Chapter Six

"Merlin?"

His friend appears at his bedside immediately, "Sorry, sorry—Gaius is coming any moment and I was cleaning up."

'Cleaning up' apparently meant hiding the wounds and the sickness and the pain away all over again. Arthur scowls; he hates that Merlin is so willing to hide it all and pretend that he is fine when he is anything but. Hates that Merlin pulls on his own masks to get through the day; hates that Merlin even has his own masks.

"Come on, he'll be here any moment."

"What do I tell him?" Arthur asks, climbing out of bed, his body aching though he hasn't actually done anything.

"Well how do you feel?" Merlin asks simply.

"Like I've been fighting a battle for days with no respite," Arthur answers honestly as he heads to the table to pour himself a drink, "and I'm cold and...sickly." As he tips the cup back, he realizes it hadn't even crossed his mind to hide his pain from Merlin; again, he wonders what that makes him. A hypocrite, he supposes, though the word doesn't seem descriptive enough for all he has done. For all he has forgotten.

"Back to bed with you then," Merlin frowns in concern and ushers him in that direction and Arthur allows himself to be led. "You should tell Gaius that and anything else you're feeling—he needs to know what's wrong. And just as a warning..."

"What?" Arthur growls suspiciously.

"They think you were poisoned."

"What!"

"Well, what else were they supposed to think? One moment you're fine and the next you're vomiting, unresponsive to anyone and anything around you, and acting delusional. And for the record, are you sure you weren't poisoned?" Merlin spouts off with not a breath in between sentences.

"Yes! No!" Arthur sighs and falls back against his pillows, "I have no idea," at this point, he's not sure of anything.

"Well, Gaius will ask you a lot of questions so you should be prepared," Merlin warns.

Arthur nods then suddenly sits up again, "Wait, Gaius knows about you?"

Worry and relief wage a war within him but it's short lived when Merlin answers, "No. And please, don't tell him."

"I won't," Arthur promises again and though the words still burn his throat, at least this time he thinks he understands why.

"It's just, I couldn't not be here," Merlin explains, "not without raising the warning bells."

"What did you tell him?" Arthur asks anxiously, wondering if he should have told Merlin the excuse he had come up with or if it was already too late and they would both be caught in a lie. What would they do then? Arthur doesn't know how to live a life of deception.

"That this is what you get for being such a prat and keeping me so busy," Merlin replies as he hands him a clean shirt. Arthur takes it; reluctantly admiring the smooth evasion of all the questions that no doubt would have been asked yet still completely in character of their relationship with each other. They had both always been far more comfortable in hiding their affection and worry for each other behind insults and banter.

Not that he has to like the deception. "So that's all?"

Merlin frowns, bites his lip, looks around at the room for an answer, then shrugs. "Yeah, think so."

"I'm just supposed to go back to pretending that I don't know?"

"Yes, Sire," Merlin may have gone on but there's a knock at the door. He throws him an encouraging smile then limps over to answer it.

Arthur pulls on his own mask—still just as dreaded and still just as necessary—as Gaius walks in, already asking Merlin how Arthur's doing in a quiet voice.

"Ah, Gaius," Arthur interrupts because he has never been an easy patient and he isn't going to start now.

"Sire, you're awake!" Gaius exclaims with relief.

Arthur wonders how bad his condition had gotten for the physician to be so openly relieved. "I am," He wonders what Gaius would sound like if he could lay eyes on his beloved ward and see the canvas of pain that Arthur and someone—he will find them and he will stop them—has painted on him.

"And how do you feel?"

Arthur answers as honestly as possible—but he cannot tell him about the pain that is so deep in his bones, that burrows deep into his very soul—and accepts Gaius' examination with little complaint. Merlin hovers at his mentor's shoulders and looks for all the world like he's fine—only worried for Arthur.

"Do you recall eating anything unusual?"

"No."

"Drink anything with a different taste than you were expecting?"

"No."

"See anything?"

