Chapter Five

When he next awakens, Merlin is back in his rightful place, with worry in his eyes and blood on his hands.

Why is there always blood? Would that color never leave Arthur be? Or is he forever tainted by that thick, dark shade of red?

Arthur stares at Merlin's dirty hands and feels even more sick because it isn't just on his hands is it? This is why, no matter how many times they cleaned and bandaged his wound, no matter that it isn't infected, Merlin isn't getting better.

This is why he is dying.

"Show me?" Arthur rasps out in a broken voice. It's not a demand, not even a question just a plea for the truth he doesn't want to face. The truth he is not strong enough to say.

Merlin looks at him in pity and opens his mouth, to argue no doubt, but then he closes his mouth without speaking. He nods once and his eyes flash gold.

Arthur can't move, can't breathe, can't even form thought.

Merlin had looked bad before, but now? It's no wonder Merlin looks like he's dying: he already has one foot in death's door.

Cuts and lacerations litter his face, his arms, his chest, his hands. Everywhere that Arthur can see. Bruises cover every inch of his body. A body laid bare by Arthur's dagger and hands and feet.

He did this.

Arthur remembers carving those holes in Merlin's skin. Remembers heating his dagger in fire and branding him a traitor. Remembers chaining him up and beating him again and again. Remembers the feel of bones breaking under his hands and feet. Remembers wrapping his hands around Merlin's neck and squeezing, tighter and tighter until Merlin's heartbeat slowed to an almost halt. He remembers torturing Merlin in every sense of the word.

Arthur shivers, cold to the very depths of his dark, dark soul.

"Why?"

He doesn't realize the word has managed to slip out of his frozen lips until Merlin squirms under his scrutiny and shrugs. Arthur watches, horrified, as the skin separates at the movement and blood seeps out.

More blood.

"Because...when you stabbed me that last time, I think I was supposed to die. I think you were going to stab me in the—the heart but...you couldn't do it. It was like something just snapped inside you. And you missed on purpose. But..." Merlin sighs wearily, "but then you just fell to the ground and stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped everything. It was like you just couldn't—and then you looked up and saw the dagger and it was like you couldn't see anything else, like nothing else even existed in that moment. And I realized you couldn't see anything else and you just kept muttering to yourself about the dagger.

"I didn't know how to help you so I just...I got you of the room and away and when you came back, I thought...I don't really know what I thought, but when you came back you were still...bro—broken. And you didn't seem to see or remember anything but the stupid dagger," Merlin pauses then continues in a whisper, "I was afraid that you would revert back to that state you were in right after and I didn't want you to go back to that...whatever it was.

"I just wanted you to be okay. So I made them disappear."

Arthur chokes out a sob as his soul shatters around him, as everything that he has ever thought good and right about the world cracks and breaks under the weight of all he has done.

How can he have done all of this? How can he have forgotten?

"I didn't mean for it to go on for so long," Merlin continues, not meeting his eyes—almost as if he were the guilty one, "It's not like I enjoy lying to you or keeping secrets—I just...I didn't know how else to help you."

Arthur turns his head away and wishes he had the words to describe how wrong that is, how sickening it is. He wishes—

"I'm so sorry, Arthur."

"I'm sorry, Arthur! I know it will never be enough, but I'm sorry, so sorry!"

"This is why you aren't getting better."

"Yeah, I've cleaned and done what I could but...it's not enough. And I can't reach all of them," he pauses then adds as an afterthought, "but my magic must be doing something, else I'd be dead already."

"What happened to 'you were fine'?" Arthur asks in a voice void of emotion, as if he has given up on it all—he hasn't, though it might be far less painful if he did.

"Well I'm not dead am I?" he chuckles but there's no mirth in the sound, "Besides, I am okay, just a bit under the weather."

And this, this joke breaks through Arthur's walls, "Merlin, I tortured you!" he cries and finally turns to face his friend. "I put you in chains and I beat you and I hurt you and—"

"Yes, but that wasn't you—"

"No! No, I did that to you! Merlin even if you somehow survive, you're never going to be the same—this will never go away. And I did this!"

"Arthur, really, it was your hands but it wasn't—"

"Why I am I alive right now?" Arthur snaps, finally uttering the question that has haunted him since he saw his friend on the ground with a dagger in his chest.

Merlin's mouth snaps shut with an audible sound; he stares at Arthur in confusion, "What?"

"You heard me, Merlin," Arthur repeats, "why am I alive?"

Merlin frowns, opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head, repeats it all. Arthur would laugh if he thought he could stop.

"I don't understand," Merlin finally manages.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Merlin's mouth drops open and his eyes widen in horror. "Why didn't you escape? Leave me? Blast me away? Why didn't you protect yourself? Why am I alive while you're dying?"

"Arthur Pendragon! You know very well why I didn't do such things, why I would never even think about—" Merlin stops himself and draws in a ragged breath then continues in a softer voice though no less sincere, "You're my friend."

"So I thought, yet here we are."

"No, Arthur, listen please? This. Wasn't. You," Arthur tries to turn away, but Merlin grabs his arm to hold his attention, "No, what I've been trying to tell you is: Arthur, I don't think you were in control!"

"Well, obviously."

"No, I mean, like at all. Look, before all this happened, I had been noticing some odd things. With you and Gaius and everyone, just little things, odd quirks or phrases that just seemed...wrong. It was enough to make me suspicious," the words tumble from his mouth as if he's afraid that somehow Arthur will go deaf before he can hear them all, "when you came in here that day and you asked me if I thought you were a fool, I didn't think of it at all though—and I should have but it was all just happening so fast. You knew and, and..." a small pause, a shuddering breath, "I forgot about it until you started torturing me," he says it so casually, as if the idea of being tortured was something he thought about every day, "but that...even angry, you're a good man. Banishment or execution was the very worst you would do. But you wouldn't play with me. Not like that."

