Chapter Four
It's another day, another night. Merlin is getting worse and he can't hide it and Arthur can't ignore it.
Arthur is scared.
Scared because Merlin might die and Arthur will never know for sure; his best friend will just be an invisible, rotting corpse betrayed by his friend and abandoned by everyone he ever loved. Or perhaps, he'll just leave, and Arthur will never know either way.
Whatever happens, it will all be Arthur's fault.
Well, Merlin had—no, Arthur stops the excuses before they can complete; this is all on him. Merlin may have extracted his promise but that was all he had asked of his killer. Arthur has failed him in everything else but in this, he will not. He will keep his word even though it means the fault of Merlin's death lies at his feet twice over.
No.
Arthur doesn't know if the word escapes his lips, doesn't know if his voice breaks the cold, cold silence, doesn't know if his denial is heard at all. But he can't say anything, can't try to describe his revulsion and terror, can't try to make himself heard, can't make himself move away from this nightmare, no matter how much he wishes he could, how much he tries to escape. He knows he will never escape.
He can only stare at Merlin, stare at his shaking hands—shaking because of the very item they held—in horror.
"Arthur please?" Merlin begs and Arthur is aware that he has been talking even while he holds out the dagger to him. As if Arthur could ever bring himself to touch it again. "You need it."
He can't even bring himself to shake his head; he just stares at it, this weapon that had hurt Merlin, had embedded itself into his skin and tore through his muscle and spilled his blood.
"It's just a dagger," Merlin keeps trying, his voice a solid rock as if what he held in his hands doesn't even bother him.
As if it isn't the very weapon that had killed him.
But Merlin is wrong this time. This isn't just a dagger. It's the dagger his father had given him, not as a birthday present, not as lesson, not even as a test. Just a gift given in a rare show of love. It's the dagger Arthur had used to train with Morgana when they battled with words instead of swords and laughed with each other instead of caused each other pain.
But Arthur can never again look at it with fond memories; he will only ever see this dagger in Merlin's chest.
"Yes, Sire," Merlin sighs in defeat and sets it down on the floor, "but you still need something to protect yourself with."
He only breathes again when Merlin readjusts the blanket over himself, covering the dagger.
Arthur dreams of stabbing Merlin.
He dreams of coldly calculating where to place the dagger, plotting his move, his voice as cold as ice, and his hands steady as he stabs the blade into Merlin's chest with a red stained dagger.
He dreams of Merlin falling.
Falling to the ground in slow motion as if all his strings have been cut. Of his friend looking at him in surprise, in concern, in pain. The conflicting emotions in his blue eyes—never golden because he didn't use his magic against the king even then.
Arthur doesn't sleep well.
He's walking with his knights; listening to Sir Leon as he reports on Frederick's—one of their new hopefuls—rather odd tactics in training with a serious tone yet twinkling eyes. Arthur listens and manages a smile even though he's thinking of how Merlin would have loved to hear this story and listen to Percival's quiet interruptions and see Leon's mouth curve upwards, and watch as Percival tries to keep a straight face through it all.
And then all of a sudden, Arthur is thinking of Merlin with his arms bound over his head and a dagger in Arthur's hands as he carves patterns of pain into Merlin's skin.
And he remembers, very suddenly, his nightmare. Of stabbing that dagger into Merlin's chest.
A dagger already red with blood.
Arthur stumbles and is violently sick before he's even consciously aware of falling to his knees.
He sees red.
He sees Merlin in pain at Arthur's own hands.
Arthur's hands stained with the blood of his friend.
He is only vaguely aware of hands on his back, on his forehead, on his arms. Voices calling his name, calling for the physician, calling for Merlin.
But Merlin can't come because he is tied up, being tortured, stabbed, betrayed in every way possible.
Arthur retches again but he's not aware of the taste or the pain. Only his brave and loyal and good Merlin being tortured by Arthur himself.
Arthur drifts in and out of reality.
