"If lost for words,

You can't decide,

Can't build the truth,

Based on a lie."

- Avalon, Clara Mae

"Guinevere!" Still dizzy and clumsy and unsteady on his feet, with the long sleep, and the ache in his head, and the dull throb of his broken nose, but Arthur brushed that all aside like cobwebs, like dust, and he scrambled over to her—the fear, like lightning in his veins, pushed him on, and he got to her, he actually got to her, he grabbed her, he locked his fingers 'round her wrist, and he pulled her back, he shoved her behind him, to the far end of the tent, all the way to the back wall. Away from the old man. That was all that mattered. That was all he wanted. That was all he had to do. Keep her safe. Keep her away from the druid. Keep her away from the magic.

Arthur grabbed, wildly, for the smooth golden hilt of his sword, the sharp, straight blade still buried in the leather sheath—he didn't take it out, he wouldn't take it out, he couldn't take it out, really, not right here. In the tiny, cramped canvas tent, there was every chance he might just take Elyan's head off before he actually got in even one proper blow at the druid and, much as his skin itched and prickled and crawled, to stand before the old man without his blade, he wasn't going to take the risk. He wasn't going to hurt one of his own. He had to wait. He just had to wait. But he never looked away from the old man. Eyes on the enemy and feet on the ground, that was the way, and his every muscle pulled tight and taut under his skin, and his knuckles white as bone around the hard, cold handle of his weapon, and his teeth clenched so tight, his jaw ached.

"I—I apologize." The old druid stepped back a bit, and merely lifted his silver brows at Arthur. "It was not my intention to surprise you." He ducked his iron-grey head down—he was still much nearer than Arthur wanted him to be, much nearer than Arthur ever wanted any druid to be, but at least he had backed off, at least he knew better than to try and push it. That was something. At least.

"Why are you here?" Arthur snapped, the blood a furious, frenzied pound in his ears, and his heart going so fast, he thought any moment it might burst clear out of his chest, clear out of the tent, even, and skid all the way to the other end of the camp. That wasn't actually the thing he wanted to ask, but he asked it anyway, spit it from his mouth like a sip of pure poison, because he couldn't ask the things he really wanted to ask, he couldn't turn around and shout himself hoarse at Gwaine and Elyan and Guinevere, he couldn't roar at them until the whole camp echoed with it, he couldn't yell and bellow and scream, he couldn't ask, why are we here, why the hell are we here at all, why the hell did we come here, why did you take me here, why did you take us here to this place full to the brim with magic, because he couldn't lose it like that, not here, not with the old druid still in here, no, eyes on the enemy, eyes on the enemy, he couldn't look away, he couldn't take that chance. He could not take that chance. He would not take that chance. Not with Guinevere and Elyan and Gwaine at his back. Yes, he still wanted to shout himself hoarse at them, he still wanted to roar at them until the whole camp echoed with it, he still wanted to yell and bellow and scream, but he would be damned before he let them get hurt out here.

The druid's brows inched up a little higher. "You are among my people, Arthur Pendragon." He cast a quick glance over Arthur's shoulder at the others. "I admit," his pale green eyes drifted, slowly, back to Arthur again, "I would assume your companions had already informed you of this."

"Yes," Arthur clenched his teeth even tighter, so he wouldn't turn around and shout himself hoarse, so he wouldn't grab them all up and toss them in the nearest ice-cold lake, "yes, I would assume that as well."

"We—ah—" and, wonder of wonders, Gwaine actually sounded just a bit guilty about all of this—if guilty was even a thing Gwaine could feel, actually, because Arthur was pretty sure it wasn't— "—we hadn't gotten around to that bit yet before—"

"We would have gotten around to 'that bit'," Elyan broke in, "if you hadn't gone and tried to tear off half his face—"

"Yeah, well, sorry," Gwaine snapped, "but I don't just step back and let prissy little princesses treat my friends like shit. Damn shame I can't say the same for you, but—"

"—friends—? Gwaine, he has magic, for God's sake—Merlin or not, we can't just assume he's—!"

"I'm sorry the accommodations are not to your liking, Sire," Guinevere said, sharply—Arthur couldn't hold back a little wince at the harsh, deliberate stress she put on his title— "but we needed a warm place to stay. You'll forgive us if we weren't very choosy about it."

Arthur still didn't take his eyes off the old man, but he felt his brow crumple up in a scowl. "Guinevere—"

She pulled her lavender hood off, and her thick, dark curls tumbled free of the pale purple cloth at once. "We all would be dead or near to it right now if Iseldir hadn't let us in last night." She turned, very deliberately, back to the old man—Iseldir—and smiled at him. "Thank you. Again. I know not all of us are very good at beinggrateful."