Arthur stares at him, tries to understand how someone could be so loyal, so sure of the very person who has killed them. But he can't look away, can't tear himself away from this sliver of hope.

"And like I said before, when you tried to kill me, it was like something snapped. Like you came back. Except...broken. I think it br—I think it broke you to know what happened or maybe whatever you did to break the enchantment."

Enchantment. Not Arthur. Sorcery. Could it be true or was this just another way to help him?

"But, Arthur, this was not your choice."

Enchanted. He had been enchanted. Except...does that really change anything?

His hands are still stained with blood.

"It's still on my hands," Arthur decides for them both, his shoulders dropping with the weight of responsibility.

Merlin takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, "I know you think that, and I know you won't believe me but I don't blame you, Arthur. I don't lay any of this at your feet. Please remember that above all else."

Arthur shudders, tries to push the loyalty away as he has done so many times before, "I don't deserve to be forgiven."

"Nonsense, now you're just being stubborn," Merlin tries with a forced smile, "I've always thought you were worthy."

And I always said you were an idiot. The words are there waiting to be said but Arthur can't utter the insult and Merlin slumps a bit lower in his seat.

More blood oozes out and really, how does Merlin even have any left within him? Arthur shivers again.

"We need to get you cleaned up," he says expressionlessly.

Merlin hesitates, though he must be in more pain than Arthur can imagine, but only for a moment, "Alright."

Arthur can't force any more words out so he's silent as Merlin helps him up and it hurts. Arthur feels like he's been trampled on by a dragon and there's that pain lodged deep in his soul, threatening to destroy what little remains of him.

Merlin is in far worse shape than him.

There's a reason Merlin can't reach all of them to clean them. Arthur unwraps the bandage from his chest to reveal lash marks across his back. Lacerations in the shape of letters curved around the bottom of his neck and shoulders.

Liar. Traitor.

Arthur's hands shake when he sees the lies written in Merlin's skin. A strangled gasp escapes his lips and he drops the rag.

Merlin gently turns and pats his arm like a child, but Arthur can't muster up any indignation at that, because there is only sympathy in the gesture.

Arthur nods and picks up the rag again, "We'll be okay," he mutters over and over again, a mantra or a prayer he's not sure, "We'll be alright."

He sets to work once more.

Ironically, compared to some of the other wounds, the dagger wound in his chest seems far smaller, less fatal. Or perhaps that's just because it has been cleaned and tended to while the rest haven't been as well looked after.

There's so much damage and he doesn't know where to start. He can feel the give of bones underneath his hands but there's so many cuts; all in varying shapes and sizes—there to cause pain more than fatal damage.

But the worst of them all is revealed right over his heart—where the dagger had been meant to strike.

Worse than the handprints around his neck. Worse than the burns and whip marks. Worse than even where the dagger had rested.

MONSTER!

The word has been carved with Arthur's dagger—he will melt it down and destroy it and cast it away where it can never touch Merlin again—heated in fire to make it burn, to make it last.

This isn't just a wound; this is a brand.

The brand of a traitor.

Arthur stares and stares at it and he will never ever be able to erase this image from his eyes, from his nightmares, from his memories. It will always be there, taunting him every time he closes his eyes, haunting his every waking moment, a reminder of just how much of a monster he truly is. A reminder that somebody capable of such atrocities lies underneath all his masks. And no matter how much he wants to; he cannot tear his eyes away from it...

"I'm sorry," the words will never be enough, never heal these wounds, never undo the past, never be a salve to wash this pain away. But they are all he has left, and he gladly gives them to his friend.

Merlin only nods, accepting the apology and all it entails.

Arthur is as gentle as he can be, but he can't not hurt his friend—and wasn't that the perfect symbolism of their entire relationship? Only a couple gasps escape Merlin's lips, a small cry when he rubs some salve into his neck, a whimper when he washes the brand. Every pained sigh and clenched muscle and tense limb send another wave of horror and guilt and hurt through Arthur, but he knows he deserves it all.

Arthur cleans and applies what Merlin tells him to and bandages as much as possible, hiding them away and out of sight. He wraps bones and does what he can, but it will never be enough.

When he's done, he feels like he has done a week's worth of work without a break. He wants to curl up and sleep without nightmares, without anything to disturb him.

He can't sleep though, not when Merlin needs it far more than he does. But then he's in his bed and he's not quite sure when that happened. He tries to get back up, but Merlin pushes him down again with little strength. "It's alright, Arthur," he pushes him down again and this time Arthur lets him, the fight bleeding out of him as quickly as it had come, "besides, I promised Gaius I would look after you."

"You're the one who needs looking after," Arthur murmurs but his words are already slurring. He wonders what's wrong with him—vaguely he thinks he's wondered that his entire life and will until the day he dies.

"I know. And you'll keep me in line once you've had some actual sleep."

"Keep you safe," Arthur corrects.

There's a silence full of something Arthur can't interpret, and he forces his eyes open, but he must be dreaming already because Merlin looks happy. Content.

"Yes, Arthur. But for now, you getting some sleep would make me happy."

Arthur thinks he should but he can't find it in himself to argue with that so his eyes slip closed, safe in the knowledge that Merlin will watch over him.

The next time Arthur wakes, his mind is clearer.

Guilt still assails him, and shame still envelops him. He's still broken, all jagged edges and torn pieces.

But...What Merlin told him had given clarity. So, it wasn't Arthur's choice—that didn't assuage his part in it, but he wasn't about to let whoever's choice it was get away with what had happened.

Arthur has a purpose. And a kingdom to protect.