Thanks go to my beta Serendipity08, who is amazing!

AN: Here again, we have some actual dialogue from the episode My Father's Son. Just borrowing a bit to help my fic stay as close as possible in storyline, no infringement meant whatsoever.

And my sincerest apologies to Merlin, who really doesn't deserve this...

Arthur lay on his cot, eyes wide open. His body was begging for sleep, but his mind would not relent. He had made so many mistakes in such a short amount of time. First, killing Caerleon. Then, going to Gwen and breaking her heart by telling her they could no longer be together. Arthur winced. He'd actually said something about her being an "inappropriate" companion for a king. Now, as he faced death, he wished more than anything that his last words to her had not been so shortsighted and damn hurtful. At least then she would be able to remember him well.

Those mistakes were bad enough, but now another smote his conscience. He had, over the past days, pushed Merlin away over and over again, ignoring his warnings, his camaraderie and his vulnerable offer of a listening ear. Instead, Arthur had used him as a punching bag. And how had Merlin repaid him? By following Arthur tonight and trying to protect him from the barbarians. It never made sense to Arthur why Merlin was so foolhardy, but he knew it had something to do with the servant's extreme loyalty and fervent desire to have Arthur's back.

Arthur swallowed hard. He had been so convinced that this was the right path for him, that he would be able to atone for his mistake and, if he survived, return to Gwen to make peace with her as well. But now, that certainty was shot to hell. If this was the right thing to do, then why was Merlin having a share in paying the price?

It was no help to ask what his father would have done. Uther had reiterated over and over again his tenant that servants were replaceable and not worth worry. He would have simply said, "The boy is suffering for Camelot's sake and any knight would be willing to do the same. There is no greater service to his king."

That was just one of the many areas where Arthur and his father differed dramatically. And yet, this time, he had to act exactly as Uther would have, as Gwaine had sharply pointed out. Ignore Merlin's pain. Leave him in the hands of the enemy. Sleep as if there was nothing on his mind at all.

What a fantastic plan, especially the part where half his kingdom relied on how much rest he got tonight. Because, after all, there was the small matter of a fight to the death with Caerleon's unknown champion.

Arthur forced his mind back to the conversation he'd had with Leon, on the fighting styles of Caerleon's warriors. They were brutish men, known for fighting more with blunt force and short weaponry than with strategy. Arthur would have his armor and his expertise in hand-to-hand combat. That and a burning desire to give Caerleon pain after what they'd done to Merlin. No. He cut himself off and forced the desperate feelings down. He could not win a fight on high emotion. That had been drilled into his head over and over again from the time he was a young boy of ten, still learning from Baorn, the captain of the knights.

"Settle your head between your shoulders and your heart beneath your armor, or you will lose both of them," the man had said over and over again, whacking him on his helmet with the flat of his sword. Baorn had a long, glorious career and died a noble death, protecting Uther in a campaign.

Put your heart beneath your armor. Focus.

What Arthur would not have in this fight was any assurance that the Caerleon warrior would know the rules of engagement. In fact, he should probably expect him to ignore them all. No quarter would be given. Arthur needed to stay completely out of the way of the man's weaponry, strike hard and strike first. And somehow, perhaps by an act of God, ignore Merlin's presence until the fight was done.

Gwaine eased his way out of the tent, sword in hand, and nearly ran into Rhys, who was dressed in full gear and standing right outside his tent. Funny. "Rhys, what are you doing?" he sighed.

"Making sure you don't go anywhere. King's orders." The man shrugged.

Gwaine spat out an oath. "What do you expect me to do, go back in the tent and go to sleep while Merlin is being tortured?"

Rhys shifted. "I'm sure he's fine."

"No you're not. But hey, at least you're obeying your king." Gwaine looked up at Rhys through narrowed eyes. "And that's all that's really important, right? You can just stand here, doing your duty, and thank God it's not you over there. But what if it was? You think you'd be telling yourself over and over again what a privilege it is to suffer for the sake of Camelot?"

"I…don't know." Rhys found himself very tempted to give in and let the knight slip by. Everyone knew Gwaine didn't always play by the rules and that he was the deadliest knight in Camelot. But Arthur had commissioned Rhys for this job personally, and it was the first time he'd drawn notice for something all year. He could not abandon his post and face his king afterwards. He just shook his head.

"Good answer." Gwaine clapped Rhys on the shoulder and grinned mirthlessly. "Next time we're sparring, Sir Rhys, I'm going to ask for you."

When the knight turned away to enter the tent, Rhys finally found his voice. "Phillip is around the back, so don't even think—"

And then, a small sound—sheeeeewwww, and Rhys found his weapon was out and up, only a second before the sword swinging in a wide arc clanged against his, just next to his throat. It was Gwaine, pressing forward, eyes blazing and his sword bearing down on Rhys so hard that the bigger man was forced to give ground. Leaning harder, Rhys gritted his teeth. "Go back inside, Gwaine, and keep calm. There's nothing you can do. Arthur won't let you."

