"Gonna make a heartthrob out of me,

Just a bit of minor surgery,

These desperate times call,

For desperate measures."

- Desperate Measures, Marianas Trench

If there was even one good thing to come out of all of this, Merlin supposed, at least his orders from Arthur and his promise to Elyan let him stay with Gwen. He didn't know how he would have ever walked away from her, he didn't know how he would have looked in her anxious brown eyes and turned 'round and left her to drown in all that fear. And even if he couldn't make it better for her—even if he had done this to her, and oh, God, he knew he had, he knew he had done this, he knew he carried the blame, he knew had filled her up with all this fear, he knew his filth had spilled out onto her, and maybe I should just stay away from everyone, maybe I shouldn't be around anyone, not until I know how to keep this rot inside of me, not until I know how to keep all the bad where it belongs, under my skin, maybe I shouldn't even be here, maybe I should just leave—

No. No, he had to stay with Gwen through this. He had done this to her, and he couldn't make it right, and he couldn't make it better, but he could be with her in this fear, and for now, that would have to be enough.

"When Arthur sent me off to see to you," he said, as lightly as he could, but the words still fell heavy in his own ears, and the smile on his face left an ache in his cheeks, with how hard he had to work to keep it there, "I'm pretty sure this is not what he had in mind." All the same, he merely tightened his numb hands around the small, tin cup of tea on the table in front of him—the warm metal nearly burned under his frozen fingers, and he could hardly help but to soak it in—and settled back a bit farther in his seat. "I think I'm meant to be, y'know, actually helping you."

"Don't be silly," Gwen said at once—a bit of the color had come back to her cheeks, and she had started to sound steadier, since she had poured the tea, or perhaps even since she had put the kettle on. Hardly a surprise, though—that always was her way, busy her hands and empty her mind. She leaned back against the counter and smiled over the rim of her cup at Merlin, but there was still something a touch too tired in the lift of her lips. "You're here. That's helping. And it means so much to me, Merlin, thank you."

No—Merlin's stomach pulled tight—no, please, don't do that, don't say that, please, don't thank me, don't, please don't, you don't know it, but I did this to you, and I can't make it better, I can only make it worse, because I'm rotten, I'm rotten, I'm full of filth and it spills out onto everyone, onto you, and if I just knew how to keep it inside of me, I wouldn't—

"Well," Gwen pushed lightly off the counter and set her teacup down on the table with a soft clink, "why don't I fix you something to eat? I can't imagine your morning's been any calmer than mine, and I know you're terrible for missing breakfast—"

"Oh, no, Gwen," Merlin shook his head, and took his hands off his teacup, "no, really, there's no need for that. I'm all right, I don't need—I'm not really hungry." He hadn't felt hungry in ages, really—not since Agravaine had kissed him at the coronation, maybe, or maybe not since Uther—and Lancelot—

"Merlin," Gwen turned back to the counter, and tossed him a glance over her shoulder—the stern sort of look a mother might send a fussy child, "I won't have you work on an empty stomach." She opened the breadbox, pushed into the corner between the cupboards, and pulled out half a loaf of dark brown bread and a small silver knife.

She cut off a thick slice from the end of the loaf—Merlin nearly argued, but he knew better than to go against Gwen when she had made up her mind—put it on a small plate, and set it down, with a thud, in front of him on the table.

"There," she took her own seat, then, opposite Merlin, and picked up her teacup again. "It's not much, but you really must have something if you're to run 'round all day."

"I'm fine, Gwen," Merlin murmured, half to himself, and the bottom of his stomach seared with a sharp burn of shame. She shouldn't have done this, not for me, not when this is all my fault to start with, I shouldn't have let her, why did I let her—?

"Don't," Gwen said, firmly, "don't say that, Merlin, you look dead on your feet. You really shouldn't work yourself so hard."

Merlin almost laughed—right, yes, work is clearly the problem here, yes, of course, just a touch too much work, let's pretend that's it, that would be so much easier, wouldn't it—only something inside him hurts too much to let him. He dropped his eyes down to the slice of bread, so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"Merlin," Gwen leaned forward a little, and put her cup down again, "listen, I—" she stopped there, bit her lip, "—I can't—I can't even imagine how difficult things must be for you right now—"

"What?" Merlin jerked his head up, his heart in his throat. What does she know, what did she see, where did I go wrong, where did I slip up, where did she get through—?

Gwen swallowed—the dusky skin of her throat stretched taut, for a moment, with the motion of it. "Arthur tells me—"

Merlin's stomach jolted. Arthur? No, no, Arthur can't ever see what's right in front of him, why on earth would he start now—?

"—you were the one to see it. See him." Gwen reached out, suddenly, and took Merlin's hand up in her own. She laid their interlaced fingers lightly on the table. "Lancelot."