Arthur kept his eyes locked on the old druid—Iseldir, that was it, wasn't it, that was his name, that was the old man's name, and oh, he was the one that had handed Arthur the Cup of Life, wasn't he—but he could feel the dark glare she tossed his way, like he would feel a blow to the head or a fist to the face.

"Oh, no, please, no need for thanks, Guinevere," Iseldir smiled back at her, and held up a wrinkled, withered hand to stop her, to quiet her. He dipped his grey head down low again. "You are all welcome to remain here with us as long as you wish it."

"Remain here?" Arthur echoed, too sharp, too loud, and he shook his head. No, no, absolutely not, this was all bad enough already, all on its own, even without the druids all mixed in to muck it all up even more. Morgana had taken the castle again—and maybe Merlin was in on it, too, maybe Merlin had helped her, because Arthur couldn't rule that out, no, Arthur just could not rule that out, he couldn't take that chance, not with Merlin, not when Merlin had magic, not when Merlin was a sorcerer, not when Merlin had lied to him for so long—but—

—but—

—he saved my life—I was in the way, I was going to get hit, all the glass was going to fall and hit me—he shoved me down, he shoved me out of the way—he made sure he would get hit instead—

Would Merlin really do that if he had sided with Morgana? Would Merlin really go so far just to keep up a lie? Would Merlin really go so far if he didn't have to? Because he didn't have to, he didn't have to save her, he didn't have to do anything, he didn't have to lift a finger, because no one would have ever known, no one would have ever known if he hadn't, no one would have ever found out—he didn't have to—

—the knife, the knife at the feast, the old, withered witch, dressed up as Lady Helen, she'd had a knife, a dagger, up her sleeve, and she had thrown it, and Merlin hadn't had to save Arthur that night, Merlin hadn't had to push Arthur out of the way, push him to the ground, there had been nothing in it for him, nothing at all—hell, worse than nothing, Arthur had gotten him tossed in the dungeons only the day before—he could have just let it happen, he could have just let the knife hit—he could have just let Arthur die that night—and if he really wanted Arthur dead, if he had really wanted Arthur dead for so long, if he had really hated Arthur for so long, why didn't he just—why didn't he just let the knife—? Why didn't he just let the old witch do it?

Because he could have.

He really could have, and so easily, too, he could have just stepped back and let the witch do her work, what did it matter to him, because he hadn't given half a damn about Arthur and Arthur hadn't given half a damn about him, and if he had just stayed back, if he had just stayed quiet, if he had just let the old witch get on with it, Arthur would have died that night, all in an instant, all in a heartbeat, all in a blink. And Merlin would never have had to lift a hand at all to do it, but—

—but he hadn't.

And Guinevere didn't lie. Did she? No, of course not, Arthur had never known Guinevere to lie to anyone about anything—he was pretty certain the guilt of it would eat her up from the inside out if she even tried—and Agravaine had said you need only fasten this collar around the sorcerer's neck and he will lose every last bit of his magic—and Guinevere had said you knew he didn't have his magic anymore—and if that was true—if all of that was true—if Merlin still had the collar on, he couldn't do magic, he couldn't—so he couldn't—he couldn't make illusions—and that meant—that had to mean—

That had to mean Merlin really had saved Guinevere.

Just like he had saved Arthur.

But why did he do that? What was the point of it? What did he hope he would get out of it? What did he hope he could get out of it, even, what did he think he could get out of all this, saving Arthur and saving Guinevere and Merlin has saved you, and me, and the whole kingdom, more times than I think I could even count, but why would he do that, why would he do all of that? What was the point? What did he want? Because sorcerers didn't just save people, sorcerers just didn't do that sort of thing, sorcerers didn't just pop up out of nowhere to play the hero, not without a price, at least, not without a steep price indeed, no, sorcerers never did a damn thing for anybody else.

Not unless that sorcerer wanted something.

So. That was it. That was it, then, wasn't it? That was it. That had to be it. So what was it, then? What did Merlin want? What did Merlin want so badly, he'd stick his own neck out all the time like he did? What did Merlin want?

Not coin. It wasn't coin. Merlin didn't want coin. Arthur knew that, no, he was certain of that, even, beyond a shadow of a doubt, because a hundred thousand times now, he had left the keys to the castle treasury with Merlin, and even an idiot like that had to know the sort of riches within—golden coins thick as a man's forefinger, enormous, shining gems and sparkling jewels and all manner of swords and spears and blades, too heavy and ridiculously fancy to take into a real fight, oh, yes, Merlin had held the keys in his hands, a hundred thousand times now, and he had never, even once, nicked a damn thing.

