A/N: This is the penultimate chapter, unless inspiration strikes for more ways to torture poor Gwaine. So if you have any last-minute requests, about what should happen next or how it should end, please get them in now!

...

Interestingly enough, in all of this: no Arthur. Gwaine had first assumed that Kings just didn't do that sort of sit-at-bedsides thing, but then he began to take it somewhat personally that Arthur hadn't even been by to see him, until once he caught the sound of raised voices just outside the door to Gaius' apothecary—

"Merlin, you can't keep me from seeing him!" Arthur shouted. "There are one or two rather important matters that we need to discuss!"

"Sire, as assistant to the court physician, I can keep you from seeing him. He's still very weak and in no condition to discuss anything."

Gwaine wondered what on earth Arthur wanted to "discuss" with him. Did he know about—

Oh, balls.

"Merlin?" Gwaine asked as Merlin entered the room, clearly troubled that Gwaine seemed to have overheard the altercation with Arthur.

"Oh, er, hm?" Merlin asked, looking innocent—which meant he looked guilty to Gwaine, who knew all about looking innocent.

"Where's my pendant?"

"Oh. You don't have it?"

"Merlin!"

Merlin sagged. "Okay, fine. Arthur has it," he said, and braced for impact.

Gwaine was silent for a minute, as a cold something—he wasn't sure if it was fury or terror—gripped him. "So that's what he wants to talk about."

Merlin nodded.

"Damn."

"Sorry."

Gwaine sat up, panic stirring: "You didn't tell him anything, did you?"

"No! Oh, no, no, I never would, Gwaine. But…"

"But what?"

"But….I might have maybe given him the impression that you would tell him. When you were ready. When you were better."

"You're kidding."

Merlin grinned from one enormously dorky ear to the other. "I thought you'd appreciate the opportunity to do the right thing."

Gwaine raised his eyes skyward for patience and slammed his head back against the pillow. "If you weren't a sorcerer, Merlin, and if I could sit up on my own for more than, oh, ten minutes at a time, I would bloody well kick your arse."

"Thank goodness for that, then," Merlin said, still grinning, and Gwaine laughed until it hurt.

…

"I can walk by my damn self, Perce!" Gwaine shouted in frustration, shoving against the unyielding grip of the larger knight.

"Don't let him go, Percival," Merlin warned. Both of them were ignoring him.

"Believe me, I have no intention," Percival said. His large hand hugging the small of Gwaine's back made him feel both safer and more vulnerable at the same time. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to cling to the giant shoulder that was supporting him, or pinch it as hard as he could in an effort to make the other knight let him go. "Come on, now, Gwaine, play nice. Give yourself a break, you've been off your feet for ten days."

"That doesn't mean I've forgotten how to walk!"

"He's not saying you did," Merlin encouraged, standing a few paces ahead of him with arms outstretched, like Gwaine was a damn infant being taught to walk by hovering parents, "you're still just a little weak, that's all."

"And that's another thing! Since when do 'Gwaine' and 'weak' belong in the same sentence all the time, huh?" he asked, still straining against Percival, "You've got to stop that."

"It's no shame to admit you're a little off form after what you—whoa!"

This last shout was from Percival, as Gwaine had finally managed to tug himself free—Percival, who was not accustomed to being overcome by anyone or anything, would add this to the now growing list of times when Gwaine's physical strength really surprised him—and insistently took a few wobbling steps on his own before his knees buckled and he went down. Luckily, Percival and Merlin caught him, but Gwaine hissed sharply and sort of seized up, and it was entirely thanks to Percival's strength that Gwaine ended up in a nearby chair rather than on the floor where he was heading.

"Gwaine! Gwaine, you all right?" Merlin was kneeling in front of him, looking up into his eyes, which were unfocused, and blinking rapidly. He took Gwaine's hand to steady him, and Gwaine gripped it back tightly.

"Ow," Gwaine said, grinding his teeth, as the world spun back into place. Merlin and Percival were close. Too much crowding. Not enough crowding. He felt like he might fall. He had forgotten how much his belly actually hurt. Apparently those muscles were involved with walking. Who knew?

"Yeah, 'ow'," Merlin admonished. Merlin, who apparently knew everything, and was taking this opportunity to point that out: "What did I tell you? You're not—"

"Ah, Sir Gwaine—you're awake. Excellent."