Oh. Merlin's insides turned cold as the heavy shroud of snow over the citadel. "G-Gwen—" he shook his head, tried to stop her, tried to pull back from her.

"I'm sorry," Gwen whispered, and she wouldn't look away from him, and oh, God, how he wished she would. "I'm sorry you had to—to see that." She swallowed, again, and he could hear it in the silence. "I really can't imagine how hard that must have been for you."

"I'm fine," Merlin said, again, except what he really wanted to say was please stop, please stop, just stop it, don't make me talk about it, don't make me think about it, don't make me say his name, don't make me hear his name—he could still feel her eyes on him, and everywhere her gaze landed, he could swear it left little black holes in his skin, black holes burning up like fires, like embers, at their edges, and he just—he just wanted it stop, he just wanted it to go away, he didn't ever want anyone to look at him ever again, he just wanted to disappear and maybe then she wouldn't look at him like this—and if he disappeared, Arthur wouldn't look at him, either, with all that—all that exhaustion and irritation and why are you so stupid, why aren't you good enough and if he disappeared, Gwaine wouldn't look at him like he could see right through, like he knew it all, like he knew everything, and if he disappeared—if he disappeared, Agravaine would never look at him again—

"Please, Merlin," Gwen's small, warm hand tightened around his, "please, just let me say this. I want you to hear this. I want you to know this."

Merlin bit his lip—oh, no, Gwen, don't, please, don't make me listen to this, don't make me hear his name—and jerked his chin down in a clumsy, graceless nod.

Gwen let out a soft, shaky breath, and Merlin could feel her fingers tremble, in his, and a hot burst of shame swelled up under his skin. This is hard for her, too, this is just as hard for her as it is for me—no, it's harder for her, she loved Lancelot, no matter what she tried to tell me, no matter that she chose Arthur, she always loved Lancelot, and this is so hard for her, this must be so hard for her, and it shouldn't be like this, it should be the other way 'round, I should help her, not the other way 'round, I should take care of her, I should look after her, I should make her feel better—

"Look at me," Gwen said, softly, "please, Merlin, look at me. I need to know you're hearing me."

Merlin lifted his head—and he could feel his hand, in his lap, clench up in a fist, he could feel his fingers curl up in his palm, he could feel the sting of his own nails bite into his skin, but he lifted his head, and he looked at Gwen. He should—he should do something, now, he should smile, to show her he was all right, he was fine, and he didn't need this, he wasn't the one who needed this, it was her, she was the one who needed—who needed to be—

"I know you were the one to see it happen," Gwen shut her eyes, for a second, and her hand started to shake, again, where she still held his.

"Gwen," Merlin leaned forward a little, in his seat, "it's—it's all right, you don't have to—I know he was—I know you were—"

"I know you were the one to see it happen," Gwen said, and she sounded stronger this time. She opened up her eyes again, and her gaze snapped back onto him in an instant. "But that doesn't make it your fault."

Merlin couldn't move—couldn't speak—he couldn't breathe—

"I know you, Merlin," she added, and her lips turned up a bit, at the corners, in a small, sad smile. "I know you, and I know how much you want to save everyone you see." She shook her head slightly, and her dark curls dusted down her brown cheek. "But if he—if he did that—I think he had—" her mouth started to tremble, "—I think he had planned it, Merlin. I think Lancelot had it in his head f-for—for a very long time. There wasn't anything you could have done to—to change it—"

No, that's not true, that's not true, that's not true, Gwen, he was going to come home to you, he was going to come back to you, he would never have abandoned you for anything, if I hadn't let him—if I hadn't told him, if I had just pretended, if I had just kept it quiet—

"—I asked him," Gwen said, "to take care of Arthur. If anyone is to blame, Merlin, it's me. Certainly not you." She smiled, but her brown eyes brimmed with tears. "Certainly not you." The curve of her lip never fell, never faltered, but she looked at him like she merely waited for him to turn on her—to yell at her, to scream at her, to shove her away and blame her for all of it, for everything—

Oh. Merlin's heart hurt just to look at her. Oh, Gwen, no, don't, you shouldn't, you didn't do anything, you didn't make him—it was me, I made him—I made him do this—

"He didn't—" Merlin said, but it sounded flat and faraway in his own ears, "—he didn't plan it, Gwen. He wasn't—he wasn't going to do it until—until I—" he couldn't go on, then, he had to stop, he had to swallow back all the rest of it—he wasn't going to do it until I said I would, but God, I meant it, I would never have let him do that, not for me, I told the Callieach to take me, and I meant it, I wanted her to do it, I meant it with everything in me, and I still don't know why Lancelot did what he did, I still don't know why he did it for me, he shouldn't have done that for me—