Merlin simply wasn't greedy. Merlin just didn't seem to want, in the way most men wanted—rich wine and beautiful ladies and handsome lords and priceless treasures and glory and greatness and renown, no, Merlin simply didn't seem to want any of that, not one, ambitious bone in his whole skinny body, so what did he want? What did the man who always wanted nothing want out of this?

Unless—

—Arthur's stomach twisted—

—it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you—

—but that couldn't be real, that couldn't be right, that couldn't be true, sorcerers weren't like that! Everybody knew that! Everybody knew sorcerers weren't like that! Everybody knew sorcerers just weren't like that! They couldn't do that! They couldn't feel like that! They couldn't feel loyalty! They couldn't feel love! Sorcerers could not love! But—but Merlin—

—I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it was always, always you—

No. That couldn't be right. That couldn't be true.

Could it?

"—not wise to face the elements just yet. There is a storm in the air."

Arthur blinked, his scrambled mind still stuck on loop—but what if it is, what if it's true, what if Merlin really doesn't want anything at all, what if Merlin really never meant to hurt me or my kingdom—before the old druid's words finally hit him.

Oh. Right. Yes. Iseldir wanted them to stay, Iseldir wanted them to stay, that was the old man wanted, that was what the old man was getting at, but—

But that was ridiculous. That was worse than ridiculous.

Arthur couldn't stay here. He just couldn't stay here, he just couldn't do it, he could not stay here, not for one single moment longer, and certainly not long enough for the "storm in the air", as Iseldir had said, to blow itself out, to wear itself down, that could take hours, that could take ages, and he could not stay here that long, he could not stay here so long while his castle lay in Morgana's hands, and he couldn't stay here, where magic loomed and lurked at every turn, around every bend, inside every tent, thick in the air around him, no, he could not do that, he could not stay here. He couldn't.

But—the wind howled on and on outside the little tent, loud and feral as a wolf, and sure to be colder than the ice on the ground, but behind the thick, canvas walls, Arthur couldn't feel it—but what else could he do? With Morgana in the castle, on the throne, he would be lucky to get one foot in the door before she had cut him down, tied him up, tossed him down in the dungeons, tossed him up on the gallows, even, with a noose knotted tight around his neck. With Morgana in the castle, he would be lucky to last the night. Hell, he would be lucky to last the hour, even, if she got her hands on him.

Guinevere was right. So long as he remained alive, Morgana could never truly lay claim to the crown. And that meant she would want him dead more than anything else.

If Arthur wanted to save his people, and take back his kingdom, he needed a plan. A proper plan, this time, he couldn't just blunder in and hope for the best, the way he always did, the way he always had—it was a damn miracle, he knew, he had made it through the last battle with Morgana at all, and there was no chance he'd be so lucky this time. And he couldn't take that chance. Not with his kingdom, his people, at stake.

And he couldn't very well come up with a proper plan if he forged on into the forest and got frostbite.

"All right." He let his hand drop from his weapon—he didn't want to, he would rather pull out his own teeth with a pair of Gaius' rusted old pliers, actually, but if he was going to stay here, a blade to the heart certainly wasn't the way to go about it. He couldn't just jab his sword at every last druid he saw and expect the whole camp to just be all right with it. That would be a bit much to ask even of the druids. "We will be no trouble here, I assure you. We will merely wait out the bad weather, and move on. We will not impose upon you any longer than we must."

There. That was good. Right? So long as he stayed in this little tent as much as he could, so long as he didn't go into the camp more than he absolutely had to, so long as he just lingered until the storm had passed, he wouldn't even have to see all the magic at every turn and around every bend and inside every tent and thick in the air around him. He could do that. He could absolutely do that. Right?

"Impose?" Iseldir's wrinkled cheeks lifted in a wide, warm smile, and a chuckle, soft as summer rain, slipped out of his mouth. "You greatly misunderstand your position, Arthur Pendragon. On the contrary, it is an honor to house one so high in Emrys' favor."

Wait. What?

"Emrys?" Arthur echoed. The name tingled on his tongue. Little bumps prickled on his skin with it, with the feel of it, on his lips, with the sound of it, in his own ears. But that was mad. That was absolutely mad. He certainly didn't know a soul called Emrys. Did he? It tickled, lightly, at the back of his mind, like an old friend he'd forgotten he had. Or, maybe, like an old god he had merely forgotten to pray to.

But that was ridiculous. That was impossible. He didn't know anybody called Emrys. He had never known anybody called Emrys. Had he?

But Iseldir didn't look like he was in a big rush to say much more. "Perhaps you would like me to look at your nose now?" He raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid it will only get worse if it is not cared for."

"M-My nose?" Arthur blinked—oh, right, yes, his nose— "W-With magic? You mean? You want to heal it with magic?" His stomach clenched.

"That is the way I would recommend, yes," Iseldir dipped his chin down in a nod, and shifted his basket from one hand to the other.

