"I sat alone, in bed 'til the morning,

I'm crying,

They're coming for me.

And I tried to hold,

These secrets inside me,

My mind's like a deadly disease."

- Control, Halsey

Merlin didn't look, didn't let himself look, at the bruises and the marks and the stains Agravaine had left all over him tonight—he knew better than to look, he knew better than to think he could look, he knew better than to think his hands wouldn't shake, his stomach wouldn't twist, the back of his throat wouldn't burn with a hot flood of sour bile, so he only pulled the rough cloth of his trousers up over his legs. His flesh prickled, all over, with little bumps, from the icy air of the vast chamber, but he could swear his skin was on fire with the heavy weight of Agravaine's eyes all over him—why he is looking at me, why is he looking at me, stop it, stop looking at me, what did I do, what did I do to make him look—?

Merlin slipped through the door, and out into the corridor, into the dark and the quiet of the long, empty hall.

It would be worth it. It would all be worth it in the end. He had to believe that, he had to believe it would be worth it, he had to believe, one day, all of this would mean something, all of this would matter, all of this would all work out for the better, for the best, and he had to believe that. He had to.

When he had carried his secret all the way to his grave, all the way to the end, when he could let it go, take it off, put it down—God, just put it down, just once, even for a moment—where no one could ever find it, and no one could ever be hurt by it, and maybe he would finally know what it was like to breathe without the weight of all his lies on his chest, and it would be worth it, then, it would be worth it, everything would be worth it.

It would all be worth it in the end.

Merlin's heart crashed, louder than thunder, inside of him, too fast, too frantic, too frenzied, and the blood pounded, hard and heavy as a drum, in his ears, and he glanced back over his shoulder a hundred thousand times in a minute all the way out of the castle—all the way out of the city, all the way into the black shadows of the night, all the way into the dark and rustling trees of the wood, even, and all the tight knots of tension inside him still wouldn't break loose, couldn't break loose, even then. He had made a mistake last night in the Lower Town—he had dropped his guard, he had relaxed, he had thought he was safe, he had told himself he was safe, he had told himself no one would see him, no one would ever see him, he had done it a hundred times before and no one had ever seen him, no one had ever seen him—

—but he would never, ever make that mistake again.

He would never tell himself he was safe again.

Merlin stumbled, finally, half-frozen, into the small, snowy glade, and stopped hardly half a moment to get his breath back before he tipped his head up and ripped the harsh, hoarse call of the dragon out of his throat. The sound of it cut through the frigid silence of the winter's night sharp as a sword and loud as a scream—cut through the quiet creak of the bare branches, heavy with the sleet and slush, cut through the hard crunch of ice and dead leaves under his boots, cut through the shaky gasp of his own breath in and out of his half-open mouth—and the echoes thrummed in his chest, in his head, in his veins.

Every few moments, Merlin stamped or shuffled his feet in the snow to keep out the cold, to stop it before it could settle down deep in his bones, and cling to him tighter than his own tunic, tighter than his own skin, and he blinked to keep the flakes out of his eyes, but he stayed as still as he could, and stared up into the dark skies, until, at last, the thump of immense, powerful wings filled his ears, and Kilgharrah landed in front of him.

Little patches of ice and snow stuck to the dragon's green-gold scales in places. "I have to confess," he rumbled out, very stiffly, "I had hoped you would not summon me until the elements were more agreeable."

"Sorry," Merlin said—he didn't actually mean to say it, he didn't actually want to say it, even, but Kilgharrah always had a way to make him feel like he ought to apologize—and tacked on, quickly, "I-I have a favor to ask."

"So I concluded," Kilgharrah said, still very sullen. "What is it you seek from me?"

"Gaius, Leon, and Percival went to Tintagel a few weeks ago, to investigate a strange illness there," Merlin started in at once—he didn't want to be out here any longer than Kilgharrah did, and Goddess knew he still had a lot to do when he finally got back. "But no one's heard a word from them since. Arthur thinks they ran into some sort of trouble on the road."

"You disagree." It wasn't a question, not really.

But Merlin shook his head anyway. "Morgana's man was the one to map their route."

"Morgana's man?" Kilgharrah echoed, in his sharpest tone, and he narrowed his golden eyes down to slits. "You allowed this?"

"Well, I didn't have very much choice!" Merlin argued. "He's a lord of the court, and Arthur's uncle! What was I supposed to—?"

"The young Pendragon's uncle?" Kilgharrah broke in. He rumbled, again, in the back of his throat. "The Lord Agravaine?"

Merlin swallowed, a little too hard, and jerked his chin down in a half-nod. One day, he would hear the name, and his hands wouldn't shake, and he wouldn't feel a cold shudder crawl down his spine, but just now, one day sounded very, very far away.

"Is the young Pendragon aware of this man's true allegiance?" Kilgharrah demanded.

Merlin shook his head again. "I tried to warn him." His throat pulled tight, suddenly, and he had to look away, down into the dirty snow under his powder-flecked boots. "But he—" Merlin bit down, hard, on his bottom lip, "—he didn't believe me." And I said terrible things to him, awful things, I said—

Another rumble. "Already, you have allowed this man to ingrain himself too deeply within Arthur's heart."