"Oh," a soft, sorrowful sound left Gwen's lips, "oh, Merlin—you were going to—" she leaned back, suddenly, in her seat, "you were going to do it, weren't you? You were going to—for Arthur—" she pressed her hand to her mouth, "—oh, Merlin—"

"N-No, I—I wasn't—" Merlin said, at once, but that was stupid, wasn't it, God, that was so stupid—if Gwen already knew, if Gwen had already worked it out for herself, he could hardly expect to hide it anymore. Yes, Lancelot had known. Lancelot had always known. Right from the start, Lancelot had known. But Merlin had never wanted that, he had never meant for that, he hadn't counted on that, he hadn't wanted Lancelot to—he hadn't meant for Lancelot to—but I should have known he would do it, I should have known it, I should have seen it, that's the way Lancelot is and I should have seen it, I should have known it, I should have stopped it, and saved him, I should have saved him—

"A-And Lancelot knew," Gwen said, and her words hardly reached a hushed, unsteady whisper, "didn't he?"

Merlin shook his head—it was instinct, it was reflex, he couldn't stop it, he couldn't stop himself, he just—he just wanted it to not be true anymore, he just wanted to finally scrub Lancelot's blood off his own hands, he didn't want to live with it anymore, and I killed him, I killed him, it was my fault, I don't get to cry about it, I don't get to do that, I don't get to grieve this, I don't get to grieve him, I don't get to be sorry—

"Yeah," he said, finally, and it sounded far too loud in his own ears, a scream in the silence of the room. "Yeah. He knew." He pulled his hand back from hers—the truth about Lancelot was only the tip of the iceberg, not even the worst of it, but Merlin knew better than to think Gwen would want him to even touch her, after what he had just told her. "It wasn't you," he pushed out through tight throat, through numb lips. "It was never you, and Lancelot wouldn't—" he dropped his hand, skin still warm from Gwen's, down into his lap, "—Lancelot would never want you to think it was." He lowered his eyes to the plate of bread again—he couldn't look at her anymore, he couldn't—he couldn't face her, he couldn't look at her and tell her I'm sorry I did this to him, to you, to Arthur, I hurt everyone when I said—when I told him—

"No," Gwen said, at last, "no, I don't suppose he would."

Merlin swallowed—good, that's good, she ought to know that, she ought to know Lancelot loved her until the end, she ought to know Lancelot would never blame her. That's good. I'm happy for her. It hardly matters what she thinks of me, then, does it, because she knows she's not to blame, she knows it's not her fault, and that's really what matters, isn't it, that's what's really important, after all.

"But it wasn't you, either."

Merlin's breath hooked in the back of his throat—his breath trembled, on the way out of his mouth—he snapped his head back up to look at her—no, that's—that's not what's supposed to—why is she—why did she—?

"It wasn't you, Merlin. It wasn't your fault." Gwen turned her empty hand upside down on the table, until her palm showed. "And Lancelot—" her mouth turned up, just a touch, at the edges, "—would never want you to think it was."

I don't care, Merlin wanted to shout at her, he wanted to scream it at her, I don't care, you can't do that, you don't get to do that, you don't get to take that and turn it back around on me, you don't get to do that, not to me, it's not like that with me, it's not like that, I really am to blame, it really was my fault, I might have gone ahead and pushed Lancelot through the veil with my own hands—God, Merlin just wanted to get out of here, out of Gwen's house, out from under the weight of her warm, bright eyes, out of his own damned skin—maybe if he just ripped all the flesh off his bones, this would all stop, and he would feel better, maybe he would finally feel like he could breathe again—

"Oh," Gwen huffed out a light little laugh, but there was no humor, not really, in the sound of it, "look at us—what would Lancelot think of us if he could see us right now?" She sniffled, and swiped at the damp trail on her cheeks. "He wouldn't want us to—we both know he wouldn't want us to—and here we are anyway—" her smile looked a little too tight at the corners, "—silly, aren't we?"

"Y-Yeah," Merlin nodded, numbly, "yeah. Silly." He pushed the plate and the teacup away, into the center of the table, and clambered to his feet. Maybe, if he could just pull Gwen back out of her own head, she would—she would stop, and she wouldn't talk about Lancelot anymore, and he wouldn't have to think about it, he wouldn't have to—

"We should start on your packs," Merlin said, firmly. "Don't you think?"

Arthur had thought—well, no, he hadn't thought, not really, but he had—well, he had hoped—yes, all right, fine, that was it—he had hoped Merlin might look a little better, by the time the idiot finally found his way back to the castle. And that was stupid, really—that was a stupid thing to think, that was a stupid thing to hope, God knew if anything Gwaine had said was true, nothing would help Merlin, nothing would make Merlin look any better, nothing would make Merlin feel any better, not until Arthur got the name of the bastard who had put his idiot servant in this state, and driven him clear from the kingdom with a sword at his back.