"No!" Arthur shook his head. Oh, this was a bad idea, wasn't it? This was a really bad idea, and it settled, a hard and heavy knot, deep in the bottom of his stomach. He had thought he could do it, he had thought he wouldn't have to see any magic if he just stayed in the tent, he had thought, maybe, he could make it through and he wouldn't have to even hear the word, even once, but that was—that was silly, wasn't it, that was ridiculous, he was right in the middle of a druid camp, and why did he ever think he could do this, why did he ever think he could stay here—?

"Oh," Guinevere huffed, loudly, "have some sense, Arthur! Do you really fancy going 'round like that?" She jabbed a finger in his face.

Arthur frowned. No, he didn't, actually, but he would take a broken nose over a bit of actual magic on his actual face in a heartbeat. Except. "Does it really look that bad?" If only he could get a proper look at it for himself, but he didn't see a mirror anywhere in the tent. Come to think of it, he didn't think he had ever seen a mirror in a druid camp. Did they have some sort of thing against vanity, or something?

"Let's just say, it looks like Gwaine really did try to tear off half your face."

Arthur scowled. On second thought, perhaps he should be grateful he couldn't see it for himself. "Thank you, Sir Elyan."

"Always, Sire."

Iseldir cleared his throat. "Well. May I?" He set the basket down at his feet and lifted a silver brow at Arthur.

No. Absolutely not. No, all right, fine, if he had to say it, well, he would go on and he would say it, because it was the truth, and he liked to think of himself as the sort of man that didn't shrink away from the truth. All right. So. He'd say it. He had never actually met a bad druid before. He had never actually met an evil druid. He had never actually met a druid that had tried to do him harm. Hell, he had never even met a druid that had tried to do his father harm. But he would be a damned fool, wouldn't he, to just hand this old man the means to hurt him, to enchant him, to put him under a spell of some kind. Sure, yes, all right, Iseldir looked all kind and frail and innocent, but that didn't mean he was actually all kind and frail and innocent! He could be anything but, for all Arthur knew!

But.

"No," he said, instead of any of that, because none of that sounded very much like a grateful guest, and that was what he had to be right now, wasn't it, that was the part he had to play here until he could get back to the castle, and save the kingdom, "no. Thank you. It will heal on its own, I'm sure."

Iseldir didn't look like he believed that, but he didn't push it. That seemed to be his way. Don't push. Go with the flow. Take what he could get, take as much as he could get, and be glad for it, be glad he got that much. He turned to Gwaine instead. "And what of you? Perhaps I could mend—" he tipped his head at the dried blood, still flecked thick on Gwaine's knuckles, and the purple bruises blooming like flowers just beneath, "—that?"

"With magic?" Gwaine said, just like Arthur, his brown eyes enormous in his face, except, not like Arthur, he couldn't have sounded more excited about if he had tried. "Hell yeah! Let's do it!"

Iseldir's mouth quirked up at the edge in a small smile. "As you wish, Sir Gwaine."

Arthur wasn't going to go outside. He was not going to go outside. He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to be so obvious about it. No. He had seen magic loads of times. On raids and in attacks and battles and fights and things, yes, of course he had seen it, so he wasn't going to go outside, he was not going to go outside, and he was not going to look away, he was not going to turn his head, he was not going to shut his eyes, no, of course not, that would just be stupid, he could look at it, he could stand here and he could look at it, he could see the gold light up the old man's eyes, he had to do it, he had to stand here and he had to see it, because—

—a little shudder trailed down his spine—

—because I have to be sure he's not going to hurt Gwaine, instead of me, I have to be sure he's not enchanting Gwaine, I have to be sure he's not putting Gwaine under a spell, I have to be sure, and God, I should have done it, I should have just done it, I should have let him heal me, I should have done it first, to make sure it's safe, to make sure Gwaine wouldn't get hurt—

"Nice one!"

Oh.

It was over.

It was already over. Already.

Gwaine held his hand up in the air—he flexed his strong fingers—he formed a fist so tight, all his veins bunched up and stood out under the skin, and his knuckles turned white as the snow and the ice outside—he was healed, and he was all right, and the bruises and the blood had gone—he rubbed, lightly, at the back of his hand, before he dropped his arm down to his side and beamed at Iseldir. "Thanks. Feels great."

"I am glad to hear it," Iseldir dipped his head, and his smile got a bit warmer, a bit wider. "You are very welcome indeed, Sir Gwaine." He stooped to pick his basket back up off the floor again. "Perhaps your party will consider joining us for the morning meal? We will be breaking our fast in a moment. We would be delighted to welcome you there."