Blood and chains and betrayal. Arthur keeps his eyes locked on Gaius because if he looks at Merlin—clean and whole and standing—than he will break.

"No," his voice does not waver.

And on and on it goes.

After Gaius has exhausted his questions, he allows him to eat and drink a little bit. Then he leads Merlin into the corner, and they talk in whispers too quiet for Arthur to eavesdrop on. He scowls at both of them but they, as usual, ignore him.

After Gaius leaves, a couple of his counselors trickle in and the questions start all over again. Then comes Leon and Percival who ask the same exact things. He knows they're all just doing their duty, but his patience is wearing thin and he can't help but snap at them until they finally bow out of his room.

After they're all gone, he feels like he could sleep for an entire week and he's tempted to just fall back into bed.

But Merlin comes first.

Taking care of Merlin doesn't get easier no matter how many times he does it.

Maybe, he thinks, whatever he does won't even matter in the end. But Arthur pushes the thought away as soon as it surfaces, refusing to even so much as contemplate that what he's doing now won't matter in the future.

He cleans the wounds and scratches; binds the broken bones; sets poultices over the burns; and he stitches the wounds Merlin can't reach together.

There are times when Arthur thinks he sheds more tears than Merlin sheds blood.

"Sire, if we may have a word?"

Well, those words never bode well but Arthur only nods and murmurs, "Of course," even while his feet lead the small group into an empty room and his muscles tense in preparation for an attack. "What's on your minds?"

Leon clears his throat and looks slightly uncomfortable while Percival absolutely refuses to meet Arthur's gaze. This isn't good at all, is it?

"It's obviously something important, please you know you can speak your minds without fear of my reprisal," Arthur says, even though it's only partially true—as a king there are certain things that he cannot overlook no matter in what confidence they are given.

"It's about Merlin." Percival finally says.

Arthur's heart starts to beat an unsteady rhythm and his lungs threaten to close in on him. No, no he doesn't think that he can force another lie past his lips, not now when he knows what Merlin has given up for him, "What about him?"

"It's just...well, we don't mean to criticize but..." Leon starts, he runs a hand through his hair then takes a deep breath before rushing on, "don't you think you might be working him a bit hard?"

"It's just we've barely seen him the past week and he seemed rather...tired when we did," Percival finishes.

Oh, is that all? Arthur wants to laugh—this is by far the best concern they've brought to him—but at the same time, he wants to scream—because they don't know the half of it and how tired Merlin really is. And that no matter what Arthur does, it will never be enough.

"It's been a rather long week for him—for us all," Arthur replies, trying to keep to the truth without giving anything away. He can't help but wonder how many times Merlin had done this for him.

"Not that we're blaming you, of course," Leon assures him, again, then he adds, "We just thought you might want it brought to your attention because—well, you ordered us to, if you recall." Which is true; Arthur had ordered everyone in the castle, besides Merlin of course, to tell him if his servant seemed unwell or tired beyond normal or not eating enough. This had been after Merlin had collapsed during a feast from, according to Gaius, exhaustion and a fever that Merlin had told no one about. This was, of course before Arthur knew the truth and wondered if all those times had been lies and Merlin had been suffering from something far worse than exhaustion.

"I do and I thank you for bringing it to my attention," Now what to do about it? Then he shakes his head because the answer is as clear as can be, "And between you and me, I would give anything to give him the rest he deserves, but you know how he is; he never listens to me, always thinks he knows what's best."

They both nod in understanding with fond smiles but it's Leon who answers, "Yes, he does at that, though after your...sickness it's rather surprising he's left your side."

It's a good point but Arthur can't tell them that he had left Merlin sleeping fitfully after once again tending to those cursed wounds that weren't healing nearly fast enough so he merely shrugs, "He'll be around here somewhere, mother hen that he is."

Percival chuckles and Leon laughs outright so Arthur plasters on a smile of his own. It feels wrong but he still has to pretend that everything is alright.