Stupid as it was, though, Arthur had hoped for it. Arthur had hoped Guinevere might have helped him—God knew she was a hundred times better than him, at things like this, things like Merlin, and feelings and, well, almost anything he couldn't just hit with a sword over and over until it was gone—but it looked almost as if his time with Guinevere had made him even worse.

Yes, Arthur had seen Merlin before he had sent the man off to the Lower Town—the shadows under his eyes, the burn on his cheek, the awkward sort of lurch to his steps, almost a limp, God, the son of a bitch had hurt Merlin bad enough to leave him with a limp—but he looked worse, now, he looked almost as if he had—Arthur didn't have the word for it, but—curled, maybe, or—or crumpled, or—no, collapsed—that was it—Merlin looked as if he had collapsed inward—he looked—God—he looked like he had caved in on himself. Like he had withered, almost.

I shouldn't have sent him off to see Guinevere, and the guilt of it burst up, thick and hot and sour, in the bottom of Arthur's stomach, I shouldn't have sent him off to see Guinevere, I should have talked to him, I should have just talked to him, like anybody else would do, like anybody else would have done—

"Sire," Merlin slid Arthur's lunch on the table, and jerked his head at the food, "come and eat." He smiled, then, and God, it was—it was horrible, Arthur could see how hard he had to work to put it there, to keep it there, Arthur could see the strain of it, in every line of his servant's pale and utterly exhausted face—when was the last time Merlin hadslept—?

No, when was the last time Merlin had even eaten, come to that? The man was already as thin as a rail—he hardly ought to go about and skip meals—

"Sire?" Merlin raised his eyebrows—his smile started to slip, and that was better, almost—a bit of the tension left his face, at least. "You must come and eat. You rushed out to the council meeting this morning before you could have breakfast, and—"

Shut up, Merlin, but for the first time since he had met the idiot, Arthur bit his tongue, and swallowed it back, and didn't say it. But, God, the man looked like he was about to fall over, and there he went, rambling on about Arthur, you need to take care of yourself, and I should have talked to him—another rush of guilt—I should have talked to him, I should have just talked to him—

"Merlin," Arthur said, sharply—yes, all right, he should have done this sooner, he should have brought all this up sooner, but what was it Gaius always said—better late than never— "Merlin, sit down."

Merlin blinked. "Y-Your bed's not made."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Observant as usual. It'll have to stay that way, then, I want you to take a seat."

"Why?" Merlin backed up a step—honestly, he looked like he thought Arthur might order him flogged—

Oh. Arthur's stomach tightened. Right. If somebody in this castle really had hurt Merlin badly enough to leave him like this, it was no wonder, then, why his servant looked so terrified. "It's all right," and he winced, immediately, at how awkward it sounded—God, he really was terrible at this, where was Guinevere when you really needed her, "it's all right, Merlin, I only want to talk."

"Talk?" Merlin echoed, and flicked his eyes over to the door. "About—about what?" He swallowed, hard, and his throat bobbed.

"Sit down," Arthur said, maybe a little bit impatiently this time, but he still didn't raise his voice—Merlin already looked scared out of his mind, and if Arthur started to yell, he was pretty sure his servant might really make a break for it.

Merlin cast another quick glance over his shoulder, at the door, before he turned back to Arthur—he still hesitated, another moment or two, before he finally took a seat. "What—?" He kept his hands in his lap, but Arthur could see, even from here, the way he tapped his fingers on his knee. "What's wrong?"

"Actually," Arthur took a seat of his own, then—it might make Merlin feel better if Arthur didn't spend the whole time towering over him, "you tell me."

"Um." Merlin darted a look at the window—he actually looked like he might jump from his seat and hurl himself bodily through the clear glass, if he thought he could get away with it. "I-I don't know what you mean."

A touch of temper sparked up inside Arthur—don't be stupid, Merlin, you know what I mean, you idiot, just tell me the truth—no, he couldn't do it like that, he wouldn't do it like that—Gwaine said about it skittish as a spooked horse, after all, and Arthur had to admit, Merlin certainly looked it, right about now.

And Arthur would hardly go and yell at a spooked horse. Oh, God, no, that was just—awkward. Never mind. Terrible metaphor, Sir Gwaine.

"What's going on?" Arthur blurted—and maybe it was a bad idea, to put it like that, so blunt, so bald, all bare bones, maybe he could be nicer about it, ease Merlin into it, just tell me what you can, and don't worry about what you can't—that was what Guinevere would have done, he knew, that was how Guinevere would have said it—but he couldn't take this, he couldn't stand this, all this—all this not knowing, not really, not for sure. Just tell me who did this to you. Just tell me who did this to you, and I swear to you, Merlin, I will make it right.

"You're the one who wanted to talk," Merlin said, very blankly. "You'd know better than me, wouldn't you?"