Oh, no, no—Arthur shook his head, almost on reflex, because he didn't actually want to, he didn't actually mean to, he just sort of did—no, no, he couldn't do that, remember, don't leave the tent, just don't leave the tent, just stick to the tent, and he would be all right—if he just didn't leave the tent, maybe he wouldn't have to see any magic at all—except, well, that hadn't actually worked, had it, because he had already had to see Iseldir, with Gwaine's hand—

"Oh, yes," Guinevere nodded, so hard her dark brown curls bounced around her pretty face, "yes, certainly, we will do that. Thank you so much, really. I don't know how we will ever repay you."

But Iseldir merely smiled. "Please, Guinevere, I have told you, there is no need. It is reward enough to aid Emrys' chosen companions."

Emrys. There it was again. That name. Every hair on the back of Arthur's neck quivered and shot straight up. There was power in that name. There was magic in that name. He didn't have to be a sorcerer to know that. To feel it.

"Emrys?" But Guinevere got there first. "You've said that twice now." She cocked her dark, curly head to the side. "Who is that?"

"Yes," Arthur huffed, a bit put out he hadn't gotten to ask the really big question here, but never mind, never mind, trust Guinevere to always think of everything, anyway, "and how, exactly, can we be his 'companions' if we've never actually met him?"

"Oh," Iseldir's smile had a bit of an edge to it, now, "oh, but you have, Arthur Pendragon. Many, many times. He is the dearest and the truest friend you have ever known. One day, you will see that."

The dearest and the truest friend. The dearest and the truest friend. But what the hell did that mean? He didn't know a man called Emrys! He really didn't! Really! He would remember it if he did, he was certain of that—the name wasn't a common one, it wasn't the sort of thing he had ever heard out on the streets of Camelot, so he would know if he had ever heard it before, but—but why did Iseldir seem to think he had? Why did Iseldir seem to think he really did know Emrys? Why did Iseldir seem to think Emrys was his friend?

But before he could get even one question off his lips, the old druid had lifted the little orange flap, and disappeared from the tent.

Which was absolutely and entirely and utterly unfair, because Arthur still had questions, Arthur still had a lot of questions, actually, lots and lots of questions, about this odd little "Emrys" bloke! Hell, this odd little Emrys bloke didn't even make any sense! Why would Iseldir call the man Arthur's friend if the man had hidden himself all this time? Why would Iseldir call the man Arthur's friend if Arthur had never actually met the man before? Because he hadn't! He hadn't! Not ever! Not once! He would know that! He would remember that! Right? Wouldn't he? Wouldn't he remember that?

"Well," Gwaine said, and far too brightly, into the thick, heavy silence settling in within the canvas walls, "don't know 'bout the rest of you lot, but I'm starving. Saving prissy little princesses really takes it out of you. Shall we have some breakfast, then?"

Merlin had thought Morgana would want to deal with him as quick as she could—she had just crowned herself the queen of Camelot, and surely she had bigger things to do, right, surely she had bigger things to tend to and think about and handle, surely the king's servant didn't matter so much to her, even if the king's servant did have magic? Surely, she'd just pick an empty dungeon and stuff him inside, surely she'd just lock him up and leave him, wouldn't she? Surely she would just want to get him shut away so she could tend to and think about and handle other things, bigger things, the things that actually mattered, but she stormed straight past the long line of barred, bolted-up, little cells all down the dark, cold corridor—she didn't even stop to look inside a single one, like she already knew where she wanted to take Merlin, like she already knew where she wanted to put him, like she already knew where she wanted him to go—

But Merlin looked.

Merlin looked inside.

The dim, golden glow of the low fires in the hall made it hard for him to make out much, and the people behind all the bolts and bars looked like mere shadows, blurry and black, on the stone walls, but if he leaned in, he could just see all the frightened and filthy faces staring back at him, eyes wide, hair tangled and dirty and matted, cheeks smeared with soot and grime, and his heart twisted up in a tight knot in his chest.

No one in there should be in there.

No one in there—no one, no one at all, not one frightened, filthy face staring back at him with wide eyes and tangled hair and grimy cheeks, not one, not one single soul in that cell belonged in that cell at all. Not one single soul should be in that cell at all. No one. And he had done this. He had done it. He had put them all there with his own damned hands, hadn't he, because he wasn't fast enough to save them, to stop Morgana, he wasn't smart enough to stop Morgana, he wasn't strong enough to stop her, he wasn't good enough, and he hadn't tried hard enough, he hadn't fought hard enough, it was all his fault, it all came back to him, in a circle, in a loop, he had done this, he had done this to everyone, and he—

—he—

"Merlin?"

Oh.