There are daggers streaked with blood and his hands are stained with red, red, so much red!
Merlin in chains. Merlin crying out, begging Arthur, "Trust me, please! I'm still me! Please, Arthur, just...please...This isn't you! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" But Arthur only hurts him even more.
There's fire and heat and Arthur doesn't know what's true and what's a nightmare; if any of this is real.
He can hear voices that speak in concern and he thinks sometimes they ask him questions, but he can't answer them even if he wants to. He feels hands examining him and tastes the bittersweet tang of some remedy being coerced down his throat.
But Arthur is only truly aware of blood and pain and betrayal and loyalty. Loyalty stronger than Arthur's betrayal. Loyalty that screamed its courage even while Merlin bit down the screams in his throat.
Loyalty that only Merlin could show him even as Arthur carved his betrayal in skin covered in blood.
He feels like he's on fire even while ice spreads through every part of him, freezing the blood in his veins.
There is a pain so deep in his bones and Arthur is certain he will never be okay again.
For an eternity, this is his existence.
"Arthur?" A whisper in the red, it cuts through the ice and fire alike. "Arthur, it will be okay—I'll fix it, I promise."
Then, there is a cool breeze that quenches the flames and a soothing warmth that thaws the ice. A golden light seems to envelop him, and he is safe and whole as only Merlin can make him feel.
When Arthur wakes, he wakes slowly but fully aware of what had sent him spiraling out of control. He's not surprised to see Merlin sitting on a chair next to the bed. He's wide awake, watching Arthur carefully.
He's pale, like always now, and there's fever sweat on his brow, and he shivers in the warm room. But he watches his king with concern.
It makes Arthur sick.
"Merlin?" he croaks, his voice rough. There's a foul taste in his mouth; he tastes blood and shivers himself.
"I'm here, Arthur," Merlin murmurs gently and helps raise Arthur's head up so he can drink.
"Merlin..." Arthur has to ask; he cannot keep this inside though he is not strong enough to know the answer; he does not know what he will do if his nightmares are reality. But he must know because he thinks...he thinks he already knows the truth.
But he needs to hear it from Merlin's lips.
Merlin shakes his head, "It's okay, Arthur, sleep," a small smile curves his lips, "I'll keep watch this time."
There's something in Merlin's voice that makes Arthur pause, even in his desperation.
Something lost and sad and...almost broken.
Arthur did this to him, made him sound so vulnerable, made him look so broken.
"Please, Arthur, please listen to me! You don't have to do this! Please, please...just no more, please?"
Arthur closes his eyes against the voice as if that will help. He wishes he could stop the world, stop it all. No more pain. No more betrayal. No more death. No more blood.
There's that golden warmth then and Arthur slips into sleep once more.
The second time that Arthur wakes, Merlin is nowhere to be seen and Gaius is in his place.
"Sire?" The physician asks worriedly.
Arthur tries to find his voice to tell him...what? That he is almost certain he had tortured Merlin to the point of death and then to top it all off he had stabbed him near the heart and then because Arthur is the king of betrayal, he had forgotten it all? That he isn't strong enough to remember? That he wishes he had died so he didn't have to live with this life-crushing guilt?
"Here, Sire, you must drink."
Arthur wonders where Merlin is now.
What if he died while Arthur slept?
No, no he can't die, Arthur needs him! Where is he? He's always there even when he isn't supposed to be but now, he's gone. No, no that isn't true, he's tied up being tortured and he's dying.
He probably hates Arthur. He has every right to, he should hate him.
Maybe he does and that's why he isn't here when Arthur needs him.
He must have said something about his friend because Gaius gently smiles at him, "It's okay, Sire, he was just here. He'll be back soon—as soon as he can."
Arthur wants to tell him that Merlin shouldn't return, that he can't because Merlin is dying, and Arthur has betrayed him and Merlin should hate him. But by the time that Arthur manages to open his mouth, Gaius is long gone.
Arthur slips out of reality once more.