Oh. And here, Arthur had thought he might have been too blunt about it, too direct about it—too insensitive about it, Guinevere would say, if she could see him right now—but oh, no, it wasn't blunt enough, was it, not direct enough, not for Merlin. Idiot.

All right, then, if Arthur had to come out and say it, then, he could damn well come out and say it. "Someone's been hurting you, haven't they?"

Every last line of Merlin's face snapped absolutely taut with—God, with terror, actual terror, and it looked so wrong on him, on Merlin, the fearless idiot who never backed down from anything, not even the crown prince of Camelot with a mace, not even an evil sorceress with a deadly song and a dagger up her sleeve.

"No," Merlin said, but oh, God, he trembled, in his chair, "no, why would you—?" He shook his head side to side. "Why would you even think—?"

"You're hurt," Arthur said—he winced, when the words left his mouth—he had tried to soften it, he had wanted to soften it, he hadn't wanted it to sound like that—he hadn't wanted to accuse Merlin, to frighten him, to make him think he had done something wrong, he had done something he should be sorry for, but—but it hadn't come out that way, had it?

"Oh," Merlin's hand stilled, on his knee, and jerked up to cup at his cheek—but he never touched the burn, the raw and blistered pink mark on the side of his face, no, his fingers spread out around it, and that—that looked so practiced, didn't it, so perfect, in a way Arthur couldn't really explain—like he had done it, like he had had to do it, a hundred times already.

"What? This?" Merlin raised his eyebrows, and he relaxed—all the tension left his face, his throat, his shoulders—he laughed, even, and the sound of it made Arthur's stomach clench. It had hurt to look at his smile, but this, right here, this, that laugh—that was so much worse. "I got a bit too close to the cookfires in the kitchens," Merlin said, lightly. "Mary had a real go at me about it, you should have heard—I think she's worse than Gaius, actually—"

"No," Arthur said, and he knew, this time, he knew it wasn't soft, it wasn't sweet or sensitive or gentle, the way Guinevere could have done it, the way Percival or Leon could have done it, but he couldn't give a damn anymore about soft and sweet, "no, Merlin, you're hurt! You've got a limp, for God's sake! Who did this to you?"

"No one," Merlin said, at once, "I-I walked into Gaius' bench yesterday—bruised my shin—"

Arthur slammed his hand down, hard, on the table, and pushed up from his chair. "Stop lying to me!"

Merlin flinched—Merlin actually flinched—

Oh. Arthur's anger drained away, then, it took all of an instant for the fiery and furious heat of it died in his chest to numb down to nothing. His stomach twisted, tighter and tighter, until everything inside him had become a tangle, a taut gnarl he couldn't unloose, and he could swear he would be sick at any moment—he had made Merlin flinch. He had made that—he had made that happen, he had made—I frightened him, and it jolted him, to think of it like that—he couldn't frighten Merlin if he tried, that was—that was the way it was supposed to be, the way it should be, but—but I did, I frightened him, I knew somebody had hurt him and I still lost my temper—I shouldn't have done this—I shouldn't have been the one to do this—I should never have been the one to do this—I should have let Gwaine—or Guinevere—anybody but me—anybody would be better than me—

"I-I'm fine," Merlin said, quietly, and Arthur could hear how his breath trembled, as it left his mouth, "I just miss Gaius." He jerked his chin down in a nod. Like he didn't need to convince Arthur at all, like he only needed to convince himself. "That's it. That's all."

That was a lie. Arthur knew that—God, he could see it in Merlin's face, he could hear it in Merlin's voice, in his words—the idiot was absolute rubbish at lying, couldn't keep a secret to save his life—

—but he did, he did keep a secret, didn't he, from Arthur, at least, and if Gwaine hadn't told him, if Gwaine hadn't laid it all out in front of him, one by one by one, it would still be a secret, wouldn't it, he still wouldn't know, would he, if Gwaine hadn't—if Gwaine hadn't said anything, he would still have no idea, and everything could have gotten so much worse—

And it still could. Arthur hadn't gotten the truth out of Merlin, had he, no, he hadn't even come close—

I can't get the truth out of Merlin—I can't—I can't do this—it can't be me—I won't be any good at it—I'm not any good at it—I'm only Merlin's master, I'm only Merlin's king—he wouldn't tell his king something he hasn't even told his friends—

"—he hasn't written," Merlin rambled on, "not a word, and I know he must be busy, but he's usually sent me a letter or two by this time—"

Arthur frowned—this had to be a lie, right? This had to be a lie. Merlin had made it all up, on the spot, right out of his own head—but—but that bit—right there—about the letters—no, no, that couldn't be right, could it? That couldn't—? "Gaius—" Arthur eased himself, hesitantly, back down into his seat, but he never took his eyes off Merlin's face, "—Gaius hasn't written you?"