Merlin's breath stopped dead in his chest, in his throat, and his heart—his knotted, twisted-up heart—jumped so high, it lodged up in the back of his mouth, and it stayed there, it stuck there, so big he couldn't swallow it down, so big he couldn't spit it out, so big he could choke on it, but he didn't care—he didn't care, he didn't, he didn't care, he didn't think he had ever cared less about anything in his whole life, because—

—because—

"Gaius?"

Oh. Oh, Goddess, oh, Goddess, oh, thank the Goddess, thank the Triple Goddess, Gaius was here, right here, really here, oh, Goddess, Gaius was really here, and he was alive and he was all right, and Merlin hadn't let himself hope, hadn't really, truly let himself hope Gaius could be alive, he hadn't really, truly let himself hope Gaius could be all right, but oh, here he was, right here, really here, and he was alive, and he was all right, and—

—and—

No.

No, Gaius wasn't all right. Not really. He was trapped, in that horrid little cell, with knights and squires and guards and lords and ladies and stable boys and kitchen girls, packed in shoulder-to-shoulder with all the rest, his clean white hair nearly black now with mud and dirt, hanging 'round his withered old face in tangled, filthy clumps, and his long red robe streaked and smeared with grime, and—Merlin's knotted, twisted-up heart jumped again—Leon and Percival stood just behind the old man. The two knights looked so thin, so battered and frail, stripped of silver mail and scarlet cloaks and thick tunics, even, nothing but ragged, muddied trousers to cover up, pale skin stretched taut over sharp ribs—but alive, they're alive, they're all alive, and for half a moment, Merlin really thought he might cry, actually cry, with the fierce, heady joy of it, so strong in his heart, it almost hurt—it hadn't really hit him, he hadn't really let it hit him until right this moment—the fear, the terror, the panic—Goddess, he had been so scared, he had been so terrified, he had really thought he would—he had really thought he would never see Gaius again—

"Merlin," Gaius reached a red-robed arm out, through the wooden bars, and he grabbed Merlin's hand up in his own, like he—like he justwanted to touch Merlin, like that was all he wanted, to touch, to hold—

—and Merlin was too old for that, he was far too old for that, to be held, to want to be held, even, but right now, right this moment, he would give up everything he had ever had if he could just sink down in one of Gaius' warm and wonderful hugs again, even if he couldn't hold back a hiss of pain at just the touch of Gaius' hand on his blistered palm, even if he didn't know if he could have a hug, right now, with his shoulder the way it was—

"Merlin," hardly a whisper, in the still, stale air of the dark corridor, and weak, wrinkled fingers squeezed Merlin's knuckles, "are you all right?"

Oh. Merlin's heart twisted again, and it was a hurt so much sharper than his shoulder and his blisters and burns could ever be. Oh, Gaius, because of course, in his cell, in his little dungeon, exhausted and filthy and imprisoned and so starved, his robes hung half off him, and he looked nothing but skin and bone, but of course he wanted to make sure Merlin was all right, of course he wanted to do that, of course he did, because that was just Gaius, wasn't it, that was just Gaius all over, that was all he ever wanted, really, that was all he ever did, look after everybody else, take care of everybody else, and never mind his own lot, never mind his own lot when he could see to someone else, never mind his own lot, no, even trapped in a dungeon and wrapped up in chains, he still cared more for Merlin than he ever did for himself, and please, Gaius, please, just think of yourself, just this once, please think of yourself, only yourself, won't you ever just think of yourself—

"Merlin?" Soft and tired as Gaius sounded, his words still echoed on and on down the dark corridor and his old eyes took it all in—Merlin didn't know the way he looked right now, he didn't know if he looked even half so awful as he felt, but the dull ache in his cheek, the purple bruise Sir Ector had left there, and the sting of the open, bloody cuts at his brow, and the burn of the hot metal, the collar, at his throat, and he knew Gaius could see it, he knew Gaius could see all of it, and— "oh, my boy," the old man dropped his words down to a mere whisper, and he dropped his eyes down to Merlin's hands, to the puckered, pink welts all swollen up on his fingers, "what on earth have they done to you?"

Merlin's throat pulled tight—no, don't do that, don't do that, Gaius, please, don't do that, don't ask that, don't ask me that, I can't tell you, I can't, I can't tell you the truth, I just can't do it, I just can't, because if you knew, if I told you, if you knew all the things I've done, all the things I've just stepped back and let happen to me, if you knew that, if you knew all of that, you'd hate me, you'd hate me forever, you wouldn't be so nice to me like this, if only you knew, if only you knew what I'd done, if only you knew the truth, you'd never hug me again, you'd never hold my hand like this, you'd never be so nice to me like this, not ever, you'd never even look at me, not ever again, if you knew, if you knew the truth, you wouldn't—

—you wouldn't love me anymore—

"I'm sorry," Merlin said, instead of any of that, and his words sounded thick and hoarse, in his own ears, with all the tears he held back, "I—I'm sorry, Gaius, I'm so sorry, Gaius, I—I messed up, I-I really messed up, Gaius, I messed up, and I'm s-sorry—"

"Oh," Morgana's sharp, ice-cold voice echoed, loud as a scream, in the quiet corridor, and cut quicker than a blade through Merlin's rushed, pathetic little whispers, "oh, how sweet."

