"Now my neck is open wide,

Begging for a fist around it,

Already choking on my pride,

So there's no use crying about it."

- Castle, Halsey

Merlin didn't come quietly.

No, he made really damn sure of that.

He jerked and he tossed and he twisted, in the grip of the strong, silent stranger—he didn't know this man, not at all, but let's hope you're worth all this trouble and she has the same question about you, and he's Morgana's, he's Morgana's man, isn't he, and Merlin would throw himself in the fire and smile as the flames scorched his skin before he would ever make this easy on Morgana—no, he had already done that, he had already made it easy on her, he had already stepped back and let her stride right into the castle, hadn't he, no defense, no resistance, no fight, but now—

—now—

—well, now, Merlin kicked out and jabbed and shoved, like a child in a temper, and he shouted all the spells he had ever learned in his life, louder and louder and louder until the words, the incantations, all came out a harsh and strangled scream—but his magic, it didn't do anything, it didn't do anything at all—it only ached and shuddered and trembled inside of him, heavy and sore, like an enormous, black and blue bruise in the center of his chest, a feeble flicker in the white-hot flare of the collar around his throat—so he dragged his feet instead, he dug the dirty heels of his boots down into all the little cracks in all the broad yellow stones, to stop, to slow down, to make this man let him go—he would not lie down and let this happen, he would not lie down and let this happen again, not to this kingdom, not to these people, not to Arthur—

—but the man didn't let him go.

No, the man only pushed him, on and on and on, down the corridor, and past the stairwell, and around the corner, and through the first door on the left, into the small, bare chamber—and Merlin looked, but he didn't see Morgana—or Agravaine—or anyone, really, there wasn't anyone in here at all, only the stone walls to stare back at him, not even a window, and why am I here, why would he bring me here, why hasn't he brought me to Morgana—?

—and the door slammed shut, with a sharp snap of the bolt.

No—Merlin whirled around, so fast, so frantic, the empty chamber blurred into a dizzy mess around him, his heart going and going and going, at a hundred miles, in his chest—no, not this, not now, he had to get out, he had to get out of here, he couldn't stay here, he could not stay here, locked in and locked up and locked away, not again, he had to—he had to get out—he had to get to Morgana—he had to stop Morgana—

He scrambled right back to the door, and he twisted and he turned the little silver handle, side to side, back and forth, over and over and over again, and he kicked it, the door, he kicked it as hard as he could, and he pushed it and he shoved it and he rammed into it with his shoulder—his good shoulder—and he tossed out burst after burst of magic, and it didn't matter if it hurt, he didn't care if it hurt, so what, big deal, didn't matter, he had a whole kingdom of innocent people to protect, and he had to do it, he had to.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, stuck, in that little chamber, with the locked door, and the pain, and blood on his hands, the blood on his knuckles, from all the times he had hit and struck at the door, and his magic screamed with every word of every spell, get out, get out, it wanted to get out of him, it just wanted to get out of him—no, he really didn't know how long he stayed there—all the hours blended and bled and blurred, one into another into another into another, and he didn't have a window to look out of, to see if the sky had gotten lighter, to see if the moon and stars had dimmed back down again, to see if the dawn had finally come—but he knew it had been a very, very long time, when the handle turned, and the door opened back up again.

And Morgana stormed inside.

Every step she took echoed in Merlin's ears—she moved like the roll and roar of thunder, like the crash and crack of lightning, like the foam and froth of a furious sea, and—

—oh—

—and Agravaine walked with her, at her heels, half a step behind her—and Merlin had it wrong, before, he'd had it all wrong, because this was the thunder, this was the lightning, this was the storm, the furious sea—you will belong to me and when Morgana regains the throne, you're mine and you are going to make an absolutely lovely concubine and Merlin hadn't listened—he hadn't thought—he hadn't really believed—but—

—is that why he's here, is that what this is, has he come to take me away and make me—?

Morgana stopped.

Right in front of Merlin.

And the sudden silence of it echoed even louder, evenlonger—all around the room, off all the walls, off all the cracked and dirty stones in the floor, until all of it, everything, screamed with it—and she looked at Merlin, and her eyes flared gold—bright as a fire, bright as the sun—

Merlin's legs buckled beneath him—all at once, all in an instant, so fast, he couldn't fight it—and he crashed down to the castle floor, on his knees, so hard and heavy, his teeth rattled in his skull, and he tried to get up, but Morgana's magic pushed and pushed and pushed him, right back down again, to the cold stone, and he couldn't—he couldn't stand up—he couldn't stand up at all and—his breath hooked in the back of his throat, and trembled, on the way out of his mouth—he couldn't run—he couldn't get away—he couldn't—

—he couldn't—

Morgana's cracked lips twisted up, and pulled back, in a flash of teeth and fierce temper, and she leaned her head down, her pale and furious face hardly half an inch from his, and she snarled, she really, actually snarled at him, like a—like a beast, like a feral animal, like a savage sort of creature, like a wild thing of the woods—and she grabbed him—she grabbed his face, his chin—her fingers felt like claws on his cheek—and she tipped his head back until he looked up at her—until he had to look up at her—

"Where is he?!"