I tried, Merlin wanted to say, I tried to tell Arthur, I did my best, but that wasn't true, was it? Not really. He had just let it happen, all of it, everything, every last bit, every last little piece, every bad thing, it all came back to him in the end, didn't it, everything came right back 'round to him again, in a circle, in a hoop, just like the Lower Town.

Because he wasn't strong enough to stand up to Agravaine.

Because he was rotten.

"I know," Merlin said, instead of a fight, and he shivered in a harsh and bitter blast of winter wind, and he tugged his jacket tighter around him. "I know."

Maybe Kilgharrah could hear his exhaustion in his words, or maybe he could sense it, feel it, even, in the link between them, because the dragon's next rumble sounded gentler, softer, than all the ones before. "Young warlock," he leaned his long neck down a bit, to look at Merlin, "what is this favor you ask of me?"

Merlin hesitated—no doubt Kilgharrah would put up a real fight over this, Goddess knew he'd go on and on and on with his usual I am not a servant, Merlin, and I am most certainly not your servant, but his friends' safety mattered far more, in this moment, than an old dragon's pride. "Could you just—?" He tipped his head up a little higher. "Could you just look for them? Gaius and Leon and Percival? See if they're really all right, or if—" he swallowed, "—if Morgana—"

"That is not a favor," Kilgharrah said, rather petulantly. "That is an errand."

"Well, I can't exactly saddle up and go see for myself!" Merlin pointed out, maybe more than a little bit indignantly. "I can't leave Camelot that long. Arthur wouldn't last ten seconds without me."

Kilgharrah rumbled again, and it certainly wasn't gentle or soft, but he bowed his enormous, scaly head at Merlin by the barest fraction. "Very well, young warlock," he said, with an air of great reluctance. "I shall embark upon this errand."

"Thank you." Merlin dipped his chin down a little in return.

Kilgharrah almost seemed to hesitate, then—well, as much as Kilgharrah could hesitate, anyway, Merlin had never seen him so irresolute, so tentative, so uncertain. Like he didn't know what to do with himself, except he always knew what to do with himself. "Young warlock," Kilgharrah said, at last, and very quietly, so quietly, it could be the soft shift of fallen snow in the trees, the steady, dull murmur of the wind, "something troubles you."

"What?" Merlin snapped his head up, and his heart crashed like thunder again, too fast, too frantic, too frenzied—does he know? Does he know what happened, does he know the truth, does he know that Agravaine knows, does he know what happened, does he know how I let it happen, how I didn't fight it, how I just let—? Can he feel it? Can he sense it? Can he see it in my head? Does he know what I did? Does he know what I've done? Does he know I'm filthy, does he know I'm rotten, does he know I'm—?

But Kilgharrah only blinked his great golden eyes. "You do not look well." He tilted his vast, horned head a bit. "What has happened?"

Merlin's heart thudded, too hard, too fast, in his chest, a furious break and batter at his ribs, but he doesn't know, he doesn't know, he doesn't know, does he—?

"Merlin?"

"No," Merlin blurted, and too quick, too sharp, and his stomach tossed and turned and twisted, "no, nothing—nothing has happened, nothing's happened." He swallowed. "Everything's fine. Everything is fine."

Maybe, if he only said it loud enough, often enough, he could finally make it true.

The sun had only barely pulled its pale light over the silent, snowy trees when Merlin finally dragged himself back out of the frozen wood, numb and exhausted—God, so exhausted, he was so exhausted, his mind ran 'round and 'round in circles and he couldn't think straight, and it took everything he had inside him just to put one foot in front of the other, and he almost lay down in the snow and slept, out there under the open grey sky, out there in the cold, but he didn't, he knew he couldn't, he knew he shouldn't, and he didn't. He only stumbled on through the Lower Town—still dark and empty, still vacant roads and shuttered shops and blank windows, and he didn't care anymore, he didn't care at all, he didn't care about any of it, and he didn't care how filthy and rotten he felt, how filthy and rotten he knew he was—and he was in front of Gaius' door, then, all of a sudden, all at once, he was in front of Gaius' door, and he didn't know how he had gotten there at all.

Merlin reached out a pale, shaky hand to push open the door and let himself in—and he could see it, he could see the shudders jolting through his palms, he could see the short, sharp tremors, he could see the little lurches and jerks and spasms, but he couldn't feel them very much at all, isn't that odd, isn't that funny—and he stepped inside, he stepped around all the books and bottles and overcluttered tables, and he stepped up the stairs and he stepped into his room and—

—oh—

—his blanket, all balled up, nothing but a thin and tattered and tangled heap on the cold floor and the pillow, behind the bed, in a heavy cloud of thick grey dust—

—you're beautiful—absolutely divine—

—and stains and streaks all down the sheets and—

—can't you take a compliment—

—the shaking had started up again, in his hands, in his legs, he couldn't hold himself up anymore, and he had to grab onto the wall so he didn't hit the ground—