Merlin had forgotten Morgana. Goddess, for one full moment, he had actually forgotten her, he had actually—Goddess, but he had actually thought everything is all right now, everything is going to be all right now, because Gaius is here, he never has to know the truth, never, ever, he can just be here and he can make everything all right, always, because he always knows what to do, Gaius always knows how to make things better, Gaius can make anything better, like a child, he sounded so much like a child when he put it like that, but—

Morgana smiled, little more than a tight, bitter quirk of the mouth, and a definite edge of danger in the curve of her lip, but at least she looked at Merlin, not Gaius, because if she looked at Merlin, that meant she would hurt him, didn't it, that meant she would lash out at him, she would take it out on him, not Gaius, and that was all right, that was good, she should hurt him, she should take it out on him, not Gaius, he could take it far better than Gaius, so it was good, let her hurt him, let her take it out on him, he wouldn't fight back if that meant she would never, ever turn her wrath on Gaius.

"Lovely things," she arched her dark brows at him, "reunions, aren't they?"

Merlin didn't take his eyes off Morgana, because he was so scared if he looked at Gaius, even for a moment, she would look at Gaius, too, and she would change her mind, she would hurt him, instead, she would hurt Gaius instead, she would take it out on Gaius instead, and he could never, ever let her do that, he could never let that happen, not to Gaius. Goddess, he was scared to talk, even, because if he said the wrong thing, if he made Gaius' lot worse, if he made anyone's lot worse than it had already gotten inside that cell—

"Well, I'm so very sorry, but it seems we'll have to cut it short." Morgana heaved a soft little sigh. "Shame, isn't it? The two of you simply haven't the time to catch up."

In the dark and the dead quiet of the corridor, Merlin didn't need to see, and he didn't need to hear, to feel the way Gaius' wrinkled hand slipped back down to his own, the way the short, withered fingers curled up tight around his, and it hurt like hell, all the burns hurt like hell, but Merlin would swallow fire before he would pull away.

"Take a good look, old man," and Morgana did look at Gaius, then, she really did look at Gaius, with that tight, bitter quirk of her mouth, with that edge of danger on her lip, "I fear this may be the last time you will ever see him."

Gaius pressed his lips together until his mouth turned thin and white, and for one wild moment, Merlin could swear he was going to shout at Morgana, to scream at her, and oh, Goddess, Gaius, no, please, don't anger her, don't make her angry, please, don't give her another reason to hurt you—but, finally, the old man merely dipped his white head, and took a small step back, deeper into the dark and grime of the little cell. He untangled his hand from Merlin's, dropped his arm back to his side, and stared down at the grimy stone floor under his feet.

Merlin's whole hand ached with how much he wanted Gaius, or anyone, to come back and hold it again.

"But you need not worry," the tight, bitter quirk flicked up in a real smile, thin and sharp and sick—like Agravaine, like a shark showing all its teeth—and she leaned in through the bars until her nose nearly touched the old man's, "you may rest assured. I will take good care of your boy for you, Gaius."

Morgana lashed out, so quick, like the strike of a snake—she grabbed onto Merlin's shoulder again, long, pale fingers fisted in the thick brown cloth of his jacket—it wasn't so bad this time, because she didn't wrench or twist or pull this time, but the pain of it still snatched the breath from Merlin's lungs, still yanked a choked gasp from his mouth, hard as he tried to swallow it back, to keep it in, to grit his teeth so it wouldn't slip out, because he didn't want Gaius to hear it, he didn't want Gaius to know, he didn't want Gaius to worry—

"Come along, Emrys," Morgana murmured, in his ear, and pushed him on, down the dark corridor, away from the cell, away from Gaius, "we're going to have lots of fun together, aren't we?"

"Leave—leave him alone," Merlin finally got it out of his mouth, soft and breathless and weak, with the pain in his shoulder, like a knife, like a blade, lodged all the way down to the bone, "l-leave him alone, leave G-Gaius alone, he's never done anything to you, he's done nothing to deserve—"

"Hasn't he?" Morgana narrowed her eyes at him. "Or perhaps you've forgotten how he left me alone? How he watched me crawl around, blind, with magic I could not control, magic he refused to help me master? Have you forgotten that, Emrys? Well. I wish I could."

