He'd become rather concerned a week prior, when he'd burned a hand print through the hall table.
He, Gwaine, and several other knights had been positioned round a throne room table before their conversation had became fervent, and Arthur's hand had, consequently, begun to sink through the wood of the table.
"Well," Gwaine had mused, and clapped his hand on Arthur's shoulder like he was his brother and not his superior, "at least no one will ever forget where you sit again, sire." He gestured to the hand print on the table, a perfect, molten mould of Arthur's hand, and still red with heat.
Arthur felt his cheeks burn as hot as the table. He uncurled his knotted fingers to study the calluses on his palms.
His hands rumbled against him when he patted them down against his chest.
"I've been possessed," he decided.
Gwaine and the others did not comment, so Arthur continued; "I'll have council with my father. We'll find a way to undo this."
"I suppose you won't want anyone to know of this, then?" Gwaine lowered his arms, to poke at the crust of Arthur's hand print. Arthur glared at him, and Gwaine removed his own hand from the print to slap the untouched portion of the table, as though for reassurance. He then tucked the both of his hands neatly behind his back, and hummed.
Arthur addressed the small assembly, and treated each member of the crowd to a very, very stern look, so as to communicate his seriousness on the matter: "no one shall mention this. Understood?"
He'd then heaved himself up from the table, and turned to push his way through the throne room doors.
He did not, actually, have council with his father, however.
He wasn't sure why. Not then, anyway.
Arthur ordered that portion of the table remade, and lied to the builders about the origins of the angry, reddened blemish. Of course, to encourage their compliance, Arthur also treated each to a hefty sum of coins.
All was well until, as he harrumphed his way down hallway some days later-after an argument with his father-a poorly-clad chambermaid approached him.
"Sire," the ragged lady began. She was nervous-Arthur could tell by the hunched position of her shoulders-and when she bowed to him, the gesture was more of a hiccup of the head.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but, um," she continued, and pointed to his shoulder: "you appear to be on fire."
Arthur turned his head to stare at his upper arm, which had, actually, caught fire.
"Ah," Arthur said, and was confused. The heat did not bother him personally, but had begun to char his clothes. The hall reeked of smolder, and the stench of his burned tunic. "You're very right."
"Should I, ah, do something?" the maid prompted.
"Oh, no," Arthur assured her, "no, that's fine." He slapped down the fire along his arm, and the fat flames seemed to pass around the flats of his fingertips. There was no pain when he dug his hand around the flesh of his shoulder, as the flesh turned pale under the pressure of his touch. Presently, the fire began to recede under his palm, and finally crumble away with a few, black patches of his new tunic, to pepper the floor.
The charred smell still clung to his nostrils, and Arthur scratched his nose. His fingers were cool to the touch.
"Sire?" the lady asked, slowly.
Arthur dug around through his pockets. His fingers closed around a loose pile of change-a bundle he'd earned over a game of dice-and pressed the wad of coins to the maid's palm. "Not a word," he ordered her.
She stared, reluctantly unclenched the muscles of her hands, and collected the coins with a gentle touch.
"You're sure you're all right, sire?" she asked of him, as she counted out, and then pocketed the change.
"Not a word," he demanded over his shoulder-the muscle there now bare and caked with soot, though otherwise unharmed-as he stumbled over his own feet. He'd thought that things would stop, then.
He'd been wrong.
Again and again, heat rushed up to flush against the pads of his fingers, until he could clap them on a wall and watch the wood there peel away under his hands. He could no longer deny, of course, that something was, ah, wrong.
Arthur consulted Gaius about a supposed fever, but Gaius assured him that he was well. When the physician excused himself to see to a flu-stricken lady, Arthur had made for the bookshelves. He wasn't sure how he knew there was a spell, somewhere between the musty pages of the old man's books, and yet…
He had to be certain.
Twenty minutes later, and a week after his first hand print, there he was, still on the floor of his chambers, book on the bed, pot of water and mental faculties overturned.
The carpet had nearly dried, now.
Oh gods. Oh gods, he was a sorcerer. Arthur lurched to one side and dry heaved again.
He could bring a pot of water to boil. He could touch someone and-what? He could burn a hole through a wall. Burn a hole through a chest cavity. Oh gods, oh gods.
He was a sorcerer.
He could burn his flesh through a table. He could boil water with his bare hands.