—you look beautiful when you writhe naked on silk sheets—

—he couldn't let go of the wall, he couldn't get back up again, he couldn't get back up again, and he knew he needed to get back up again, he knew he needed to do it, he knew he had to do it, but the world had started to spin all around him, faster and faster every moment, and his knees buckled and his stomach rolled and his throat pulled so tight, he couldn't swallow, he couldn't even breathe—

—lovely blue bed-me eyes—

And Merlin turned his head, and ripped open his mouth, and hot, sour sick spilled out and onto the floor, and his stomach twisted up tighter and tighter with every retch, and he crashed to the ground, too hard, too heavy, beside the puddle of his own bile, and tears pricked and stung at the backs of his eyes. He pulled his knees up to his chest, but his legs still trembled against the thin, worn cloth of his tunic—and his hands still trembled, palms pressed, hard as he could stand it, to the cold floor, and his breath still trembled, in and out of his open mouth, and the taste of the sick still burned at the back of his throat—

Downstairs, the door burst open.

"Merlin?"

Merlin jerked, sharply, at the sound of the shout at the bottom of the stairs, at the sound of his own name in the room below—at the sound of Agravaine's voice, but why is he here, why is he here, what is he doing, what does he want, what does he think—?

Tomorrow at dawn, Arthur had said, Lord Agravaine will be there to—

No. Merlin's insides turned to ice. No, that wasn't right. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be true. He knew it. He knew it couldn't be right, he knew it couldn't be true, not after last night, not after he had let—

I didn't say no, I never said no, I let it happen, I lay there and I let it happen, I let him do it, I let him do all of it, everything, and that was what he wanted, wasn't it, that was what he wanted, that was all he wanted, and isn't he happy now, isn't he satisfied yet, won't he call it off now, won't he put a stop to it now, he's gotten what he wanted, he'll stop it now, he has to stop it now, but Merlin jerked up off the floor anyway, and he rushed across the room, and he didn't look at the bed, he didn't look at the blanket, he didn't look at the pillow, he didn't look at the sheets, he didn't think about the last time he had lain in that bed, not for a second, not for a single goddamned second.

He wrenched back the loose floorboard, and he didn't—he didn't really think about it, he didn't really need to think about it, one moment his spellbook stared back at him, cracked leather and stained, yellowed pages and rusted metal clasps, and then it was gone. He slipped his hand down into the dark gap—he could still feel it, there, under his fingers, but he couldn't see it, and that's all that matters, that's the only thing that matters, so long as no one can see it, so long as no one can ever, ever see it—

"Merlin?"

Merlin flinched—every muscle in his body tensed up, his every limb locked tight, his every tendon pulled taut, and it took him nearly a full minute to relax again, and God, he's not even up here yet, he's not even in the room yet, he's still all the way down there, he's not even gone up the stairs yet, he just called my name, that's it, that's all. Merlin swallowed, hard, scrubbed a tired hand down his face, and sat back heavily on his heels. He had to let it happen now, let it go, just let the search carry on. He had done everything he could and—

—and there was something under the bed.

Well, actually, there was a lot of something under the bed, maybe lots of little somethings, or maybe just one big something, but—but that didn't make sense, he didn't put things under his bed, he never put things under his bed, so there shouldn't be—there really shouldn't be—

Merlin crawled over to the bed—he pushed the blanket out of his way, up against the wall, and shoved the stained sheets back up onto the thin pallet, and he didn't let himself think about it, he did not let himself think about the last time he had lain in that bed—and he plunged a hand down into the black. His fingers only barely, briefly brushed over cold, smooth metal, and his magic screamed, inside him, wrenched and writhed in his chest, in his veins, under his skin, like a wolf, like a wild thing, and he scrambled back on blind instinct, on reflex—

—what is that—?

Merlin didn't want to look. He didn't want to know, anymore, if it was a lot of something or lots of little somethings or just one big something, he just wanted to leave it there, all of it, he didn't care what it was, he didn't care, he didn't ever want to feel like that again, like his magic died inside him, but—if it's dark magic, if it's a threat to Camelot, if it's something Morgana's planted, I need to know, I need to know what she's up to—with a firm, forceful yank, he dragged it back out from under the bed.

It turned out to be a lot of little somethings—a beautiful mirror edged in richest, brightest gold, and a smooth, shiny white crystal, sharp and pointed on its bottom but flat and wide and rounded at the top, and a flood of radiant gold broke through the sparkling ivory the moment he laid his hand on it. And a rough wooden box, there was a rough wooden box, too, old and a bit crumbly at the corners, like the box Alice had—a manticore portal, and a little shudder trailed down Merlin's spine, to feel the sick power in it, to know he held another in his hands—but the last of the somethings, a large, thick ring of utterly solid iron, big enough to go all the way around a lady's wrist, maybe big enough to go all the way around a lady's neck—that was the worst, that was the awful thing he had felt, the one that had made his magic scream, the one that had made his magic wrench and writhe inside him.

