Chapter Two

His legs are still shaking, his body still feels like he's made of shattering glass instead of bone and muscle but Arthur has been taught to shield his emotions, how to hide behind false confidence, how to be strong when everything is falling apart, so he walks steadily, his head up, his hands still.

Arthur still can't breathe.

He catches the first servant he sees and orders a bath, his voice calm even if it is quieter than usual. George doesn't question the order; doesn't ask why he hadn't ordered his own manservant. He may question internally but he's too dutiful to ever voice those thoughts and for the first time Arthur can only be grateful.

He continues on. The physician's chambers are so far away from his rooms, up too many stairs and Arthur feels every step. It takes all his willpower to keep going.

He can't think about his dagger. Arthur knows every nook and scratch and groove of that blade. Knows the weight and how to wield it. But he can't think about the way he had stabbed it into Merlin's chest, the way it had so easily sliced through skin and muscle alike, so easily embedded itself into the soft flesh.

So easily killing his friend.

He can't think about Merlin, slumped on the ground, bleeding out, dying—no, Arthur can't think about it, not if he wants to keep walking.

One step forward. A breath in, another step, a breath out. Because Merlin told him to keep breathing.

It takes an eternity to reach Gaius' chambers. He wonders, though he tries not to, how much blood Merlin has dripped out while Arthur has slowly, oh so slowly made his way forward.

A breath in.

He doesn't knock when he reaches Gaius' chambers because he never does, just barges in.

"Sire?" Gaius exclaims, his eyes scouring Arthur's body looking for the injury. He wouldn't find any.

"Gaius," Arthur acknowledges then strides past him. He gets to Merlin's door before the physician calls him back.

"Sire, he's not here." Worried. Uncertain.

A breath out. Arthur can't let him know that something is wrong—because nothing's wrong. "I know," he hears himself say, "but I've come for something. He's been holding it for me."

"Holding?"

"Yes, I asked him to, but now I need it," he opens the door and steps into Merlin's tiny room. It's cleanish, for once, and Arthur sees Merlin's bag hanging immediately—there's not many places to hide something. He grabs it but is careful to make a show of opening it and looking inside. "Ah, here it is," he smiles as if he has just found something of great importance then snaps it closed, "Thank you, Gaius," he starts for the door.

"You're going to take the whole bag?" Gaius inquires with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, but don't worry," Arthur forces a smile that seems so wrong, "I'll make sure it gets back to that incompetent servant of mine." The insult threatens to choke him, but he somehow says the words normally instead of spitting them past the lump of horror in his throat.

"Ah, of course." Arthur takes a step. "Are you alright, Sire?"

He turns back, "Yes, Gaius," a deep breath and another smile, "All will be well now that I have this back."

Then he's gone because he's king and he can do what he wants, and he doesn't answer to a mere physician.

But it's still so far away from his chambers.

From Merlin who is dying at this very moment.

From the dagger that very much exists. And if Arthur doubted it before—which he hadn't—but he can't now because the proof is there with every step that he overcompensates for because there's no dagger in his boot.

He'll have to deal with it all.

The bloody dagger.

The gaping wound.

The blood.

All that blood.

Arthur stumbles, clutching his chest as if he could rip out his heart that's breaking him from the inside out.

"Listen to me, Arthur."

"No one can know."

"Please Arthur, it's important."

He straightens immediately, his hands fall to his sides and he steps forward again. "Arthur? Remember to breathe." So, he does even though it hurts.

He's only about halfway there when he's stopped by Lord Aldwin who wants to talk to him about an accident involving one of the horses. He listens and judges calmly, even though inside he's screaming. The steward stops him next, to inform him of some supplies that have gone missing and Arthur schedules a meeting with him and Leon to deal with it even as inside he's counting every moment away from Merlin. Sir Kay catches him to offer congratulations on the latest hunt. It takes all of what little strength he has to answer them in rational tones and to walk instead of running away from them.

It takes all his courage to keep breathing.

When Arthur finally, finally reaches his room, it's not nearly fast enough. He opens the door to find that the servants have already come and gone with the bath and some of the water.

There is no sign of Merlin.

There is no blood.

