to happen, I never meant for all this pain and all this fear, I only wanted to help. "He's Elyan."

Gwen's lips hitched up in a hesitant smile. "I know." The pain still prowled like a hunting wolf in her eyes. "I know." She swallowed, and it sounded like a scream in all that silence.

Oh. Gwen. Merlin's heart twisted sharply up inside him. Oh, Gwen, I'm so sorry, I did this to you, it's my fault—he lifted a hand to touch her—a pat on the shoulder or a quick squeeze of her fingers or an arm around her to pull her into a hug, he just wanted her to be all right again, to brush those hard and tight lines from her face, but he—

—do you think, if she knew who you really are, that she would want you touch her at all, do you really think that's a good idea, won't you get your rot on her, won't you spill your filth on her, won't you just make everything worse—?

—he couldn't.

Merlin dropped his hand back to his side.

Gwen turned suddenly, sharply, from the door. "I'll—I'll put us on a pot of tea, shall I?"

"No one," Arthur said, and in the silence of his own bedchamber, his words seemed to echo off every wall, every window, every dark corner and hairline crack in the room, "no one, out of eleven witnesses, could get us even a rudimentary description of the sorcerer." He rubbed, tiredly, at his temples again as the familiar pulse of pain throbbed through his head. Unidentified sorcerer on the loose. Add it to the list, he supposed. Like he didn't already have more than enough to get on with lately.

"Oh," Agravaine put a warm, gentle hand on his shoulder, "no, you mustn't be discouraged, Arthur. Bear in mind, the witnesses you met today from the Lower Town were merely our first resort. Rest assured, we have far more resources on our hands, and we will not rest until we have eliminated the threat." His mouth turned up in a small, reassuring smile.

Arthur didn't smile back—he didn't even think he could—but with his uncle at his side, with his uncle's hand on his shoulder, with his uncle's faith and confidence ringing in his ears, the world didn't weigh so heavy on him anymore. "You're right. As usual," he added, ruefully, and Agravaine chuckled a bit, under his breath—far too humble to say it for himself, but too honest to tell Arthur any different.

Another ache rolled through Arthur's skull, and he had to put a hand to his head again, skin hot and tight under the touch of his own fingers. If he thought he knew enough about medicine to do it, he'd go down to Gaius' chambers this instant and get himself a few dozen of the old man's strongest painkillers. Maybe he would get Merlin to fetch him one or two whenever he got back from the Lower Town—

Oh, God, Merlin.

Another sigh slipped out through Arthur's teeth almost before he could stop it. Merlin. What was he supposed to do about Merlin? Well, he had to admit, to himself, at least, I don't know what I'm supposed to do about the sorcerer, either, or the Saxons on the border, or Lord Warwick, I don't know what I'm supposed to do about any of it, not just yet, not really, but Merlin—

—Merlin could be getting hurt now, right now, right this instant, and no one's there to look after him, no one's there to help him, because I was stupid and I was selfish and I sent him off so I didn't have to think about him, so I didn't have to deal with him, so I didn't have to look at him and wonder—

"Sire?" Agravaine lightly squeezed at his shoulder.

Arthur pulled in a breath—this, here, right here, wasn't this why he had sent Merlin off to the Lower Town in the first place? So he wouldn't have to think about it, wouldn't have to worry about it, wouldn't have to look at Merlin and wonder who's hurting you, who's doing this to you, and why didn't you tell me, why didn't you just tell me, you know you could have told me and I would have handled it, I would have done something, I would have looked after you—

Arthur pushed himself up off the wall. He didn't have time to think about it. Not now. Not in all of this. "Search the Lower Town," he ordered, and turned to look out the window. "The homes, the shops, the market stalls, if you must, but don't leave anything untouched. I want every man we can spare on this."

We need every man we can spare on this. Camelot needs every man we can spare on this.

"Sire? If—if I may speak freely?"

Arthur blinked, and turned from the window to look at Agravaine. "You—you may. Of course you may." Have I said something wrong? Have I made a bad choice, have I made the wrong choice, have I misunderstood what must be done—?

"I—I wonder," Agravaine rubbed at his chin, "whether we ought to focus all our efforts on the Lower Town."

Arthur frowned. "An attempt will be made at a later stage to narrow the area, but this early in the process, we cannot take the risk to rule anything out. I'm sure you understand."

"No, no, I quite agree, Sire. I did not mean to cast doubt upon your decisions, I actually believe—" Agravaine clenched his hand around the back of Arthur's desk chair, knuckles white against the dark, shining wood, "—I actually believe we ought to broaden our search."

"Broaden?" Arthur raised his eyebrows. The whole of the Lower Town certainly felt a rather broad area to him. "The citadel as well, then? Is that what you suggest?"

"The citadel," Agravaine nodded, and flicked his eyes up to meet Arthur's gaze. "The castle."

"The castle?" Arthur echoed blankly. It was utterly ridiculous even to think of it, in the way of a small and rather silly child who asked outlandish questions or entertained eccentric fears. There was far too much security for a sorcerer to slip through even for a second, let alone to linger within the walls. "Uncle, surely you cannot think—"

"I think nothing as of yet, Sire. To make such an assumption would be unwise in the extreme. But it is as you have said," Agravaine tilted his head, and lifted a thick, dark brow. "We cannot take the risk to rule anything out."

Damn it. Arthur rubbed at the side of his head again. God knew Agravaine raised a good point, and to try and ignore it entirely, to push ahead with his own plan, could see the sorcerer fall through the cracks. Thousands upon thousands of lives hinged on his next words, and if he made the wrong choice, if he gave the wrong order, if he went at this from the wrong angle—

"All right," he let out a long breath, and nodded a little, "all right, we will extend our search to the castle and the citadel as well. But we must not spread our forces too thin, either, Lord Agravaine. Our resources are not inexhaustible, and I have already placed many heavy demands on the lot of them lately."

"Of course, Sire," Agravaine dipped his head. "If it will be easier on you, I will gladly oversee the search of the castle myself."

"Yes," Arthur said, and a great, warm rush of gratitude swept through him—what would he ever do without Agravaine? "Yes, that would be excellent. Thank you, Uncle. I trust you will ensure the examinations are thorough."

"Oh, I swear it upon my life, Sire."

Notes: yeah, I'm showing up to this story again two months late with Starbucks. and a new chapter. this is just gonna be a regular occurrence now, I guess, where every chapter takes me a literal eternity to write and I die at least three times before I ever get it posted. it's only the thought of the whump to come that drags me right back out of my grave.

So I really don't have an excuse as to why this one took me such a long time - I thought I'd have it up by the end of June, if that tells you anything - except I just kept going over it again and again. I must have rewritten this chapter about five times, maybe six, and even once it was finished, I kept coming back to tweak a line here or a paragraph there, and finally I realized I was never going to stop making edits and changes unless I just posted it. I think it's okay as it is, maybe not fantastic, but if y'all still expect fantastic work from me, y'all haven't been paying attention.

Also, YES, I am absolutely SHAMELESSLY milking the eventual magic reveal for all it's worth. i cannot be stopped. In the original outline, it was meant to happen in this chapter, actually, but if I drag it out a little bit more, really let Merlin's anxiety build and build, I hope it'll pack a bit more of a punch when it finally DOES happen. anyways. thanks so much for sticking with me so far. peace!