It made Merlin sick just to look at it, just to touch it, just to feel it on his skin—this is wrong, this is wrong, I don't know what it is, but I know it's wrong—he could feel the magic in the box, in the mirror, in the crystal, but he couldn't feel anything off the ring, no matter how he pushed and shoved his own power at it, into it, that just made it all feel worse, that just made his magic ache in a harsh, heavy way he couldn't explain—

"Merlin?" Agravaine stood in the narrow entranceway, thick black brows arched up, and a gleam of triumph in his dark eyes.

And, suddenly, Merlin knew.

And he didn't need Agravaine to say it, he didn't need Agravaine to tell him, because he knew, in a way he couldn't put into words, he knew, it all made sense now, didn't it, all of it, everything, it all made a sick sort of sense now, didn't it? Everything made sense now.

That night he had come home, and he had found Agravaine—the night Agravaine had waited for him, stayed for him, had pulled up Gaius' chair and settled in next to the hearth and waited for him and said where were you and let me see you pleasure yourself—the night Merlin had stayed out so late in the Lower Town—the night everybody had seen him—the night he had brought so much pain and panic down on so many people—Agravaine had done it then. Agravaine had done it, then, Agravaine must have done it then, and Merlin had never known, he had never thought about it, he had never seen it, he had never figured it out, he had never even tried, really, because he had thought Agravaine wanted him, not—he had thought Agravaine had wanted him—

Sir Ector pushed into the room—past all the rest of the knights in a thick cluster on the stairs outside, and he pushed past Agravaine, even, past the open door—and in hardly half a moment, his old, lined face turned as white as bleached bone, and over his broad, armored shoulder, Merlin could see the others start up the steps and peek curiously past him into the room.

"It was you," Agravaine said, but a smile still played around the edges of his mouth, "it was you, and you—you've been at court, all this time, at Arthur's side—"

—and it was that night, that first night, all over again, it was that night in Agravaine's bedchamber, with Arthur's coronation outside, Arthur's coronation in the Great Hall, so big and loud he could still hear it, even all the way in Agravaine's rooms, and how many times had he hoped Arthur might hear him, or anyone might hear him, hear him and come and find him and—and save him—

"—how you've managed to deceive him, Merlin—"

—if I am to keep your secret, I do deserve some form of recompense, and pretty little thing like you, and hush, now, Merlin, there's no need for all that noise—

"—clearly magical—"

"—evidence is undeniable—"

"—doesn't make any sense—"

"—why would anyone—?"

Merlin knew he needed to listen—accusations and questions and condemnations all swirled and surged up around and around and around him, hard and heavy as a storm, and he knew he needed to listen, he knew he needed to hear it, he knew it was important, he knew it mattered, but everything was a thousand miles away from him, or maybe he was a thousand miles away from everything or maybe a thousand miles had never been real at all or maybe he had never been real at all—

—a hand, warm and firm and just above his elbow, grabbed at him, tugged at him, pulled at him—

Merlin's nerves snapped, all at once, into a hundred thousand sharp and brittle shards, and he jerked back, and wild, reckless fury flooded him like an ocean, flooded him like a sea. "Don't touch me!" He nearly screamed it, really, out through his teeth, and he could feel his lips pull back in a snarl the longer he looked into Agravaine's horrid, self-satisfied face, his cold, dark eyes. "Don't fucking touch me! Keep your fucking hands off me!"

"Merlin!" Sir Ector rushed forward in a dizzy swirl of silver mail and scarlet cloak, and Sir Ector grabbed him, locked firm, burly arms 'round him, and dragged him, like an animal, like a dog—

"No, let me go!" Merlin knew better than to think he would win. Even for a second, he knew better than to think he would win—Sir Ector was a knight, and a damn good one, at that, with several stones' worth of muscle and armor on Merlin, but he couldn't—he couldn't stop, he just couldn't stop, he just needed everything to go away, to go a hundred thousand miles away. "Let me go! Don't touch me!"

Sir Ector's strong, broad fingers tightened and tensed around his wrists, and he had only half a moment to wince, before the knight twisted his arm up behind his back with a harsh wrench of his shoulder, and Merlin doubled over with a soft, sharp gasp.

"Gather his things," Agravaine barked out at the rest of the knights, and his mouth settled in a small, confident smile. "We're taking him to the king."

The search of the Lower Town wouldn't start for a long while yet—even at the absolute earliest, the wait would still last well over an hour—but Arthur had already dressed himself, he had already tugged on his tunic and a fresh pair of breeches, he had already buckled on his armor, strapped on his sword, and clasped his cloak firmly at the throat, because how the hell was he supposed to stay all wrapped up in his sheets and know, every second, every breath, the sorcerer was still out there, somewhere, in the Lower Town, in the citadel, in the castle, even, and how the hell was he supposed to sleep at all, how the hell was he even supposed to shut his eyes and not think about the sorcerer, about the curse cast over his kingdom, about the terror and pain of his people?

Suppose I should try and get a bit of work in, Arthur thought, very unenthusiastically, read over a few of the records and reports piled up on the table, speak to Lord Agravaine and see if he's started his own search of the castle yet—

The door burst open with a crash like thunder, and Lord Agravaine barreled into the bedchamber like a storm. His dark eyes had narrowed down to thin slits in his furious face, brows all pinched up in a harsh scowl, and a sea of silver mail and scarlet cloaks—knights— flooded in behind him. Sir Ector was the last of the soldiers, and he—

—and he dragged Merlin along behind him.