Her scream—sharp as cold water on warm skin, ice on fevered flesh—echoed, like her steps, like her silence, all around the room—but—his heart thudded, loud and hard as a hammer, loud and hard as a drum, in his chest—but—

—and Merlin couldn't call it hope, this fire, this light, inside his chest, inside his heart—but—

"Where is he?! Where are you hiding him?!" With her mouth still open in that wide, wild snarl, and her fingers still on his face, her dirty nails digging deep grooves down into his skin, Morgana wrenched his head side to side until the chamber blurred into a dizzy mess around him again, until he could see the pop and burst and blink of little white stars, and he had to shut his eyes—he had to, or he thought he would be sick—

"Do not think you can keep this from me!" she shrieked, shrill and sharp and a little bit mad, her eyes ablaze with a furious fire. "Do not think you can lie to me! Tell me! Tell me where Arthur is!"

—but—Arthur's safe—Arthur's safe now—she can't get to him—she can't hurt him—Arthur's all right, he's safe, and his drum and hammer heart jumped all the way up in the back of his throat, with the absolute and enormous relief of it—and all of this pain, all of this fear and hurt, it had all been worth it, hadn't it, all of this pain had been worth it, absolutely and completely worth it, because Arthur was safe, Arthur was all right, Arthur had made it out, and Morgana would never find him, never get to him, never hurt him—

"Look at me! Look at me! Tell me where he is!"

Merlin dragged his eyes back open again, and he looked up at her—full in the face, straight in the eyes, and his drum and hammer heart pounded with something so much stronger than fear.

Arthur had made it out.

Arthur would be safe.

"I'll—" Merlin held his head high, and he never let himself look away from her, not ever, not once, "—I'll die before Ibetray my king."

And, for one very long and very breathless moment, he thought she would do it, now, right now, he really thought she would do it, raise her hand and shout out a spell, a flick of her fingers and a flash of her eyes, and the cold crush of her corrupt magic would be the last thing he ever felt, but I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, Arthur's safe, so I don't care—

But the moment slipped past, slipped away—like water down in a river—and Morgana didn't do it. She didn't do it at all. No, she only clicked her tongue at him—softly, yes, but in the absolute silence of the small chamber, it echoed like her scream. "Oh, but Emrys," she said—and quietly, very quietly, but all the words still carried to every last corner of the little room, "hasn't your king already betrayed you?"

"Betrayed me?" Merlin had only barely pushed the last word off his lips before the first hot burst of anger bubbled up and burned, like acid, in the bottom of his stomach—if she really thought she could speak like that about Arthur—

Morgana took her hand off his chin—her sharp, dirty nails scraped and scratched a string of thin, stinging trails all down his cheek—and she grabbed for his scarf—to tear it off, to snatch it, to rip it, to see the—to look at the—

—at the—

—the acid, the anger, bubbled higher and higher and higher, burned hotter and hotter and hotter—

—no, not to look at it, no, she didn't want to do that, she didn't need to do that, to look at it, no, that wasn't what she wanted, that wasn't what she meant, was it, because she already knew it was there, and she already knew what it looked like and is this the thing Agravaine brought to her, that night in the Darkling Woods, is this what he showed her, is this what she meant when she said this will change everything and Camelot is nothing without its precious protector Emrys—?

The ragged strip of red cloth fluttered slowly from his throat—like a leaf, like a bird, down and down and down, to the cold and cracked and dirty stones in the floor, hardly half an inch from his knee—and for all of a moment, he nearly reached out and snatched it up again—she can't have that, she can't do that, she can't take it from me, not this, not this, too, and yes, he knew it was only a scarf, torn and tattered all to bits and pieces, and frayed at the edges, from far too much wear, but it was his, and he had already stepped back and let her take so much, he had stepped back and let her take and take and take until he was skin and bone and empty, so empty, it hurt, so empty, he ached with it, so empty, his own breath rattled and echoed in all the hollow places inside him and she can't have this, she can't have this, she can't take any more—

"Was this not a betrayal, Emrys?"

—oh—

—and the acid—the anger—

—well—

—it all burned out.