"Sire," respectful as always, George enters carrying two buckets of water. Three other servants file in behind him. Arthur impatiently waits for them to finish their duty. "Will there be anything else, Sire?"

"No, thank you," Arthur nods his head to dismiss them as he tosses the bag onto the bed, then adds as an afterthought, "I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Yes, Sire," they chorus as they leave.

Arthur locks the door behind them and whirls back around, his heart racing.

It had been real, he knows this, but where is the blood?

The dagger?

His friend?

"Merlin?" he calls but his voice has lost its strength, the mask shattering at his closed door.

"...thur?" It's a whisper but Arthur hears it and follows it to the antechamber. Merlin for once is in the room though he's on the wrong side of the door, hiding out of sight, propped up against the wall.

Arthur's right though he wishes with everything that he is that he wasn't. It's all real.

Merlin's hands are soaked with his own blood. His face is streaked with bits of red as if he had rubbed it with his tainted hands. He has no color and his eyes are wide, but they're alert even if they do have a tendency to flicker closed.

The dagger is still embedded in his chest.

Arthur's knees crumble and he falls to the ground, his voice lost, his heart frozen.

He did this.

Merlin's eyes blink a few times then gradually focus on his king. "Arthur?" he asks weakly.

He can't answer, can barely even form thought except...Merlin is dying.

Merlin is dying because Arthur had stabbed him with his own dagger.

Arthur has killed him.

"You alright?"

Wrong, wrong, wrong! Don't ask me that! Just beg and curse and scream in pain! Just stop and be human for once in your life! Your life—

He retches where he is, unable to stomach his actions.

"Arthur!" and suddenly, somehow, Merlin is there, his hands—sticky and red with blood—are at his arms pulling him up, pushing him away from the mess. He's gathering his shirt and pulling it off, tossing it to the side and calling his name.

Arthur lets him because he has no strength, but he wishes that his servant would just leave him be—no, that's not right, never that! Just...he doesn't know. He wants it all to go back before Arthur had stabbed him. And with that thought, Arthur jerks back into the here and now. Gently he pushes Merlin's hands away, "No, you're hurt."

"Arthur," it's the same exact thing Merlin's been saying but this time it's infused with relief as if he had been worried about Arthur instead of himself.

"Merlin, please?" But he has no words to finish the thought.

"Arthur, it's going to be fine," Merlin states happily and seriously how could he be happy at a time like this?

"Where did the blood go?" he asks because that's so much easier to focus on then the very real danger Merlin is in.

Merlin frowns and shifts uncomfortably. He has a cup of water in his hands and when had that happened? Where had he even got it from?

"Magic," Merlin finally says and doesn't meet his eyes.

Oh. Right. That's all real too.

"Here, drink this," his servant holds out the cup, but Arthur just stares at it blankly, "It's just water, I swear. It will taste better than what's in your mouth."

Finally, Arthur realizes that Merlin wants him to drink it and he takes it from his hands. And Merlin's right, it does taste better.

Arthur feels disconnected, like he's in dream and oh, how he wishes this was a dream. And Merlin would wake him up with an obnoxiously cheerful, "Rise and shine!" and Arthur would open his eyes to see his lovely wife lying next to him and he would kiss her because he could, because he wanted to, because she wanted him to.

But then Merlin coughs and something very close to a whimper escapes his lips and Arthur realizes it doesn't matter even if this is a bad dream because Merlin still needs him in either case.

"What do I do?" he whispers brokenly.

Merlin looks at him again, but his eyes are wider than they should be, and he looks like he's having to force himself to stay upright. "Um..." he mutters then shakes his head forcefully, "My bag? Did you bring it?"

Arthur nods and stands on shaking legs; he goes to the main room and retrieves it. Merlin takes it with trembling hands and looks through it, pulling out various herbs, some ready-made potions, some bandages. Lots of bandages.

Arthur's going to be sick again. But Merlin needs him so he can't be, so he won't be.

"Do you think maybe..." Merlin shakes his head with a rueful smile then starts again, "I need water."

Arthur doesn't hesitate, merely gets the pitcher left out for him. Merlin, as much as Arthur usually hates to admit, has turned into a rather fine physician and for once Arthur can only be grateful. He refuses to think about what the blood loss could be doing to his mindset.