Merlin stumbled and tripped over his own boots at least a few dozen times in hardly half a moment, his eyes wide—no, enormous—in his thin and nervous face, with dark shadows, stark as bruises, underneath, and every time he faltered or fell, Sir Ector only snatched him up by his arm, or his scarf, even, and yanked him on again.

"Sir Ector," Arthur said, sharply, and he pushed past Lord Agravaine, past all the rest of the knights, to get to the pair of them, "what is the meaning of this? Take your hands off him." Maybe he should turn a blind eye, let it alone, let it happen, let Sir Ector do as he wished, but it just didn't sit right with him, the way the knight touched Merlin, the way he jerked Merlin, roughly, into the room, the way he led Merlin like a man might lead a dog.

"I cannot, Sire," Sir Ector only tightened his hold on Merlin, his knuckles white around Merlin's thin wrists, "not whilst he still presents such a danger to you."

"Danger to me?" Arthur echoed, half to make sure he had heard it right—how could Merlin, loyal to a fault and absolute rubbish with a sword Merlin ever be dangerous?— and he almost laughed, if only Sir Ector didn't look so serious about it. "That's ridiculous. Look at him, Merlin's hardly a danger to anyone, and certainly not to me. Let him go, and stop all this nonsense, that's an order."

"Sire," but Agravaine, all the tired lines in his face pulled taut, pushed himself firmly in front of Merlin and Sir Ector, "there's something you must know. This morning, we commenced our search of the castle in the Court Physician's chambers."

Arthur swallowed back a sigh and nodded—ridiculous as all of this sounded, and ridiculous as all of this would all undoubtedly turn out to be, it wouldn't be right to turn Lord Agravaine away if he didn't at least take a moment to listen. His uncle had never steered him wrong before, after all, and God knew Merlin had put up such a stubborn fuss about the search, too, so maybe that was it, maybe that was what had happened, maybe that was all that had happened, Merlin had run his mouth, Merlin had resisted or refused, yes, that would be just like him, actually, never could stand down for anything, could he?

"In the course of this search, I discovered, in Merlin's personal chambers, artifacts we believe to be of great magical power and importance."

Arthur's insides jolted, and he snapped his eyes back on Lord Agravaine. "Great magical power and importance?" But the moment the words fell from his mouth, he knew it wasn't right, he knew it couldn't be right. Merlin was terrified of magic, absolutely bloody terrified, always got all tense and pale and quiet every time the talk turned to sorcery, always closed up quicker and tighter than a clam every time anybody dared to even whisper the word within the walls of Camelot—God, if Merlin ever decided to take up magic, of all things, well, Arthur would hand his crown off to Sir Gwaine and take over as court jester right this moment.

But he only looked, expectantly at his uncle. "Well," he raised his eyebrows, "where are these artifacts, then? Might I see them?"

"My Lord," Sir Dinadan dropped down in a hurried bow, and placed a small, half-rotten wooden box, a broad, round circle of thick, inflexible iron, and a mirror, edges all in gold, atop Arthur's cluttered desk, amid all the papers and quills and inkwells.

Arthur blinked, and very nearly rubbed at his eyes to make absolutely certain this was real. A pathetic little box, a simple silver hoop, and an ornate mirror? The only real mystery here was that last bit—with the way Merlin looked, and dressed, come to that, Arthur had started to think the man didn't know how to use a mirror. A heavy sigh slipped out of Arthur's mouth, hard as he tried to stop it, and he raked a hand down the side of his face before he looked back at his uncle. "Lord Agravaine," he said, flatly, "I'm sorry, but I really think there's been a misunderstanding here. Merlin is not a sorcerer."

"There is no misunderstanding here, my Lord," Agravaine snapped, and his dark eyes narrowed back down to fiery slits again. "His trove," he nearly snarled the word, "held many other treasures as well." He stormed forward and ripped open his own clenched, white-knuckled fist to show a small, white crystal in his smooth, broad palm.

Arthur wrinkled his brow—yes, crystals were common conduits for sorcery, certainly, he knew that, but did his uncle really believe some glittery pebble should condemn Merlin? "Lord Agravaine," he shook his head, "whatever this is, it is simply not evidence enough to—"

"Sire," a frown settled on Agravaine's lips, "do you not know what this is?"

Arthur blinked. "A pretty rock Merlin picked up in the woods one day?" He half-glanced over at his servant, except Merlin wouldn't look at him.

"Your father used this many times, in the early days of The Great Purge," Agravaine said. "It can sense the magic inside even—especially—when we cannot. If a sorcerer touches it, the white will turn to gold." He held the crystal out to Arthur.

Arthur took it, and turned it over and over in his fingers. This, here, sounded exactly like the sort of thing his father would do, and he knew Agravaine too well now to think the man would ever—could ever—lie to him. Except. "Why didn't he use it all the time, then? Why did he stop?" The crystal could have saved hundreds of thousands of innocents accused of sorcery.