Merlin dropped his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut—and he knew he shouldn't, he knew he couldn't, he had to keep on, he had to keep up the fight, and forget about it, forget about the collar, forget about the way Arthur had looked at him, the way Arthur had said for as long as you remain alive, you are a danger to my people and how long have you plotted alongside Morgana, like he thought Merlin could ever—like he really thought Merlin could ever actually—

No.

No, it didn't matter, it didn't matter at all, it didn't have to matter, Arthur didn't ever have to know the truth, Arthur didn't ever have to know, or forgive him, or be all right with him, ever again, no, Arthur didn't have to do that, and Merlin could cradle his own stupid, broken heart later, in the dark, in the shadows, where no one would see, but just now—

—just now, he had far bigger things to think about.

"He has done what he feels is right." The words still trembled, a little, on the way out of his mouth, but in the back of his mind, an older and deeper and far more ancient voice than his own echoed, over and over again—you did what you felt was right and that—and he still had it in him to lift his head, to lock eyes with her, so much higher than him, so far above him. "And that shows great courage."

"Oh, come now," Morgana clicked her tongue at him again, "you have no need to play the loyal little servant anymore, Emrys. Your king cares nothing for you. Surely he has made that clear enough?" She flicked her eyes back down to his throat, to the heavy iron ring, still blazing hot against his skin—

—and he was the one to do it, to lock it, to latch it, so I couldn't get it off, Arthur, it was him, it was all him, he did that, he blocked up my magic, he took my magic away from me, and he didn't care, he didn't care how it hurt, he didn't care about me—but—

"That doesn't matter—" Merlin shook his head, "—I don't care, I don't need him to—"

"To return your loyalty?" Morgana arched her dark brows at him. "Yes, I can see that. Tell me, will you stand still, like a good little prisoner, and let him run you through? Will you knot your own noose for him? Light your own pyre for him?"

—there is but one sentence I can pass and you cannot talk your way out of justice and as soon as he sees you again, he'll murder you—

"Will you jump at the chance to serve him again? One last time?"

"Stop it!" That wasn't what he had wanted to say, that wasn't what he had opened up his mouth to say—it had just slipped out—he didn't mean—he didn't want—he just had to make her stop—

"Face it, Merlin," and that was—that was worse, almost, to hear his name, his real name, on her lips, again, now, "you have followed at his heels and groveled at his feet like a dog all these years—"

And Merlin wanted to cut in, cut her off, shout at her, scream at her—she couldn't do that, she couldn't do that, not again, not ever again, she couldn't take all the years he had stayed at Arthur's side and twist it, she couldn't take all the smiles and secrets and laughs he had had with Arthur, and turn it all to ashes, burn it all down to nothing, like it had never really meant a thing at all, she couldn't do that, she didn't get to that—but the words stuck fast in the back of his throat, in the back of his mouth, and he didn't—he couldn't—

"—and he cannot even be bothered to give his faithful little hound so much as a scrap off his table." Morgana looked down on him, and her cracked, pale lips curled up—disgust, revulsion, all over her face, thick and stark as ink on paper. "And still, you long to crawl after him again, don't you? Just one more time?"

—just one more moment with him, one more second, one more heartbeat, if I could just go back, for one more heartbeat, back to before he knew, back to before he hated me—

"Well," Morgana leaned down again, her long and tangled hair all around him, all over him, a thick, dark veil, "it's time to bite the hand that beat you."

"What?" Merlin pulled back from her, pulled away—bite the hand, and does she really think, does she really actually think I would ever—? "No!"

"Think on it a moment," Morgana dropped her voice down to the barest whisper, in his ear, her breath hot on the side of his face. "What good has all your loyalty really brought you?"

"Good?" Merlin almost laughed—that was just Morgana all over, wasn't it— "This has nothing to do with me, or the good it will bring me—"

"Look around, Emrys." Morgana jabbed a long, pale finger at him, into his chest. "Your king has already cast you aside—"

—cast you aside, and it played, over and over and over again, in his head, on loop, on echo, around and around and around—he cast you aside without a moment's thought, and what had he said, all the way back then, what was it—that doesn't matter—but it had, it had, and he had always believed—he had told himself—he had lied to himself—he had—

—he had hoped—

"—a hundred times over, he has cast you aside! He will not stand by you as you stand by him!"

—I hoped things would be different by now, I hoped things would be better by now, I hoped maybe Arthur would see me, really see me, and all of me, and I hoped—I hoped—

—and it hurt, too much, to say it, even to himself, it hurt too much to think it, even inside his own head, but—

—I hoped he would see me, and he would still be my friend anyway—

"But," Morgana stood back up again—the back of her hand brushed, lightly, over his cheek, on her way up, "I do not let my allies go unrewarded as he does."