Everyone looked up as Arthur, fake-grinning broadly, waltzed into the room. He was flanked by two servants carrying a huge stack of books and rolls.

Gwaine felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and his brain cleared through the fog of pain very suddenly. Here was all that safely ignored everything coming back to get him. Merlin hadn't pressed him since he had first woken up, and Gwaine was able to continue on with mostly everyone else like things were more or less normal, but now….

A flare of panic stirred low in his gut as Arthur, between giving Percival the get-out stare and Merlin the I'll-deal-with-you-later glare, was giving Gwaine the we-need-to-talk look.

Gwaine hated that look.

"But, Sire—" Merlin began, standing up.

Percival also stood, but more like a knight called to attention, though he laid his huge hand on Gwaine's shoulder.

"I would like to speak with Sir Gwaine alone," Arthur said, the request sounding like a demand, a threat, and a promise all at once.

Merlin sent him a wistful glance. Gwaine tried to put on a brave face, but he wasn't sure he managed it.

"Arthur, please, I think—" Merlin tried, but Arthur would not be gainsaid.

"Thank you, Merlin, I will take your thoughts under advisement. Now, leave us. Both of you." He turned to the servants. "You can put those things on the table."

With a resigned sigh, Merlin collected a blanket from the bed and threw it around Gwaine's shoulders. Percival patted him on the back, and they left, followed by the servants.

Gwaine was alone with the King. Arthur was just standing there, looking all paternalistic and powerful, his arms crossed, his jaw set, just waiting. The silence dragged on, until Gwaine was desperate to fill it.

"I, um," Gwaine began, grasping at any excuse, perhaps even trying to crack a joke, "don't know how long I can keep this up, you know. I'm injured, apparently. I have a blanket!"

"Your ears and tongue are not injured, I see," Arthur said.

"I can't even walk!" he whined.

"Excellent. We might be able to get through this in one sitting without you running off." As Arthur stepped forward, Gwaine could not hide his involuntary flinch, though Arthur did not notice or pretended not to notice and sat in the chair next to him. He regarded Gwaine for some time before reaching into his pocket. "I believe this belongs to you," he said, laying the pendant and ring on the table.

After a moment's hesitation, Gwaine reached out and snatched it back. He wasn't sure whether he was glad to see it again or hated it for giving him away. He had tried to tell himself countless times before that it was just a couple pieces of metal, ties to a past he was no longer a part of, he should really get rid of it, but somehow he never could.

This already felt like an interrogation. And Gwaine did not want to talk.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Arthur's question startled Gwaine. Not the question itself, which reminded him of Merlin asking him the very same thing, but how Arthur said it. He sounded quite like Merlin in this moment—and Gwaine never compared Merlin and Arthur—as though by not telling him, Gwaine had betrayed him, hurt him, only not as a king, but as a friend. He had never thought of Arthur as a friend before.

"I…" Gwaine began, determined not to let this slip-up of emotions get the better of him. "Tell you what?" he tried, innocently.

Arthur growled as he stood up, causing Gwaine to flinch again and close his eyes as Arthur stalked around the room, looking for something to punch. When he was finally a safe distance from Gwaine, he wheeled back, fixing him with blue eyes made of steel. "You have underestimated me once, Gwaine. I do not advise you to do it again."

Gwaine shifted uncomfortably under that stare, and was the first to back down. He pulled the blanket closer around him, and he could feel his heartbeat speeding up.

Arthur now went to the stacks of books, flicking through them absently, and launched into speech-mode. "Now, for some reason, I had been under the impression that by making you a Knight of Camelot I would earn your trust, just as you had earned mine."

Uh-oh. Past tense. Had trusted. Not good.

"Sire, I—" Gwaine blurted out, and Arthur paused, actually allowing him to continue. But Gwaine shook himself. Had he just called Arthur 'sire'?

"Did you have something to say?" Arthur prompted, with growing impatience.

"I…" Gwaine stopped, clamped his mouth shut, and hung his head. "No, Sire." Better to see what Arthur knew first before he blabbed.

Or plead not guilty, or whatever.

"Well, I guess it's a good thing our Court Genealogist is so good at what he does. The man should really be a historian. Because if I had waited for you to tell me, we might be here until Doomsday, Sir Gwaine. Or should that be Lord Gwaine, or even Prince Gwaine?"

Gwaine's head shot up as he looked at Arthur in alarm. So he knew…a lot.