"Eventually," Agravaine said on a sigh, "he concluded it was too close to sorcery for comfort, and he locked it away in the vaults with all other confiscated magical objects from that time."

"The vaults?" Arthur tore his eyes from the crystal to glance at his uncle. "If my father locked it in the vaults, how did—?" He turned to Merlin. "How did you—?"

Merlin shook his head, his pale lips pressed together into a thin, tight line, and for a long moment, Arthur could swear he wouldn't say anything, he wouldn't speak at all, but then he opened his mouth-the first time he had opened his mouth since Sir Ector had dragged him into the chamber. "I-I didn't."

"Right." Arthur nodded. He believed Merlin. Of course he believed Merlin, the man may be an absolute idiot, but he had never lied to Arthur before, at least not about big things, serious things, like magic, and why on earth would he start now? "Right. And you're sure you found it in his chambers, Lord Agravaine?"

"Sire, this is preposterous," Agravaine huffed, "surely, you can see his attempts to beguile you, even now! All these years, he has woven a web of deceptions and enchantments about you, but you must believe it no longer!"

"That's enough." Arthur handed the crystal back to Agravaine. "Merlin has lived here in Camelot six years now. If he truly intended any harm to this kingdom, or her inhabitants, would he not already have acted on it?"

"He has poisoned your mind, Arthur!" Agravaine pushed the crystal right back at him. "Don't tell me you do not see it!"

"I said that's enough," Arthur curled his fingers around the cold, heavy stone, "and I will thank you to let the matter rest, Lord Agravaine. Continue the castle searches. Merlin is not the sorcerer we seek."

For half a moment, Arthur really believed Agravaine might shout at him, scream at him, strike him, even, grab him by the shoulders and shake him, and Arthur tensed on blind instinct, one hand already halfway to the silver hilt of his sword—

—and the moment ended, and Agravaine was only Agravaine again.

"My Lord," Agravaine dipped his head down in a little bow, and clasped his hands behind his back, "there is a very simple way to settle this matter once and for all."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "What do you suggest, Lord Agravaine?"

"If Merlin is truly, as you say, not the sorcerer we seek," Agravaine's dark eyes flicked briefly over to Merlin, "he only needs to touch the crystal to prove it." He tipped his head at the stone in Arthur's hand.

Oh. Yes. That was right. Wasn't it? Except Arthur didn't want to use the crystal, he didn't want to use anything his father had called "too close to sorcery", he didn't want to use anything tainted or tarnished with the touch of magic. He glanced up at Merlin—

—and Merlin's whole face had turned white as snow, white as bone, and he pressed his lips together, his mouth a thin, pinched line—

But that's not right, that's not right, Merlin hates magic, Merlin's terrified of magic and "Merlin," Arthur said, and sharply, too sharply, and he stepped forward, and he held out the crystal, "take it. Let him go so he can take it," he told Sir Ector, firmly, "let go of his arms so he can take it."

"A-Arthur—" Merlin half-gasped out his name, weak and hoarse and breathless, "Arthur, please, I-I don't—"

Sir Ector let Merlin go, and edged back toward the bed.

"—A-Arthur—"

"Take it." Arthur practically pushed the crystal into Merlin's limp, shaky hands. It's not going to do anything, it's absolutely not going to do a damn thing, because Merlin's not a sorcerer, Merlin's not a sorcerer, he's terrified of magic and he would never take up magic, he would never betray me like that. "Take it, goddamn it, Merlin, just take it!"

Merlin reached out a hand.

He took it.

And the crystal turned to gold.

Arthur snapped his eyes shut. No. That was the absolute first thing in his mind, the only thing in his mind, and it stuck, and clung, like syrup, like tar, to the inside of his head, it stuck and it ran 'round in circles, it ran 'round in loops, over and over again, until he couldn't think past it, until he couldn't think at all, and a hundred thousand million reasons lived and died in his brain—the crystal had it wrong or the crystal was broken or this was a joke or this was a dream or this was a trick of the light, because Merlin hated magic, he was terrified of magic, absolutely terrified, he would never take up magic, hell, he could hardly talk about magic, remember, how he went all tense and pale and quiet, how he closed up quicker and tighter than a clam, remember that, and if he ever got it in his head to do it, to try, he would likely die of pure fright before he could even stammer out his first spell. Because he was absolutely terrified of magic. And that was that.

Merlin didn't have magic.

Merlin couldn't have magic, even, it didn't make any sense, it just didn't make any sense, it didn't fit, he didn't look like a sorcerer, he didn't act like a sorcerer, and he certainly didn't fight like a sorcerer—God knew he was absolute rubbish in a battle, actually, he always sort of crawled 'round on the ground or cowered behind trees until it was all over, and that wasn't the way a sorcerer would do it, that was not the way any sorcerer in the world would do it. Because if he had magic—if Merlin really had magic—he would fight, and he would be good at it. He would like it, even, he would want it, he would want the violence and the bloodshed, he would like it, he would want it, and God knew Merlin didn't like it, he didn't want it. God knew Merlin was an absolute girl about things like that, actually, always said Arthur didn't need to shoot the sweet little rabbit or the lovely doe, and also, he ruffled his mare's mane and called her good girl and spoiled her with apples and carrots every time he had a chance, and sorcerers didn't do that, sorcerers didn't care about mares or horses or animals or any life at all except their own. Right?