Merlin pulled his head back up—and he had to swallow, just a little too hard, to push the hard and heavy knot at the back of his throat all the way down. "How generous of you." He still sounded too hoarse, too husky, with the weight of all the tears inside him, but at least he got it out. At least his voice stayed steady all the way through.

But Morgana only arched her brows at him again. "You would not go unrewarded, either—"

A little jolt—the barest, briefest flare of surprise—flickered in Merlin, a tiny flame on a small candle. So that's what she wants, then, that's what she's trying to get at, that's what she's trying to do—it almost made a sick sort of sense, actually—but did she really think—? Did she really, actually think—?

"—you could have a very comfortable life here at my court—no more servitude, for a start, and all the gold you could ever—"

Oh. So she really did think, then, she really did think she could—she really did think she could buy him off—she really did think she could get him to—

—to—

"No." Merlin didn't need to think about it. He would never need to think about it, because this wasn't a choice, this wasn't a choice at all, it would always be Arthur, always, only Arthur, every time, in every life, it would always, always be Arthur. "I have no need of promises like yours, and I certainly have no need of your gold." He nearly snarled the last word out at her—she really thought a few shiny little shillings could get him to turn on Arthur—?

Morgana laughed—a sharp, bitter thing, like a knife in his ears—and shook her dark head. "Don't be so hasty, now, Emrys! Think it through, won't you? A life of ease, and comfort, and riches, until the end of your days—no more laboring for a man who fails to value you—"

But Merlin didn't need to think it through. He would never need to think it through. He would never need to think about it.

It wasn't a choice.

It wasn't a choice at all.

"I'm Arthur's." He lifted his chin. "Always. And there is nothing you can do to me, and nothing you can say to me, and nothing you can give to me, to ever change that."

And—Merlin's heart lurched in his chest, hard as he tried to stop it, hard as he tried not to feel scared at all—now, she would do it, now she would really do it, right here, right this very moment, right now, she would do it, she really would raise her hand and shout out a spell—a flick of her fingers and a flash of her eyes and the cold crush of her corrupt magic—

—but she didn't.

She leaned down her head down—and she opened her mouth—and she hissed at him—like a snake—

"We'll just see about that."

—her eyes narrowed down to nothing, down to thin and furious slits in her pale face, and snapped, all at once, all in a moment, sharp and so, so quick, down past his face, down to his arm, limp at his side, where the man had grabbed him—

"Oh," a small, cold smile dangled at the corner of her cracked lips, "I see Helios has had his fun with you already. You'll have to forgive him for that, he can get a bit—" she cocked her dark head, "—overexcited—"

Helios—Merlin played the name over and over and over again inside his head, but no, he didn't know it, he had never even heard it before, he didn't know the man, and he finally had to tuck it away in the back of his mind and leave it there.

"—but it must hurt—" she had dropped her words down to a whisper, hushed and—and hungry, almost, "—so much—"

—it hit Merlin half a moment before it happened, and his stomach lurched—no, no, no—

—Morgana grabbed his shoulder and wrenched—

—pain pain pain pain and oh God oh God oh God it has to stop it has to stop it has to stop but it wouldn't it wouldn't and he was on fire and his shoulder was on fire and his whole body was on fire and he was burning and he was blazing and his shoulder was exploding, erupting, blowing up, blowing apart, blowing to pieces, like the glass in the window Morgana had shattered, and he was screaming, sharp and so, so loud, and he tried to stop, he wanted to stop, he wanted to shut up, shut his mouth, but he couldn't, he couldn't, it just kept going, it just kept pouring out of him and—

—and—

—and the pain finally finally finally fell away.

Morgana had let him go.

—oh, thank the Goddess, thank the Goddess from here to Avalon and back again, and thank the god in the chapel, too, thank the god on the cross, if he's there, let's thank him, too—

Merlin cradled his limp and swollen-up arm—clutched it, really, hugged it, almost, to his chest, like a child, and little needles and knives and lancets of fire and flame still flared and flashed, up and down, under the skin, like lightning—

"That," Morgana hissed, again, her face so twisted up in rage, she hardly looked human, "was just a taster. There is far more waiting for you."

"—here—let me—"

"—no, don't—need to help—"

"—but you can't—"

"—you think we should—?"