Merlin shook his head.

Would Merlin lie about something like this? Would Merlin lie about something so serious? He had just made up a million different things right in front of Arthur, spouted it all off without so much as a hesitation—if any of that got too close to the cookfires and bruised my leg on Gaius' bench rubbish turned out to be true, Arthur would eat his own mail—but this was—this was different. This was Gaius. Would Merlin really go so far as to use Gaius as a cover—?

But if this wasn't a lie—if this was real—if Merlin hadn't actually heard anything from Gaius—not a word, Merlin had said, and God, if that was true—

"Merlin—" Arthur leaned over the table to look his servant full in the face, "—look at me, Merlin, don't—don't lie to me. Tell me the truth, now, tell me honestly, Merlin, have you had any contact with Gaius since he left? At all?"

Merlin frowned. "No. Why—why would I lie about—?"

"I always receive Sir Leon's first report after a week's absence," Arthur settled back in his seat again, but he could already feel how his stomach started to tighten with the fear of it. "I-I thought he was only running a bit late, but—but now—with Gaius, too—"

"Sir Leon never runs late," Merlin said, like he actually thought that might be helpful, or something.

"Yes, thank you, Merlin, I know," Arthur said, sharply, and he raked his hand roughly through his hair. He could feel his fingers catch in a few of the worse tangles. "If something's happened—" he added, half to himself—he didn't know, really, if he even meant for Merlin to hear it or not, "—if something's happened to them—"

"If something's happened to them, then Leon and Percival are some of the finest knights Camelot's ever seen," Merlin said, in that firm way he had about him, sometimes, when he really wanted Arthur to listen to him. "I mean, Leon has been first knight for God knows how long, and Percival started up that rockfall with his bare hands. Do you really think they can't handle themselves?"

God. This should be the other way around. Arthur had meant for this to be the other way around, even, he had meant to sit Merlin down and make him feel better, tell him all the things he needed to hear, help him, for God's sake, just reach out and help him, and instead—well, instead, he had made an absolute prat of himself—he knew somebody had hurt Merlin, he knew somebody had scared Merlin, he knew, and he had still—

"They'll be all right, Arthur," Merlin leaned across the table, this time, "they'll be all right. Everything will be all right."

"You're not—?" No matter how he tried, Arthur couldn't bring himself to believe, not entirely, that unshakable confidence in Merlin's eyes, in Merlin's words. "You're not worried? About Gaius?" Everything Merlin had just said, about Leon and Percival at least, was true, undeniably true—as knights of the realm, the men could more than take care of the threats on the roads to Tintagel, but Gaius—

The barest flare of fear flickered over Merlin's face, almost like a ripple amid calm waters, and everything sort of pinched, a bit, everything sort of crumpled—but hardly half a moment later and all the tight, anxious lines around Merlin's mouth, around Merlin's eyes, had smoothed back out to nearly nothing. "You really think Leon and Percival would let something happen to him?"

But Arthur could hear it, this time, that little touch of doubt, just the slightest chink in Merlin's absolute composure—and why would he lie to me, why would he tell me he's not worried, why would he even bother, why can't he be honest with me if it's something so small—? What, did he think if he wasn't worried, Arthur wouldn't be—?

Oh. That was it. Wasn't it? Jesus Christ.

Arthur put a hand up to his head and rubbed, halfheartedly, at the pain in his temple. "I-I'll have a messenger ride out at first light tomorrow. Find out what's going on." He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. "If something has happened, I want to know about it."

"Right," Merlin said, and nodded, a little, "all right." He got to his feet, too, and pushed his chair up against the edge of the table. "Will that be all, then?"

Arthur hesitated—he didn't want to say yes, he didn't want to let Merlin off like that, but all the same, he had to be honest with himself. There wasn't anything he could do. Everything he had tried so far to get the truth out of Merlin had only made it all worse, in the end, and the last thing he wanted was to push Merlin away. He would never get to the bottom of things then.

No, he couldn't do this. He wasn't the right person for this.

Merlin needed a friend for this. Not Arthur.

"Yes," Arthur said, at last, "yes, Merlin, that will be all. Thank you."

Merlin nodded. "Don't forget your lunch, then. You need to eat something."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He supposed Guinevere must have rubbed off on the idiot this morning, but Merlin could be the most insufferable mother-hen sort all on his own—oh, wait a moment, that was—Guinevere, and the Lower Town, and the sorcerer—and the search—Merlin had gone to see Guinevere first thing, he wouldn't know—and he should know about that, surely—

"Wait," Arthur pushed his chair in, too, with a dull thud of wood on wood, "wait, Merlin, wait a moment, there's one more thing."