And sorcerers certainly didn't fetch meals or polish armor or pour baths, sorcerers weren't supposed to do any of that, sorcerers couldn't be trusted to do any of that, because sorcerers would poison the meals, curse the armor, mix acid in with the bathwater, and Merlin had never done any of that, he had never even tried, he had never hurt Arthur, never messed with his food or his mail or his wash, he would never hurt Arthur, not ever, so Merlin didn't have magic, Merlin couldn't have magic, and that was just the end of it.

Right?

But when Arthur finally cracked his eyes open again, the crystal still burned and blazed in Merlin's palm with a bright and brilliant fire.

And it didn't make any sense.

It didn't make any sense at all.

Because Merlin couldn't have magic.

"It's—it's broken," Arthur said at once, except his stomach still twisted up and pulled tight into a hundred thousand little knots because what if it's not, what if it's not broken, what if he's really got magic, but he didn't, he didn't, Merlin didn't have magic, Merlin couldn't have magic. "The—the crystal, it's broken, it's wrong, it's—it's not—"

"Sire," a heavy breath tumbled from Agravaine's open lips, "I assure you, the crystal is in perfect condition. Its judgments remain accurate so long as the crystal itself remains whole."

"It's broken," Arthur said, again, and stronger this time, louder, firmer, sharper, but he never looked away from Merlin, he didn't think he could look away from Merlin if he tried, "it's just—it's just broken, that's it, that's all, Merlin's not—" hedidn't have magic, he couldn't have magic, "—he's not—I would know if my servant was—"

"You recall, Sire," Agravaine said, softly, "it did not turn to gold at your touch. Nor mine."

"—no—" Arthur shook his head again, "—no, that's not—"

Merlin's hand tightened around the golden stone—and was it a trick of the light, was it really a trick of the light or did it—did it mean—did it really mean—? Was the crystal wrong, fake, broken, or had it just done what Agravaine had said it would do, seen the magic, sensed the magic, when the whole world couldn't? Arthur had held it, and it hadn't changed, and Agravaine had held it, and it hadn't changed, and could Merlin really—could Merlin really have—?

"I would know," Arthur echoed, over and over again, but would he know, really, would he ever really know at all, if this wasn't a trick of the light, if Merlin really did have—would he know, then, would he really know—?

"I-I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin whispered, and his breath trembled on the way out of his mouth and tears sparkled in his eyes, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to—for you to find it out like this—"

No. This wasn't—this wasn't real, this couldn't be real, this couldn't be true, how could Merlin have magic? Merlin and magic? No, that wasn't—that wasn't the way it worked, that wasn't the way it was supposed to work, because Merlin was terrified of magic, and he was absolute rubbish in battle and God knew he could never keep a secret to save his life, so how could he—how could he—?

"I'm sorry," Merlin said, again, and even softer this time, even quieter, and he looked away, shoulders hunched up and head ducked down low and his hair a dark veil in front of his face, and why would he say that, why would he do that, if he didn't have—? But he couldn't have—he just couldn't—it didn't make any sense, and it didn't—it didn't fit, it just didn't fit, all the bits and pieces Arthur held in his hands didn't fit together at all, not with the Merlin he knew, not with his Merlin.

But did he know Merlin? Did he know Merlin at all? No, that was ridiculous, because he did know Merlin, of course he knew Merlin, he had only spent the last six years with the man on his heels, at his side, and he knew Merlin was an idiot, and he knew Merlin was a girl, and he knew Merlin was absolute rubbish in battle and he knew Merlin couldn't keep a secret to save his life and he knew Merlin was terrified of magic, always got all tense and pale and quiet—

Oh. No. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be true. Could it?

But—God, if Merlin had magic, if Merlin really had magic, he wouldn't want to talk about it, would he, not here, not in Camelot, and he had—he had said I didn't mean for you to find out like this—

"Show me." Arthur didn't mean to say to it—he didn't even know he was going to say it at all until the words fell out of his mouth, but he knew he wouldn't take it back, even if he could. "Let me see." He had to see it. He had to see it, or he would never believe it.

Merlin's head snapped up. His thin cheeks looked very white in the light of the sun. "Wh-what?" His fingers trembled again around the golden crystal.

"I-I'm not sure that's wise, Sire," Sir Dinadan murmured, from over by the table, and he nervously flicked his grey eyes between Arthur and Merlin.

But Arthur had to see it. Or he would never believe it. If he didn't see it, if he didn't have the absolute and irrefutable proof of it, he would always wonder—he knew himself too well to think he wouldn't, and he knew he would always wonder about it, if he didn't see it, he would always wonder but what if it was a trick of the light, what if the crystal was broken, what if the crystal was wrong? If he didn't see it, with his own eyes, there would always be room in his mind to think like that, to wonder like that, and he couldn't—he couldn't do that, he could not do that, he could not let himself do that. He couldn't take the easy way out. Not here. Not now.