He's been possessed. Of course. That's what he said to Gwaine, right? He should go to his father. He should tell Uther. Uther would need to know about him, anyway, and his, erm, disease. He should go to his father.
But Arthur couldn't.
Limbs sweaty and knees a-wobble, Arthur arranged his arms and legs so as to hobble upwards. He waddled a tad back, then, and shuddered to a stop, to lean against the plushness of his royal bed. His chest heaved, and his ribs ached.
Oh gods, he was a sorcerer.
There was still a stain on the floor, but the coloration was subtle, as the water continued to dry. Merlin had really made sure to fill that pot. As his muscles unclenched, Arthur stowed the metal pot away under the bed. He was still unsure as to what to do with Gaius' tea book, however. Eventually, he pressed the thing under a lump of neatly-folded clothes, within the polished confines of his wardrobe.
From that moment onward, Arthur lay on his bed. He couldn't think of anything productive to do with himself, besides talk to his father.
He really, really ought to talk to his father.
And yet, he did not budge.
Arthur wondered why he was being so stubborn. He did not understand his own reluctance any more than he understood why he could suddenly burn his hands through walls. Over the last week, he had become an enemy unto himself.
His friend waddled over, sometime later. He took his time, as was usual. Arthur's manservant was wont to dawdle, and when he did turn up, he oftentimes did so out of nowhere, from under a bed or some other unholy spot.
There came, slowly, a heavy 'clomp', 'clomp' of feet. The noise cued poor Merlin's uneven approach, his boots so wadded up and old that they slapped against each stair he climbed. There was another small assembly of 'claps' and 'clops', and then Merlin himself popped his pin-head through the door to Arthur's chambers.
"So," Merlin heaved out, as he shlepped his way through the door. Not even a 'sire' this time.
Arthur said nothing.
Merlin raised his hands.
"How was your pot thing?" he asked.
Arthur did not want to tell him. He'd known that long before Merlin had pushed open his door. What would Merlin think of him? The two had become more closely-knit than one of his old linen sweaters, and Arthur didn't want to sour that relationship. He wasn't sure what would happen to their friendship, should he come to reveal himself and his condition, but Arthur did know that the consequences would be dire.
Would Merlin tell his father?
He shouldn't have ben the one to worry about that, Arthur reminded himself, as Arthur himself should have the guts to tell his father.
He really ought to tell his father.
There was a small 'um' from across the room, and Arthur remembered to peel his hands from his face before he started to pull out his eyes with his fingers.
"My armor needs to be scrubbed," Arthur addressed his friend. He gestured at him to leave.
"Already did that," Merlin said. He did not move.
"It's dirty again."
"Oh?" Merlin asked.
Arthur ground his teeth together. "Merlin," he said.
"Arthur," Merlin said.
"My clothes are clean, then?"
"Down to the royal toes of your royal socks."
Arthur groaned. "Polish the wardrobe." He remembered the book, stored between shelves, and emended, "no, don't, actually."
"Why not," Merlin mused. "Would you rather I, oh, I dunno', repainted the walls? Hand-knitted you another carpet out of troll skin?"
"Merlin."
"Or do you have some slivers of wood that I could use, perchance? To fashion you a new bed out of?" Merlin demanded. He raised his eyebrows, then, and continued: "forget the paint, actually. I could rebuild the walls altogether. With sand granules, and the sweat off my brow. Or would that be too strenuous a task for me to handle?"
"Oh, for goodness' sake, Merlin." Arthur pressed a cushion to his face. The fabric smelled of dust and orange peels. "Would you shut up."
Merlin frowned at him. Arthur could see a smudge of his face out of the corner of his left eye, should he concentrate hard enough. The man pawed at his own arms, as though to scratch them, or rub away an overcoat of dirt. The gesture was a nervous one.
"I'm worried about you," Merlin warned, after a moment.
Arthur did not remove the cushion. "Don't be," he ordered.
"You've been off lately."
"And you've been a real nag." Arthur accused him, around his cushion. He wanted to punch something. "Why couldn't I have gotten a competent, compliant valet? Why did I have to be stuck with you?"
His manservant only shrugged his weight onto his left side. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" he said. He reached down to scratch at his ankle. Arthur wondered when was the last time he'd gotten new boots.
"No," Arthur replied, casually.
Merlin shrugged. "Suit yourself," he grumbled. "Don't take your frustration out on me, then."