"Quite the exciting family tree you have, not to mention your exciting personal history. I have your name on the payroll of at least half a dozen minor nobility, and yet. The firstborn son of Prince Loth and an Orkneian Princess, yet you chose to live your life as a commoner, denying your heritage—"

"Formerly, I think you'll find," Gwaine growled, finding his tongue as, for no reason at all, hearing Arthur talking about his parents boiled his blood. It brought back too many memories, too much rage at the injustice of the world, reminder why he hated…anyone with any power.

"What's that?"

"Both houses disavowed them," he sneered. "I'm still not noble, not technically. And when my father died in the service of Caerleon, he sent my mother away, too."

That gave Arthur pause. Gwaine relished in it.

"If three supposedly 'noble' households turned you out on the street, I think you'd find it a bit difficult to identify with any of them, too. Did you find that in your books? The true meaning of 'nobility'? You're damn right I'm not going to own up to any of that."

"But—" Arthur faltered. "My father—you could have been a knight years ago! Your birth was all that mattered to him!"

Gwaine laughed dryly. "You assume I wanted to work for someone like him. No offense," he added, with of course every shred of offense intended.

Arthur looked back down at the texts, partially, it seemed, to collect his wits. It was an unfortunate truth that neither man was very comfortable with talking about…well, much of anything, really. Definitely not feelings. That was what they had Merlin for, and other sensitive types such as Gwen and Gaius. Although rightfully indignant that Gwaine had been lying to him all this time, Arthur had, as a matter of fact, intended this conversation to go much smoother, more friendly and compassionate, but instead both of them had only gotten angry.

They were more alike than either cared to admit.

Which made sense, now.

Arthur broke the silence. "It says here that your mother, Anna of Orkney…"

"You don't know shite about my mother," Gwaine growled, and it was so raw and emotional Arthur couldn't help but feel he was getting somewhere with this, so he poked it:

"…was executed fifteen years ago for the murder of her husband—a second husband, it looks like: Lamorak?"

Gwaine stood up, swaying dangerously, but when Arthur reached out to steady him, he jerked back. The blanket dropped to the floor. "That's a lie! He was an abusive prick and a ravisher. It was self-defense, and I didn't know she would be killed, but if I hadn't done that then she would still—"

Arthur blinked. It was suddenly getting difficult for either of them to breathe. "You killed him?" Arthur looked down at a few more records. "Gwaine, you were nine years old." Arthur himself had killed his first man at fifteen—something he wasn't necessarily proud of, but that was war, that was his job. He felt only pity for the knight, but since Gwaine knew there was no possible way Arthur could ever feel that way toward him, he saw only reproach in the king's eyes.

And he was done pretending he didn't deserve it.

"That explains my cowardice, then, too, because I ran," Gwaine spat. He was livid. He was gripping the back of the chair for stability, but also to keep something between him and Arthur. In this moment, he saw nothing but red, old wounds now open and angry and bleeding. He hated the nobility, the fucking aristocracy, all of them, every one an inbred patrician scumbag. He hated himself for the blood that ran in his veins. He hated those papers and books—written by the nobility, favoring their petty political machinations built on lies and cruelty. He hated what they had done to his mother, to his father, to him. "And yes, I killed him, for what he did to my mother. And I'd do it again. And if you hadn't executed Caerleon I would have murdered him myself if given half the chance. If you want to sit there and believe those lies—" he pointed to the stack of manuscripts and rolls, which Gwaine wanted nothing more than to rush at and tip into the fire, burning the lot, even if the exertion killed him, "that filth, then go ahead. Everyone else has. No one would dare believe any noble could do anything wrong. No one would dare write that one of you could do anything wrong."

Arthur, refusing to become angry, stepped forward, trying to be commanding as well as gentle, but Gwaine still shied away from him, like a skittish horse. Or maybe more like a wounded tiger.

"Then tell me, Gwaine," Arthur demanded. He was using his King voice. The voice that Gwaine bucked against even as he followed it into battle without a thought. He took another step forward, grasped Gwaine's arm as he was about to topple, and then the King voice, the King persona was gone. There was compassion in those eyes where Gwaine had assumed no compassion could rest, there was trust, and that bloody annoying desire to help that made him feel so uncomfortable, even a sparkle of unshed tears: "Please, Gwaine. Tell me. I want to put it to right. I trust you to tell me the truth. I will believe you."