"—don't see how else we could—"

The senseless jumble of splintered, split-up words flitted and floated, in large and lazy circles, around and around and around, over—or maybe in—Arthur's sore head, still very thick and very slow with the long sleep. He knew the voices, yes, he knew them, and he knew he knew them, and he knew he should listen, he knew he should sit up and open his eyes and try to hear—it must be important, it had to be important, surely, if the voices had come all the way into his bedchamber, all the way to his bedside, even—and so early, too—no one ever came into his bedchamber so early—well, except Merlin, of course but—

—but—

—Merlin—

—I didn't mean for you to find out like this and I'm sorry and I never wanted to hurt you, please, you have to know that and I use it for you, Arthur, only for you and I never wanted to lie to you, I wanted to tell you, I swear, I always wanted to tell you and it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you and it was always you, it was always, always you and—

"Merlin," it tumbled out of his mouth in a harsh, strangled gasp, hardly louder than a murmur in the back of his throat, and he ripped his eyes open, and he—

—he—

—he wasn't in his bed—he wasn't even in his bedchamber, actually—it didn't—it didn't look likehe was even in the castle at all, and his heart picked up in his chest—no, he wasn't, he wasn't in the castle, he was in a—in a tent—? In the middle of the forest? He could hear the howl of the wind and the crunch and the crackle of the ice and snow just outside the thick canvas walls, so, yes, he must be in the forest, right, but why am I here, why did I come here, why did I come all the way out here, why did I come out of the castle, why would I do that, why did I do that, and he pushed himself up, off the floor—

—and the senseless jumble, and the voices he knew he knew—

—it all stopped.

Just like that.

Arthur looked up, lifted his eyes from the canvas walls, to find the voices, to pin down the names and the faces—and it was so hard, to hold up his heavy head—

Guinevere. No, no, that wasn't right, was it? Why was she here? Why would she be here? Why had she left the castle with him? Why had she come with him? And, over her small shoulder and dark head, he could see Sir Elyan—why had Guinevere and Sir Elyan—and Sir Gwaine, he was there, too, and why had he—no, no, not Sir Gwaine. That wasn't right now, that wasn't right anymore, was it? Not after all he had—all he had said—pick up your sword and fight me and I will strike you where you stand and consider this my resignation and—

"Arthur!" Guinevere clasped her hands over her heart.

"Hey," Sir Gwaine—no, no, just Gwaine—dropped down to the floor, in a kneel, to look at him, "you all right there, Princess?"

Arthur blinked—that was a very, very not-Gwaine thing to say—and he could feel a frown at the edges of his mouth, but he nodded. It made his heavy head ache all the more.

"Good," Gwaine said. He never looked away from Arthur. "That's good."

And he punched Arthur full in the face.

The pain of it exploded, all the way down to Arthur's chin, all the way up to his brow—his nose cracked, popped, snapped, with a noise like thunder, and a thick, bright red stream of hot, fresh blood burst out—broken—he knew—he didn't need Gaius to tell him that—he clamped a hand, hard, over his face, to try and slow or stem the heavy scarlet flow—

"Gwaine!" Guinevere shouted, and she rushed, from her end of the tent, over to Arthur's side.

"What—?!" Elyan rounded on Gwaine, one broad hand already wrapped around the silver hilt of his sword, and his face twisted up tight in fury. "What the actual hell is wrong with you?!"

"That," Gwaine said—he dropped his hand back to his side, knuckles flecked with Arthur's blood, and he stuck out his chin, proud and bold, as always— "was for Merlin. And you're damn lucky he made me swear to look after you, or I'd do worse."

"Merlin?" Arthur echoed incredulously—his mind whirled and reeled and whirred, and he really didn't think it had a single thing to do with Gwaine's fists at all—he made me swear to look after you, but that—that wasn't true—that was a lie—it was all a lie—it had always been a lie—

"—stop, stop—!" Guinevere stooped down, at Arthur's side, her pale purple handkerchief already clutched in her palm—and the long skirt of her dress looked absolutely soaked through with all the cold and the wet outside and why was she out in the snow—? "Let me have a look at you." She tugged, lightly, at his arm. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about—"

"Yeah, Merlin," Gwaine cut in, his dark brows dipped down in a furious scowl. "You know, dark hair, red scarf, loyal friend? You tossed him in a cell and took away his magic? Remember that bit?"

"The bit where I eliminated a danger to the kingdom?" Arthur snapped back and does he honestly think I'm going to say sorry for that, does he honestly think I'm going to feel sorry for that, does he honestly think there's any good left inside Merlin at all? "Yes, Gwaine, funnily enough, I do, actually." He pulled his fingers away from his bloodied face and dropped his crimson-smeared hand in his lap.

Guinevere pressed her lips together until her mouth looked very thin and very white. "Here, hold on," she pushed aside the tent's front flap, and stepped out—and Arthur could see, for half a moment, maybe less, before she hurried back in, a small cookfire—she handed her pale purple kerchief over to him, "tip your head down, and put this on it. That will help with the swelling."