"Show me."

Merlin swallowed. It sounded very loud in the thick silence of the bedchamber, and his throat bobbed with it. "I—I don't—" he shook his head, and half-glanced at Agravaine, like he thought, like he really thought the man might step in and save him any moment now. "I don't think—"

"I said, show me!"

Merlin flinched—no, he did not get to do that, not again, he did not get to cringe and cower and whimper, like a beaten dog, like a stricken animal, and make Arthur feel sorry for him again, that would not work this time, that would not get him out of it this time—but, finally, he dragged in a shaky, shuddery sort of breath, and he nodded.

Merlin held out his hand—palm up to the sky, and fingers spread, just like a—just like a sorcerer, and Arthur's stomach clenched tight—and the crystal lifted. The crystal actually lifted up off his skin, the crystal lifted up into the air, and it was—it was magic.

It was real magic. It was actual magic. It was Merlin's magic.

Because Merlin had magic.

Merlin had magic.

Merlin was still doing magic, and Jesus fucking Christ, the crystal hovered there, over his open hand and long fingers, like a sun, like a star, and his eyes—Arthur didn't want to look, he never wanted to look, he wanted to cut out his own eyes so he couldn't look, but he looked, because if he didn't see it, he would never believe it, and Merlin's eyes burned and burned and burned with magic, with sorcery, with everything that had ever hurt Camelot, with everything that had ever hurt his father, with everything that had killed his father, Merlin's eyes burned, unnatural and inhuman and just like Morgana's, and Arthur—

—Arthur ripped out his sword and pointed the sharp, shining tip of the blade at Merlin.

Merlin had magic.

How had it happened? How had Merlin come to this? Why had he turned to magic, of all things, the one that would corrupt him, his mind, his body, his soul, why had he turned to the one thing he could never turn away from? And how had Arthur not seen? How had Arthur gotten played for a fool again?

"No!" The crystal dropped down into Merlin's open palm again and he curled his fingers loosely over it. His eyes burned and burned and burned all the way back down to blue, and he was Merlin again, just like that, natural and human and utterly, undeniably Merlin. "No, Arthur," he shook his head, "—y-you don't understand, it's not like that, it's not what you think, I'm not—!"

"You," Arthur held his head and his blade high as he could, higher than he ever had, but the truth settled hard and heavy as a stone in his stomach, even as he said the words, "have been found guilty of using magic and enchantments. There is but one sentence I can pass."

"N-No, I—" Merlin swallowed, and shook his head again, "—I use it for you, Arthur, only for you—" he reached his empty hand out, to grab Arthur, to touch Arthur—

"Don't!" Arthur thrust his sword out a little farther, a little harder, until Merlin had to step back, and the lying traitor had the nerve to do that stupid little flinch again. "Don't try and talk your way out of this, sorcerer. Secrets and lies won't save you now."

And was all of it a lie, then? Just a lie? Only a lie, only ever a lie? Had any of it ever been real at all, or was the clumsy, goofy servant who couldn't hold a sword the right way up all just a mask Merlin put on every morning?

Was all his loyalty to me just a mask he put on every morning?

"Please, Arthur," Merlin said, and God, he sounded so pathetic, Arthur could almost believe him, almost pity him, "please, listen to me, I never wanted to hurt you, please, you have to know that, you have to know I never wanted—"

"If you didn't want to hurt," Arthur said, and coldly, too, a sharp sheet of frigid ice in his voice, "you would not have turned to magic." He jerked his chin at Sir Ector. "Take him down to the dungeons. He will remain there until justice can be carried out."

"Yes, Sire," Sir Ector dipped his head in a quick bow, and grabbed Merlin up again, twisted Merlin's small, skinny arm up behind his back again, and Merlin sucked in a loud, sharp breath, and Arthur didn't care, this time, how Sir Ector dragged Merlin around like an animal, like a beast, like a dog, because that's what he is, isn't he, that's what he is, that's all he is, that's what all sorcerers are. Beasts. Monsters.

"—no—Arthur—!" Merlin jerked wildly in Sir Ector's tight grasp the whole way out into the corridor, so wildly, Sir Dinadan and Sir Bors came over to help Sir Ector hold onto him. His eyes, his unnatural, inhuman, golden eyes, had gone wide again in his white face. "—listen to me, you have to listen to me, no, please, Arthur—!"

And the door slammed shut.

And it was over.

It was all over.

Notes: HUZZAH this chapter was such a BITCH oh my god i literally started it two days after i finished the last one and it was such a FUCKING BITCH it took me THIS FUCKING LONG ! tHIS ! FUCKING ! LONG ! ? im shook. anyways sorry about the wait, though! i think i've rewritten this about six times now, and it went through a LOT of revisions before i finally settled on this! why was this so hard to write, it's been in my outline FOR FUCKING EVER. oof. anyway, i hope to get the next chapter up by November 7, but we'll see how it all works out! hopefully the next chapter will be easier. fingers crossed.