"Has any messenger arrived from Gwen today?" Arthur changes the subject, more than ready to talk about something else.

"No, Sire," Leon replies, naturally slipping into report mode, "but there's nothing unusual about that since we received one only three days ago."

"And since the queen is not set to return for a while longer, no news is good news," Percival adds.

"Quite," Arthur agrees though really, it's not about the news itself, he just wants to read something written in Gwen's messy handwriting, wants something to remind himself that she loves him and that she is coming home to him.

He has no idea what he will tell her, how he will keep his sins away from her, but he wants her there with him regardless.

Merlin slides something closer to his king, his eyes locked on Arthur.

Arthur's too busy trying to wash the blood from his hands to pay much attention to it until a drop of water gleams unexpectedly.

He drops the rag and stumbles backwards until he hits the wall hard enough to leave a bruise. It's still not enough distance, not nearly enough; he's tempted to run out of the room, out of the castle, out of his kingdom.

"Arthur please, it's alright, it's okay," Merlin is saying over and over again and Arthur wonders how long he's been talking, "Please, Arthur it's fine, it's just a dagger—it's your dagger!"

Arthur shakes his head over and over again; he can't breathe; his lungs are frozen in terror.

It's worse now, so much worse than it was before. Before Arthur remembered what it had done to his friend, before he remembered his hands holding it and forcing it to do those horrible things that will forever haunt him.

The dagger lies innocently between them. It's clean of the blood that Arthur had purposely left to dry so it would rust and corrode the blade. It shines clean of Merlin's blood, polished by its victim's hands, sharpened by Merlin because Arthur certainly hadn't taken such care of it.

And Arthur doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand. He wants to never lay eyes on the dagger again, he can't even imagine touching it after they atrocities it has committed—they have committed together.

How can he? What if he is enchanted again? What if he uses it to hurt Merlin again? To hurt anyone? No, he won't put himself in that position. There's a part of him that knows this isn't logical, that knows he could use his sword—indeed, he can use any weapon at all to harm his people.

But it was this dagger that has already been used and he can't find it in himself to touch it.

"Sire...Arthur, please listen to me," Merlin says, his eyes blazing with something that Arthur has never been able to place, no matter how many times he sees it.

Because he recognizes this look, oh so many times he's seen it. This is the look that Merlin always wears when he tries with all he is to get Arthur to listen; when he tried to warn him over and over again about Aggravaine, when he tried to convince Arthur to take him as a sacrifice to the Cailleach, when he told Arthur to believe in himself, when he tried and tried. And Arthur so very rarely listens.

Arthur takes a shuddering breath and listens to Merlin.

"Arthur, you need another weapon with you—at all times and not many know about this one. You're not safe and you and I both know how easy it is to lose track of swords—especially against sorcerers. This dagger—or any dagger, really, it doesn't have to be this one specifically—could save your life."

Yet another reason he shouldn't take it then.

Merlin chances a glance at Arthur then sighs and continues in a resigned voice, "And by saving your life, you save mine."

And Arthur doesn't need to hear anymore, doesn't have the strength to fight anymore, doesn't have to even think about his next move.

Because, as he so often is, Merlin is right. Arthur is the only one who knows about his wounds, is the only one taking care of him, is the only one trying to save his life—when he's not the one taking it. If something happens to Arthur, Merlin has no chance at surviving.

And if there is even the slightest chance that this will help Merlin how can Arthur not take it?

He takes a shaky step forward, and another, and another until he bends down and with the utmost care his hands touch the dagger. He slips it into his boot as fast as he can; afraid of what he will remember, afraid to let Merlin see the dagger once more in his hands.

The brief touch still burns.

"For you," Arthur murmurs, because he needs Merlin to know why he's doing this, because he needs to remember why he is doing this, "Only for you, Merlin."

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the late update-life got pretty chaotic and then my computer wasn't working for a bit. I'll try to be a bit more consistent with updates though. As an apology, here's two chapters for you.