Arthur nodded—he knew her too well, and he had seen her lend a hand in Gaius' chambers too many times, to doubt her in this—and he took the kerchief—cold and damp now—she had stuffed snow inside—and pressed it, hard, to his nose. "Thank you, Guinevere."

Her mouth looked even thinner and even whiter, but she merely dipped her dark head at him. "Of course, Sire."

Sire? Arthur frowned. She hadn't called him that for a very long time, not for ages, at least not like this, away from the court, and all the nobles who had never accepted her—all the nobles who would likely never accept her even after he put a ring on her finger and a crown on her head—but there was no one here to look down on her, to disapprove of her, so why—?

No—Arthur shook his head—not right now, not just now, that wasn't the biggest question he had on his lips in this moment. "What happened?" He pushed himself up, a little higher, off the floor, on the heels of his hands, and looked around the tent—very small, and very simple, a low wooden table in one corner, a thick rug in the center, and a scratchy brown blanket draped loosely over his legs, up to his waist—but he still didn't know, he still didn't remember, he couldn't remember— "Where are we? Why have we come out here?" He rubbed, lightly, at the back of his own head—and he certainly didn't feel a bump under his hair, but maybe he had taken a bad blow, maybe that was why he didn't—maybe that was why he couldn't seem to—?

Guinevere sucked in a slow breath, loud in the thick silence of the snowy wood—like she had to steel herself, for what she knew would come now, but what—?

"Morgana attacked the castle."

"What?!" Arthur jerked up on his feet, one hand already halfway to the hilt of the sword at his side. "No—no, she's—she's nowhere near here, the patrols haven't seen her in ages, not since—" since the Dorocha, since the Isle of the Blessed, since Lancelot, and his insides felt cold as the winter world outside. But it was true, the patrols hadn't seen her since her last scheme had failed, since Sir Lancelot had sealed the veil back up, and the screaming spirits had returned back to the world of the dead.

So how had the patrols missed her? Every knight in the land knew to keep an eye out for her. Every knight in the land knew to ride straight for the castle and alert him at once at the smallest, slightest sign of her, of her magic, of her newest plot, so how had she made it all the way into the castle without—?

"But—" Arthur shook his head again, his fingers clenched up in a fist around the ice-cold, blood-soaked kerchief, "—but we fought her off, right?" He glanced at Guinevere. "We fought her back. We won. Like always. Didn't we?"

But Guinevere didn't say it.

And she didn't need to—no, she didn't need to say it, she didn't need to say it at all, because he could read the answer, clear as ink on paper, in the crumple of her pretty face, in the slow shake of her dark head, in the soft hitch of her even breath and his heart dropped all the way down into his boots—Morgana had slipped past the patrols, slipped into the castle, into the very heart of Camelot, and now—

—now she'll massacre all the innocent people I left behind and why did I leave them behind, and why am I out here, why am I out here if she's in there—

No. Really. Why was he out here? Why had he left? He would never flee to safety if it meant he had to leave his people behind in peril, so what had made him—what had changed his mind—? "Why—?" He looked 'round at Guinevere again, only Guinevere—he really didn't fancy another fist to the face from Gwaine, and Elyan looked about as lost as he felt right now. "Why am I out here? Why did we come out here? Why did we leave? We need to go back, the kingdom is in danger, we can't just—"

"No." Guinevere stepped in front of him, her mouth set in that thin white line again, and her chin jutted up and out. He had never seen her like this before, all flint and steel and inflexible stone. "You can't go back. The castle is overrun. Completely. Morgana has won, and if you try and charge in right now, to a place absolutely crawling with her soldiers, you'll get yourself killed. You have to—"

"I have to save my people! That's what I have to do!" Surely, Guinevere would understand that? She loved Camelot almost as dearly as he did. Surely, she would see, surely, she would get it, she would know, and she would stand back and she would let him—

"It's you Morgana wants! You! More than anything else! If you remain alive and safe, she's not the true queen! If you remain alive and safe, we're still in with a chance!"

"But at what cost will I remain alive and safe?!" Arthur bellowed right back at her. "At what cost will I—?" He broke off, suddenly—there was—there was something there, just there, in her words, in all she had just said, and it—

—it—

Arthur slammed his eyes shut. "Guinevere," he said, softly, and, funny, he sounded far calmer than he felt—the fury burned like fire under his skin, but it never made it all the way to his voice— "Did you take me out of the kingdom?"

"No, I did," Gwaine snapped. "So don't look at her, Princess, no, look at me. I'm the one who did all this. I'm the reason you're out here. All right? You want to bitch and whine at anyone, bitch and whine at me. Not her. It's not her fault."

"You—?" Arthur snapped around to stare at Gwaine, and he could feel his eyes had gone very wide in his own face. "You took me—? You made me—?! But you knew Morgana was going to—?!"