"I can't muck the stables until it stops snowing, Arthur, don't even start—"

"No," Arthur didn't roll his eyes this time, but it was a close thing, "that's not what I—you'll clean it twice tomorrow, with that attitude, you know, but that's not—" he shook his head. "The search of the Lower Town is already in-progress, but the citadel and the castle are to be included, in effect tomorrow."

"The castle?" Merlin stepped back a bit and raised his eyebrows. "Come off it, Arthur, you don't really think the sorcerer got in here—?"

"I think nothing as of yet, Merlin," Arthur echoed his uncle's earlier words. "But it's just too early in the investigations to rule anything out. We can't allow such a threat to slip through our fingers. But," he added, heavily, and loudly, because Merlin had already opened up his mouth again—the idiot never did know when to shut up, for God's sake, "we would like to eliminate the least likely places first. The Court Physician's chambers is top of that list."

"Physician's—?" Merlin's face tightened. "You're going to search Gaius' chambers?"

"I know as well as you do," and Arthur did know, "it's a complete waste of time, but I wouldn't feel right if the examinations were not as thorough as possible. I trust Gaius, you know that, but no one can be above suspicion. It would look poorly if I did not take everybody into account. Surely, you can understand that."

Merlin huffed out a heavy breath, but he nodded. "Gaius would never betray you."

"I know." Arthur swallowed. "In any case, Lord Agravaine will be there at dawn to—"

"Agravaine?" Merlin said, and too quickly, too sharply. "You mean to tell me Agravaine is meant to conduct the search of Gaius' chambers?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Lord Agravaine. And yes, Merlin. I suggest you make your peace with it." Arthur was no fool—he knew there had to be at least a dozen different sorts of seriously bad blood between the two of them, not least after all those horrid, misguided accusations Merlin had tried to make against Agravaine—but he didn't care anymore, he didn't think he could care if he even tried, really. One day, Merlin was sure to see Agravaine's true loyalties, and even as obstinate as he was, he would have to back down, he would have to admit his wrong, he would have to say he had misjudged the man.

"No."

Arthur snapped his head around to look at Merlin. "What?"

"No." In the light of the sun through the open window, Arthur could see Merlin's jaw clench tight. "I don't want him in Gaius' chambers. In my chambers."

"Don't be such a girl, Merlin," Arthur rolled his eyes—really, he had hoped Merlin might have grown up a bit about all this. "He'll walk in, he'll have a look, he'll walk right back out. That's all."

"He hasn't got the right unless I—!"

"He has every right!" Arthur could hardly believe the words had even left Merlin's mouth at all, actually. Did the man really think—? Did he even understand his place in this at all? "He's acting on my orders, Merlin, the orders of the king, and I'll thank you to remember that."

Merlin pressed his lips together until his mouth had gone thin and white, but he dropped his eyes back down to the floor, and he didn't say another word.

"Lord Agravaine did me a great service," Arthur said, firmly, "when he offered to take over the castle investigations. And I trust you will give him your full cooperation."

Merlin jerked his eyes back up to Arthur's face. "He offered?"

"Yes, and don't ask me why, because God knows, he's got more than enough to deal with already." Arthur let out a breath. He had meant everything he had said to his uncle—he didn't want to spread his men out too thin, he didn't want to ask too much of them, and that stretched to Agravaine as well. He would have to see if he couldn't lighten his uncle's workload a bit until they had finished up with the investigations.

Merlin's mouth looked even thinner and whiter this time, as he strode 'round to the side of the bed and started to strip off the rumpled sheets.

"Merlin." Arthur couldn't let him off so easily, so lightly, not after that. To speak ill of a noble, now that was the sort of thing Arthur could let slide, but Agravaine was hardly just any noble. Agravaine was family, his family, his only family, the last shred he had still to call his own, to hold close, and it was time Merlin made his peace with the man.

"I trust you will give him your full cooperation?"

For a long moment, Arthur thought Merlin wouldn't say anything at all—he ripped the sheets from the bed and stuffed them down in the laundry basket and went to get fresh linens from the cabinet before he finally answered.

"Of course, Sire."

In the time it took for the day to burn down to night, for the sun to slip behind the dark ridges of the distant mountains, for the servants and nobles alike to settle down to sleep, the rabid, frenzied fires of Merlin's fury had cooled down to a sharp sort of logic. He still wanted to shout, still wanted to scream, still wanted to storm into Agravaine's chambers and snap the man's neck, but he knew better, now, he knew he had to hold back, he knew he could not let the rage, hot and thick as the blood in his veins, carry him through.

But how to do it—how to stop Agravaine, how to make sure his secret stayed secret, how to find out what had really happened to Gaius and Leon and Percival on the road to Tintagel—

That was the bit of it all he still needed to work out.