When the hell had Arthur gotten so two-faced? And why, oh, why, did he hide this side of his personality?

So Gwaine told him. And once Gwaine started, there was no shutting him up. Arthur wanted the truth? He would get it.

But he wouldn't like it.

So Gwaine told him about his father being exiled from his kingdom because of his older brother's paranoia. He told him about the secret love of his father and mother, and that they fled Orkney when Anna discovered she was with child. He told them about his father's service under Caerleon, and Caerleon's refusal to grant the family pension when Loth died in battle. He told Arthur about that dirty rotten bastard Lamorak she married for his wealth and his protection, and how Gwaine had killed him, and how his mother had told him to run, taking the blame herself to save him. He told the King how he had stolen to survive, wandering town to town until he was caught thieving and thrown into a prison. He told how Lady Bertilak released him from prison, and how he was the actual father to the heir of the infertile Sir Bertilak in one of the western provinces. He told Arthur of his life fighting for coin at May Day celebrations, of his life as a mercenary for more warlords of negotiable virtue than he cared to name. He told Arthur of the blood on his hands, of the heartbroken maidens, of the outraged innkeepers, of the raided villages, of surviving well-deserved wounds that he had wished would just kill him outright but never did.

At some point, Arthur had made him sit down. He must have begun shivering, because Arthur replaced the blanket around his shoulders, as well.

And Arthur listened.

Gwaine choked on the last few words, when he had come to the end of his story, terror taking hold of him as he suddenly realized what he had done. He would have to leave. Arthur was going to throw him out. He didn't want to go, please, not another city he could never return to, soon there would be no cities left for him. I'm sorry, he wanted to say, as he had said to Merlin in his dream, Sorry for everything. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't beg. He was trembling violently now, but he was somehow incapable of crying, and the strain was rattling his body apart. He was sorry, but he couldn't say it. His definition of a good nobleman was one worth dying for. Not one worth crying for.

So the next words out of Arthur's mouth surprised Gwaine. "I'm sorry."

Arthur was crying. Why was he crying? Gwaine, who was used to being able to read people easily, assessing types and knowing what those around him were thinking before they thought it, could never hope to understand Arthur. He had known about Merlin's magic, his most closely-guarded secret, almost as long as he had known Merlin. But Arthur made no sense.

"Why are you crying?" Gwaine demanded. "Why are you sorry?"

And then the realization hit him:

This was the, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to let you go…

"You want me to leave," Gwaine blurted out. Arthur looked at him, sharply, mouth open in surprise, as Gwaine stood up. "What, you don't think I've heard that before? I know the signs. Look, thanks for, whatever, for believing me, I guess." All kinds of ironies were there that Gwaine could have mentioned, but he chose not to, hoping for one last night's rest in a bed and a hot meal at least before he was banished. "I just need a horse and a sword, and I—or either, or neither, really—and you'll never have a problem with me again. I can be gone by sunrise."

"You are not going anywhere," Arthur said, also standing, suddenly imposing again, his voice shaking with something like rage. He reached out to touch him, but Gwaine didn't let him, so the King clenched his hands into fists instead. "Gwaine, please believe me when I say that I am so sorry. I only wish there was more I could do for you. One thing I can do is put the record to rights. Your mother can have justice."

Gwaine's mouth flapped, but no sound came out. Arthur advanced on him again, but Gwaine was too weak, too stunned, to escape.

"Gwaine, I do not want you to leave, do you understand me?" He clasped Gwaine's shoulder, his hand warm, his grip stable. "When you are able, you will appear in court and testify, and your mother's name will be cleared. That is where we will start, anyway."

Gwaine nodded dumbly, quite torn. The world began to blur and go dark—or had it just gotten dark outside?—and he was vaguely aware of someone helping him back to bed and covering him up with a blanket. He was still shaking, shocked and awed by what had just happened, by what was going to happen. Mind. Blown. Gwaine didn't notice when Arthur left, or when Merlin came back in and tried talking to him. He couldn't hear past the ringing in his ears. His eyes couldn't focus.

His greatest desire and his greatest fear were coming together as a package deal. Lamorak and Caerleon were going to get the epitaphs they deserved. Arthur was going to clear his mother's name.

The true guilty party was going to be brought to justice.

Arthur wasn't going to banish him.

Arthur was going to execute him.