Gwaine's eyes glittered dangerously and he held his sword hard at Rhys's throat until the moment to give up had long gone past. Finally, Gwaine relented. He fell back and his sword arm dropped until the weapon was touching the ground.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he muttered, "I swear to God. I have no idea what I'm doing. I need a drink."

Rhys straightened up and put away his sword. He gestured to Phillip, who returned to his post, and nodded to Leon, who was watching from outside the king's tent with a disappointed expression. He made a shushing gesture. Rhys nodded. Arthur getting sleep was of primary importance tonight. There were so few hours before daylight.

He heard Gwaine stumbling around and cursing inside the tent. At this rate, he was going to wake up everyone. After a moment, all grew quiet again. Rhys turned his back to woods and watched the tent and the distant campfire. Gwaine's words had stirred something in him.

Merlin wasn't a knight; this was something that had been emphasized by the king over and over again during those training sessions when he bashed the poor servant around in order "to toughen him up." It never seemed to work. And watching Merlin handle himself during those sessions had made the knights give him grudging respect. He took the worst Arthur dished out without any method of repayment. Gwaine, of course, had taken to punishing Arthur back in whatever contest they were having. Rhys had never done that, but somehow, he had begun to feel protective of Merlin, and to see him as their mascot of sorts. And now they were just supposed to turn their backs on him? It didn't seem right.

But then…what else could they do?

Light. Dark.

Screaming…no, not… like that. Screaming not in mouth. From mouth. Bleeding from mouth. Salt on his tongue, blood from his lips…

Light. Dark. Screaming…not out loud. Don't. White hot…shaking. Tasting blood. Fingers…moving, dancing along a smooth bone then…sunken, broken. Pain. Screaming…no. Tears. No tears. White, hot. Light. Dark.

Fuzzing out. Never before. Breathing? Breathing. Don't move. Someone…standing. Eight…hits?

Fingers clenching, shaking, broken, cradling. Tongues of fire, of flame, dancing. In and out, a demonic tide, taking more and more of him…

Arthur?

No…don't. Touch. Screaming…on the inside. Fingers touching eyes…no. Wet? Blood. Dark. Screaming…on the insiiiiiiide. Dragging him down.

Shuddering breaths, shaking fingers. Inside not…broken. Magic…right…there. Silver…yes…soft silver glow. The rest faded… the agony scraping and piercing and pounding and screaming throughout his body, that made him shake and whimper and hate himself. The pain demanded attention, was so exhausting, no matter what he did. And his eyes…oh god, his eyes…

Slowly, the hum of magic grew louder until it began to silence the frantic pain. Merlin fell and fell and fell…into the soft comfort of a painless unconsciousness.

Morgana strode to the queen's tent with determination and well concealed glee. The word around the Caerleon fires was that Arthur himself was to fight as champion. The warriors were frustrated, but had been promised some sport. Apparently, the queen had a prisoner belonging to Arthur. A smirk danced on her lips. Yes, this was perfect. She could use this. If Merlin had bumbled his way into Queen Annis's hands, then surely he was not long for his world.

Once this would have grieved her, but she almost laughed aloud at the thought now. At the entrance to the tent, she schooled her expression and gestured for the guards to step aside. They remembered her from her previous visit to the Caerleon castle and did not hold her arms as they escorted her inside.

Queen Annis turned immediately, and Morgana found herself once again the recipient of her calculating and impressive gaze. This woman's presence spoke of a lifetime of experience and gained wisdom that could be brought to bear on any situation. Morgana found herself discarding her first choice of words, changing tactics before she'd spoken a single word.

"I heard the news."

Annis turned away. "I don't like it. It must be a trick."

"What concerns you, your highness?" Her voice was sickly sweet, a rotten imitation of her old, Uther-pleasing ways.

"Arthur. Why would he choose himself the champion?"

"Because he's Arthur. He'll always choose to risk his own life over others'. Trust me, it's no trick. Arthur will fight."

"Oh, I know he'll fight. I have his man here." Annis walked closer to Morgana. "I was actually more concerned about you, that you and Arthur might be working together, playing me for a fool." She gave the girl a disconcerting look.

"Me? Work with Arthur? Only to bring about his own death, I assure you."

"You desire the throne of Camelot, do you not?"

"I don't deny it. It is rightfully mine, after all. But he will not win."

"How do you know this?"

"Because I have the power to ensure that he doesn't."

Annis face cleared. Here was something she understood. "Then you must use it."

"I will, on one condition. You let me see his manservant. I want to pay my…respects."

Morgana nearly laughed when Annis led her to where Arthur's servant was sprawled out on a litter, ready to carry out to the battlefield. He looked like the living dead. She had to look closely twice to be sure that it was him. Dried blood pooled under his nose and over his lips, which were split and doubly bloody. His eyes looked…wrong. Both were black and swollen shut; more than that, the fine bones of his brow had crumpled on the right side, and extreme bruising had swollen that side of his face. More bruises were scattered around his face and neck. One ear looked torn. A very thorough beating.

Morgana smiled as she stood back up. "We won't even need my magic to make Arthur lose. Seeing Merlin like this will kill him."

"Then I believe we are ready." Annis gave Morgana a contented smile.