"I-It's me—" Merlin's shoulder throbbed, like Morgana had grabbed the knife and twisted it, around and around and around, until the bone cracked clean in two, but he had to go on, he had to go on, he had to try and get through to her, to make her see, even if it was hopeless, even if he knew he couldn't, even if he knew a hatred as deep and black and burning as Morgana's could never really be doused, "—it's me you want. It was me who left you alone. Not Gaius." It hurt just to say it. It burned on the way out of his mouth. But it was true. It was all true. It was all his fault. This horrible, twisted thing Morgana had become was all his fault. All because of him. If he had only helped her. If he had only showed her she wasn't alone. "I-I betrayed you, it was me. Not him. Not Gaius. Not anyone in that dungeon. Just me."

"Oh, don't you worry, Emrys. You will pay for what you've done. Just as they have. You can be sure of that."

With this last, Morgana finally pulled to a stop at the end of the corridor.

But it was only a blank wooden wall back here—no bolted-up cells, no small rooms, no bars or doors or windows, even, just the dark stretch of dirty wall, and a thin, rickety little wooden ladder to the side, going down and down and down into a—into a tiny, dark hole—

Merlin's stomach dropped. Stupid. That was stupid. That was so stupid. He had faced worse. He had faced so much worse. But it looked—his heart beat a little too quick—it looked so small down there—

"Down."

Morgana prodded a finger, hard, into the skin of his shoulder, and his breath snagged on the sharp edge of the shock and pain, but he—he didn't have a choice, did he, because she would only do worse, she would only hurt him worse, if he didn't listen to her, if he didn't do as she had said, if he didn't go down there.

He had to haul himself down the little ladder with only one hand, the other limp and useless at his side, and he had to grit his teeth until his whole mouth throbbed just so he wouldn't scream out loud at the strain of it, and maybe Morgana had helped him, maybe Morgana pushed him down there with a bit of magic, because he really didn't think he could have ever made it all on his own, but, one way or another, he got to the end.

He got all the way to the end.

It was even smaller than it had looked from up there. It was so small. It was so, so small, and he couldn't stand up, he couldn't stand up straight, he could hardly sit up, even, it was all he could do to crouch, to just crouch here, his back pressed hard to a thick, slimy stone wall, and his long legs tucked up on the slick, filthy floor under him. He stretched his eyes as wide as he could, he strained and strained but it was all dark, all dark, he couldn't see, he couldn't see—

"Welcome to your new home, Emrys. I do hope you'll be comfortable!"

The vicious, proud shout had hardly left Morgana's lips—she loomed so high over him, so much taller than him, so much bigger than him, or maybe—maybe he had gotten smaller, maybe he had gotten smaller and smaller and smaller, maybe, this whole time, he had been shrinking down and down and down, ever since Agravaine had kissed him at Arthur's coronation, ever since Agravaine had put his hands all over and all around and up inside, maybe it had all made Merlin smaller and smaller and smaller, maybe it had all made Merlin shrink and shrink and shrink down to nothing, until he was nothing, until he was nothing at all—and she reached a hand down into the dark hole, and she yanked the ladder back up with her.

Merlin's heart lurched in his chest to see it go—stupid, stupid, he had barely gotten all the way down the ladder on his own, what made him think he could have ever climbed back up, with his shoulder the way it was, and without any magic of his own—?

Something hard and heavy and thick—a stone, maybe, or even a small slab of shapeless metal—slammed down over the hole.

The last of the light dimmed right down to nothing, and Morgana was gone.

Notes: Pretty sure this is actually a bit shorter than last time by a few hundred words, but damn, this one just feels really long to me. It just feels like this one kind of goes on forever. but everything in here really needed to be in here. If I don't start condensing two or three chapters into one real soon, this sorry son of a bitch will never end, and y'all will just be stuck with me forever. no one wants that. that is not the desired outcome for this fic.

Anyways, on GOD, I have been waiting for literally EVER to get the druids in play, and to bring Gaius back, like, in case y'all can't tell, your humble, starving author is just an absolute on-fire garbage can for one (1) Gaius the Court Physician! i just? love him? so much? and it made me so sad to send him away all the back in Ch3, because I knew we wouldn't see him again for a real hot sec, but it just had to be done! Gaius is the whole-ass backbone of Merlin's support system, and if he'd had someone to turn to, I think he would have come clean at some point, so, unfortunately, Gaius had to be removed from the narrative real quick. Now he's back to stay, though! For real. The old guy ain't going anywhere for the rest of the fic. he is here to lead the Unconditionally Love and Support Merlin Squad lmao. (Gwaine and Gwen are his fellow co-leaders. Arthur is... getting there.)

As always, thank you all so, so much for your support! Your humble, starving author would be nowhere without all the kindness and support you've given, and your humble, starving author is so unbelievably grateful for (and indescribably astonished by!) it.