Merlin has the water set down close to him where he has once again propped himself against the wall. He's torn his shirt off around the dagger and tossed it to the side. Arthur looks at it mournfully, though he's not sure why. It's just a shirt.

"Um...I might need a little help," Merlin says. His voice is getting weaker; he's struggling to stay conscious.

Arthur kneels down next to him and Merlin looks at him and for all his struggle, he looks at him intently. In trust. As if Arthur still deserves that trust after everything he has done.

"As soon as I pull it out, I need you to put pressure on it. It's going to bleed. A lot."

Arthur swallows because Merlin has already lost so much blood, how can he possibly lose anymore?

"Ready?" Arthur jerks his head which Merlin must take as an affirmative because then he stuffs his neckerchief into his mouth. Arthur stares at him, for the life of him, he can't figure out why, why Merlin would do such a thing?

Then in one swift movement, Merlin grips the dagger and pulls it out. It comes slowly and with a harsh, guttural sound that Arthur wishes he could forget but knows will haunt his nightmares.

He feels sick again.

Then it's finally clear of Merlin's flesh and the blood comes, oh how it comes.

Arthur has seen more battle wounds that he can count, so many, too many for how young he is. But he has never felt so helpless as he does now in the face of all that color staining Merlin's pale skin a vibrant red. There's so much it's drowning Merlin.

Then Merlin's hand is on his shoulder and Arthur remembers his orders. He presses down, down against the onslaught. Merlin grunts in pain and Arthur immediately begins to pull back but Merlin shakes his head roughly and Arthur, hating himself even more, pushes down again even harder than before.

It's a losing battle from the start.

Arthur is no physician, but he knows a man can only lose so much blood before he succumbs to death's embrace. And Merlin has lost so much, too much.

But Arthur is a warrior, and this is his battle and he will fight. He has no sword, no shield. Only his hands to press against the wound, only his strength to push the blood back where it belongs, only his determination to keep holding on.

It takes an eternity.

Until finally, finally the blood slows to a trickle. Until finally Merlin spits out his neckerchief soaked with spit and even more blood.

Arthur feels cold, frozen to the core.

"Alright," Merlin manages in a shaking voice, "now we need to clean it."

His hands are steady despite the pain he is so obviously in. As if he does this every day.

Perhaps he does.

Arthur shivers. But he pushes the water closer. "What about the bath?" his voice sounds odd, cold, numb.

Merlin shakes his head, "We'll just have to refill the pitcher. Be too noticeable otherwise."

Arthur wants to ask why they're keeping this secret, this attempted murder, but he's not sure he really wants to know the answer. If Merlin is doing it to protect Arthur of all people, then Arthur might have to use the dagger on himself.

Then Merlin will never forgive him.

He helps wash the blood away, taking trip after trip to get clean water, using rag after rag. Too many rags, Arthur thinks, it shouldn't take this many. But it does.

After Merlin decides it's clean enough, he throws a quick glance at Arthur and bites his lip. Then he grabs a needle already threaded. Arthur swallows, his heart beats uncomfortably fast; he's not strong enough to stitch his friend back together.

But Merlin doesn't ask him to; instead his hands, steady as can be, stitch his own flesh together. It must hurt beyond anything Arthur can imagine, but Merlin doesn't even blink not even when he first slips the needle into his skin. It must have been an uncomfortable position, but Merlin doesn't complain; he simply does what he needs to do and the needle flashes bright against the crimson red.

Then Merlin directs him which herbs to mix together and he puts some of the finished product on the wound.

Arthur's not sure he didn't prefer the sight when the dagger had still been there. Better than this inflamed, red even after all the washing, hole. Where there should have been unblemished skin not this...this battle wound.

He shivers again.

Next, Merlin has Arthur bandage it, but he has to help him through it, directing it tighter, higher, no, tighter. Arthur wonders how he can even breathe.

"Good, that's good," Merlin nods then looks around with flickering eyes.

"What?" Arthur asks, desperate to be of some use.

"There should be a tincture to help with the pain."