"Well, wasn't like you'd come on your own." Gwaine raised a brow. "And it wasn't like you would have listened to me, y'know? Not like you really listen to much of anyone, actually, but I got a feeling I'm not too high on your list of—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" No one—not even Elyan, not even Guinevere—no one in the castle—and no one in the kingdom—and no one, right now, right here with him, no one had actually trusted him, no one had trusted him enough to try, to say—to try and say to him— "Why didn't you tell me?! Any of you?! We would have had a chance to defeat her if one of you had—!"

"Oh, yeah," Gwaine set his jaw, "real funny you should ask about that, actually, 'cause, well, maybe you don't remember, but someone already fucking did. And, hey, looks like you couldn't be assed to listen then, so—"

"Merlin." The name left his lips a heavy, tired sigh, a bad and bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Have some sense, Gwaine. You can't really think I'd take a sorcerer at his word."

"That sorcerer," Gwaine snarled right back, "has saved your ass about a million times now, and, hey, call me old-fashioned, but I always thought you were supposed to say thanks when—"

"Saved?" Arthur snapped his eyes back open again. "I can't claim to know the story he spoon-fed you, but I can assure you, it was a lie. Just like all his other stories." I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die and I'm going to be at your side, like I always am, protecting you and it's been an honor serving you and I never wanted to hurt you and I would never hurt Camelot and I always wanted to tell you—all lies— "He seeks to save no one but himself."

Gwaine ripped open his mouth, his face still twisted all the way up in that furious, feral snarl, and—

"You're wrong."

But it wasn't—

—it wasn't Gwaine.

"You're wrong, Arthur." Guinevere set her mouth in that thin, white line, jutted her chin up and out, all flint and steel and inflexible stone. "Merlin has saved you. And me. All of us. The whole kingdom. Many, many times. More than I think I could even count."

"Guinevere," Arthur almost scoffed, except she looked like she really believed that, and he's gotten in her head, hasn't he, Merlin's gone and gotten inside her head, too, like he's gotten inside Gwaine's head, like he got inside my— "He's a sorcerer. If he's gone and told you some tale about all the times he's saved Camelot—"

"No," Guinevere narrowed her dark eyes at him, "no, he didn't, Arthur, he didn't tell me that, because he didn't need to. He saved my life. Right before I left the castle with you."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. Now that was a surprise. And far worse than he had ever thought, but at least we know what we're up against now, at least we know so we can fight it. "So," he said, "Merlin can create very convincing illusions, then?"

"He saved my life!" Guinevere screamed it—actually screamed it—in his face— "He saved my life! Morgana shattered a window, and I was in the way, I was going to get hit, all the glass was going to fall and hit me—and it didn't, because he saved me! He shoved me down! He shoved me out of the way! He put his own body over mine! To protect me! To make sure he would get hit instead! Was that an illusion?! Does that sound like it was an illusion?!"

"—Guinevere—" Arthur had never seen her so furious, her face wild and flushed with it—

"He was there the day I buried my father!" If Guinevere had screamed before, it was nothing to this, now, here. "I thought I was going to have to do it all alone, because your father wouldn't even let me lay him to rest within the city walls!"

"I—" Arthur nodded—he knew that, he remembered that, and his heart still ached for her with it, "—I-I'm sorry, Guinevere, I—"

"I thought I was going to be alone, but I wasn't, because Merlin was there! He was there, and he stayed, and he never left, and all of that is more than I can say for you—" she pointed at Arthur, "—and that is so much more than I can say for you—" she turned, jabbed a finger, hard, at Elyan—

"Gwen," Elyan snapped, his eyes dark with anger, "stop it, get a grip, you're not—"

"—and he took me back to his chambers! So I wouldn't have to go home to my empty house! And he gave up his bed for me! And I couldn't sleep so he stayed up all night with me even though he had to see to you in the morning—" she whirled back around to glare at Arthur, her hair, falling loose from her braid, a thick and curly halo around her screwed-up face, "—but he never complained! Four nights in a row, he stayed up with me, and he never complained, and was that an illusion?! Do you think that was an illusion?!"

"G-Guinevere," Arthur said, and he shoved me out of the way and he put his own body over mine to make sure he would get hit instead and he was there the day I buried my father and he had never—he had never known—Guinevere had never told him—and Merlin had never— "I-I didn't—I didn't mean to upset—"

"Upset?" Guinevere laughed, but it was a bitter, mirthless thing. "Yes! Yes, I'm upset! I'm upset because I have to stand back and watch while all of you take the best and most loyal friend you have ever had in your life and throw him away! And you all expect me to do the same!"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Gwaine stepped up, "I'm not throwin' Merls away over here! I don't give a rat's ass if he's got—!"