Outright opposition had never done him any good—every time he had tried to challenge Agravaine, every time he had tried to confront or resist, reveal the man's treacheries and betrayals, Agravaine had always, somehow, known it, and he had always had some sort of trick up his sleeve, some way to come out on top, some way to stay one step ahead of it all, some way to do better, some way to be better, and it would be the same this time, it would all be the same—no matter what Merlin did, no matter what he said, no matter the way he tried to win, he would never—he would never really—

God, he couldn't even find it in him to say no every time Agravaine touched him, every time Agravaine undressed him, every time Agravaine—he couldn't even win his body back from Agravaine, he couldn't even claim the skin he had been stuck in as his own anymore, what had ever made him think he could really—?

Merlin snapped to a stop a second before he pushed down the handle of Gaius' door.

That was—that was it, wasn't it? That was what he—oh, God, no, he couldn't—he couldn't really—

—and why not, why not, what would be so bad about it, really, he had already done it a hundred times before, it wasn't like this would be the first—it wasn't like he had never—it wasn't like he still had anything left to lose if he—if he did—

Merlin dropped his hand, and he turned, sharply, on his heel, to go back the way he had come.

He could still fix this. He still had a chance to fix this.

And by God, he was going to take it.

Merlin made his way to Agravaine's chambers as quick as he could—to catch him before he can fall asleep, that was what Merlin would say, that was what he would tell himself, if he had to, I have to catch him before he can fall asleep, but his hands trembled at his sides and his heart pounded away in his chest so hard, it hurt, and he knew if he didn't get there soon, he would run, he would whirl around and he would just run—anywhere, nowhere, it didn't matter, he didn't care, just so long as he never had to look Agravaine in the face again—

Merlin lifted his shaking hand up and tapped his knuckles lightly on Agravaine's door.

There. That was it. He had done it. No going back now, no going back, he wasn't going to run, he was not going to run—

The door opened, and Agravaine, dark cloak swinging limply off one shoulder, stood and stared at him in the entranceway. "Merlin?" He blinked and leaned up off the wall. His mouth edged down into a frown. "An unexpected pleasure. What brings you here at this hour?"

Merlin let out a shaky, quivering breath. He pulled his lips up in a smile. He could do this. He could do this. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

Agravaine pulled the door wide and stepped back without a hesitation, but the wrinkle in his brow didn't smooth out. "Is something wrong? Has Arthur sent you?"

"No." Merlin shook his head and stepped inside. "No. Nothing's wrong." He didn't know where to go from here. It had taken everything he had left in him just to get here in the first place, and now, to think of what lay ahead—his stomach churned until he could swear he would be sick, but he had—he had to do this. He had to.

Agravaine pushed the door back in its thick frame, and turned to face Merlin. "I'm afraid I don't—"

Merlin kissed him. He had to do it, right then, straightaway, he couldn't put it off another moment, or he would back out of it all, he would run, he would duck his head and murmur some excuse, and he would leave, and he couldn't do that, he couldn't do that, he could not let himself do that.

So Merlin kissed Agravaine, as hard as he could, and he couldn't—he couldn't stop, he couldn't pull back, he couldn't let up, because he knew if he did, he knew if he broke off, even to breathe, he would still find a way out of it, find a way to end it here, and he couldn't—he couldn't—he reached, blindly, around behind Agravaine's back, until his fingers brushed the cold metal clasp of the cloak, and he unlatched it, and let the thick cloth fall down to the floor in a dark heap.

"What—?" Agravaine murmured, half into Merlin's mouth. "What are you doing?"

Merlin kissed, lightly, down the line of Agravaine's jaw—he fumbled, a little, in the dark, to find and pop open the first few buttons on Agravaine's long purple tunic. "Anything—" he whispered, a bit breathlessly, his lips still pressed to the warm skin, "—anything you want."

Notes: OH MAN Y'ALL, I'm SO SORRY this one got so long ? why didn't anyone stop me ? why didn't anyone shut me up ? i PROMISED i wouldn't have another chapter as long as the legendary ch4, but i just ? couldn't find ? a good place ? to end it ? i weep. i'm so sorry. I'm pretty pumped this chapter is finally OUT HERE, though. IN THE GREAT BIG WORLD. i've had this one in my head for a real hot sec - almost since the story began, actually! we're finally gettin to the good stuff, y'all. the PURE and RAW and UNFILTERED whump. i'm PUMPED and HERE FOR THAT!

oh also this has literally nothing to do with this fic at all but i started a new blog ((aquestionthatsneverbeenposed)) and it's an ask/RP blog for Merlin. due to personal reasons i kinda ditched the rp scene for a hot sec there, but i really missed it, and wanted to come back to it so i decided to try my hand at Merlin. i don't think i'm totally horrendous ! anyways yeah. thanks SO MUCH to everybody who stopped by (as usual) your support and encouragement means the absolute WORLD to me !