Arthur searches through the piles until Merlin finally nods at one, his body almost pitching forward. He won't be awake for much longer.

"Why now?" Arthur asks, a numb curiosity coating his voice.

"Going to knock me out," Merlin mutters then stares at Arthur, his eyes so serious that Arthur knows he won't like what his servant is about to say, "Arthur, please, no one can know what's happened, I beg of you."

"People will notice you're not with me," he states uncertainly, wondering why this matters so much to Merlin.

"Then make something up, just—please, Arthur?" There's a pause while the king refuses to meet his eyes, "I need your word, Arthur, please?"

"Why?"

Merlin makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl, "I promise you I will explain but I can't focus right now—not enough to give you the truth you need. But I'm asking you to trust me."

"Of course I trust you," Arthur declares without hesitation. Had there been any doubt that he wouldn't?

Merlin smiles wearily, "Okay, I'm glad," he sounds relieved as if he hadn't been quite so sure.

Arthur wants to tell him it should be the other way around but what he says instead is, "I promise to keep it secret," The words burn. The knowledge that he will be condemning his friend to a slow and painful death weighs heavy on his heart.

But Arthur trusts Merlin.

"Okay," Merlin murmurs again. He downs the potion then looks over at his king again, "Just remember to breathe, alright?" Arthur nods. "Going to go to sleep now," then he rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

Arthur watches him.

Each breath he takes is for Merlin alone.

At some point Arthur realizes that he is soaked in Merlin's blood.

With great effort he heaves himself up, heedless of the tingling numbness of his limbs, and stumbles out of the room.

He counts each breath he takes and can only hope that Merlin continues to breathe.

The rest of the bath water he uses to clean himself up. He watches the blood as it swirls around and around, tendrils of red dancing until it has stained the water, tainting its clear color. It's like him, he thinks, blood dancing around him in circles staining everyone he comes into contact with, following him around until he is as red as blood.

He's cold, so cold but he is only vaguely aware of his discomfort as he dresses himself. He stares again at the water and wonders what he will tell the servants when they come to collect it. Or what he will say when they find the blood-stained clothes they threw aside.

But he pushes the thoughts away and returns to Merlin.

It's a knock at his door that reminds him there is still a world outside of Merlin's pale and shivering body—despite the blanket Arthur draped over him.

People he is responsible for. A council looking for answers. People who need protecting. Knights who need orders. An entire kingdom waiting for him.

It takes everything he has to stand up. To leave the room and close the door, hiding Merlin away from the public eye like he promised.

He has no idea how long it has been, but his limbs feel heavy with lack of use. He wipes away all expression as he opens the door.

"Sire," George greets him, "I apologize for the intrusion, but I was informed that your supper had not been picked up, would you like me to bring it to you, Sire?"

Arthur hesitates only for a moment before nodding, "Yes, that will be fine. And please inform Mary that some soups would not go amiss in the menu for now—there's a chill in the air these days."

George bows and murmurs another affirmative. Arthur remembers before the servant disappears to call for more water as well. It doesn't take him long before he's back with hot food and another pitcher of cool water in his hands. Arthur sends him away just as quickly as he can and surveys his empty room. When his eyes fall on the bath still there in the corner he is somehow not surprised when there is only clear water inside, the blood hidden away. He decides that he's grateful that Guinevere is off visiting Elena; he's not certain how he could possibly hide this from her, or that he would have the willpower to do so.

Arthur takes the food into the smaller room. He has no appetite, but his survival instincts force him to eat though he tastes nothing. He needs to keep his strength up, though for what he isn't sure.

Merlin continues to sleep fitfully; his color seems to have gotten worse in the short time that Arthur was gone; his breathing is shallow and ragged.

But he still breathes.

Arthur is careful to leave him some water and the bread soaked in the meat's juices to soften it; it's not the best fare for him but it will be better than nothing.

One night, that's all Arthur gives himself.

One night to pull himself together.

One night to wallow in guilt. One night to wash away the fear.

One night only.

When the morning comes, he takes all the fear and the guilt and shame and the uncertainty and he hides them all away behind the mask that, for the foreseeable future, is him.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! (And, yes, this story is actually all written in case anyone was worried about me not finishing it.)