"You left him there!" Guinevere snarled at Gwaine, all teeth and fire and fury. "Don't you even start, you're just as bad as the rest of them! You knew he didn't have his magic anymore, and you left him to face Morgana all on his own! You just left him there! You knew! And you just left him there!"

"You know him!" Gwaine snapped. "You know how he is! He didn't listen! He didn't care! It was all Arthur, that was all he talked about, that was all he cared about—!"

Arthur's stomach jolted. No, that didn't add up—not with—not with everything else—not with the magic—not with the lies—

"—not, either, but magic killed our father, Gwen, do you really expect me to—?"

"A sword killed our father!" Guinevere shouted, and so loud, she could have scared the birds from the trees outside. "A sword, Elyan, that's all! A sword wielded on his father's orders!" She jerked her chin over at Arthur—like she couldn't even stand to look at him right now and—

—oh—

"Guinevere," Arthur reached out—tried to touch her—a hand on her shoulder, on her arm, maybe, to pull her close, to hold her to him, he didn't know, but she—

—she wrenched back, and the look in her eyes was far colder than the ice and snow all around the tent. "Don't."

"—I-I'm sorry." Arthur dropped his hand back to his side, and his heart dropped all the way down into his boots—she had never refused his touch before. "I'm sorry about your father. If I had known what was going to happen—"

"Arthur," Guinevere said, and in the echoes of all her screams, it sounded very soft, but every word still fell hard and heavy as a blow on his ears, "if you actually think this is about me, you really do not get it."

But she didn't let him say anything—she didn't wait long enough for that—she only turned, sharply, on her heel, her mouth pressed back into that thin, white line, and pushed the front flap aside again. "I'll tell him you're awake." She sounded—harsh, almost, in a way she never had before—and, without another word, she tugged the hood of her thick purple cloak back up over her head, tucked a few stray brown curls up under the cloth, and plunged out of the tent.

For a long and silent moment, Arthur only stared after her, with his heart heavy in his chest and his mouth dropped all the way open—he had never seen Guinevere like this before, not ever, not once—in all the years he had known her, in all the years he had loved her, he had never seen her like this, he had never even known she could be like this—like a storm, like a raging, violent tempest, loud and wild in her fury.

He had never known she could look at anyone like she had looked at him—like she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone or anything in the world—and he had never known she could scream like she had screamed at him, like she wanted her every last word to break the skin, to cut to the bone, to hurt. Even with all the times she had got in a fight with him, she had never looked at him like that, she had never screamed at him like that, and is it true, is it really true, has she really told the truth, has she really—?

Had Merlin really saved her? Had he really done all that she had said he had? Had he really cared for her the way she said he had? But why would a sorcerer—why would a sorcerer even bother to—?

Wait.

Guinevere's last words finally hit him, and Arthur snapped around to look at Gwaine and Elyan."'Him'? Who the hell is 'him'? Where are we?"

"Right," Gwaine nodded, "so—about that—"

The front fold of the tent fluttered open again, with a bitter burst of winter wind, and Guinevere stepped back inside. An old man walked behind her, his iron-grey hair all the way down to his chin, and a small brown basket clutched in his wrinkled hands, a long green cloak at his back, and a—

—and a silver triskelion clasped at his throat.

The druids.

Arthur's heart thudded.

Gwaine and Guinevere and Elyan had taken him to the druids.

Notes: so. this was. a chapter. huh?

i know this took me a literal decade. anyone still alive? i need that Atlantis gif again where he's like "all right who's not dead? sound off". that's what i need.

To be honest, I've had everything Gwen said in my head for a long time, but I never intended to actually let her say any of it in the story, I figured I would just keep it all scribbled down for my own personal use - I wanted her acceptance of Merlin to feel authentic, so in every scene so far, I've really tried to emphasize her sense of isolation and especially her sense of abandonment, most notably from a lot of the men in her life. We all know her father obviously had zero choice in leaving his daughter behind, but Elyan ran off on her, by choice, before the series ever opened, and Arthur spent most of S2 and S3 being very on-again off-again with her, so, naturally, she feels a bit cast aside by the men she loves, and Merlin is one of the very few who's stuck by her and remained a consistent and stable figure in her life, so of course she doesn't care if he's got magic or not. but! that was never actually supposed to get any spotlight in the story - I didn't think I could find a place for it - but turns out, I was wrong, and I'm glad I was! Getting to explore Gwen's character was a lovely little bonus.

Thanks so much, as always, for sticking with me, and this fic (even when I take five hundred centuries to post an update oof). It really means so much to me, to see so many people enjoy this passion project of mine.