"I'll do what I want."
"Some friend you are. Anyway, do you need me to do anything, really?"
"No, not really."
"Then I'd like to go to bed, to be honest." He looked a touch squeamish now, like he thought he'd been too brash. He tugged at his neckerchief.
Arthur didn't know why he hadn't ordered him off to rest already. That would have gotten rid of him sooner than some mundane task. He was not of the right mind to be logical, he decided. "Go on, then," he demanded.
Merlin paused for a moment, as though tongue-tied. Then, suddenly, he performed a curt sort of half-nod, turned, and waddled from the room. His shoulders were tensed, his knees rigid with the weight of his body.
"Actually," Arthur coughed, and paused.
Merlin went taut, like a tensed rubber band. His back was to Arthur, but Arthur saw him roll his shoulders back. Slow as a slug, Merlin turned himself about to face him.
"Yes?" he asked.
Arthur stared at him. He plied a small wad of lint from a pillow next to him, and swallowed the ache from his throat.
"I want to talk to you about something." Merlin opened his mouth, and Arthur continued suddenly, "about sorcery."
Merlin's shoulders were up to his ears again, now. The skin of his face was pulled tight, pale as Arthur's sheets.
Arthur continued to stare at him.
Merlin seemed like he was about to topple over like a wax mannequin, so Arthur amended himself. "Look, Merlin," he said, cordially; "you're tired. We'll talk about this tomorrow."
"You're sure?" Merlin managed.
Arthur nodded. He leaned back onto his bed, and the mattress squeaked. "Yes, Merlin," he assured him. His hands roamed across the cushions. "Now get to bed."
There came the same clomp, clomp of boots as Merlin hobbled away. Arthur played with the comforters between his fingers for a while. The sound of Merlin's footwear receded, and he was left to wallow on the orange peel-scented stuffiness of his bed.
Merlin had seemed very scared for him, and then, suddenly, very scared of him. Arthur's stomach rumbled, but not from hunger. He felt his gut throb as he made to move onto his side. The man moaned to himself and pressed his face between blankets. The comforter prickled the skin of his cheek.
He really ought to talk to his father.
He really ought to...

"Gaius."
Gaius had busied himself over a bowl of gruel, his hands on his hips. His old face was furrowed, as was usual, and he heaved a mighty sniff as he turned around. Gaius folded his arms.
"So there you are," he addressed Merlin, as the young man slid through the doorway. His tunic was mussed, his boots more worn than usual. "Where have you been? Surely Arthur hasn't kept you this late."
Merlin did not answer right away. Firstly, he pressed the thick door closed, gave the wood a solid shove, and rolled his way around to lean his head against the stone of a side wall. He groaned, and slid a touch downward on his hands. "No, he didn't," he allowed, and Gaius raised his eyebrows. Merlin shrugged. "I took a walk around the castle."
"A walk," Gaius repeated. He frowned. "Why?"
Merlin swallowed.
"I think Arthur knows," he managed.
Gaius looked at him. He did not move to unfold his arms; rather, he bundled the material of his sleeves closer to his chest. "What has he done to make you think so?" he asked of him, at a careful pace.
"He hasn't talked to me for a week, Gaius," Merlin groaned. "He seemed... I don't know what he seemed. But he wants to talk to me about sorcery, now."
"Sorcery?"
"Yes." Merlin pulled his hands up from the wall to clutch at his face. Dust tumbled down his cheeks from where he'd scraped chips of paint from the wall. "He's seemed scared to tell me something, Gaius, for a week now, and now he wants to talk to me about sorcery."
Gaius slowly uncurled his hands from his sleeves, and undid his folded arms. The older man reached Merlin at length, and clapped a calloused hand on his shoulder.
"Merlin," he told him.
Merlin turned his chin up to look at him.
"You mustn't worry about each small thing. I'm sure there's a reason for Arthur's actions. He's talked to you about sorcery before, has he not?"
"Yes," Merlin said.
"And he has not accused you before?" Gaius prompted him.
"No," Merlin said. "Not really."
Gaius gripped him with both hands, then. "Then there should be no need to worry," he assured him. He grinned down at him, and his face was worn.
Merlin seemed concerned, still.
"I don't know," he murmured. He wiped the dust from his temples. "Things seem different this time, Gaius."
"Then we shall practice caution for a while. The same as usual. Now." Here, Gaius turned to his gruel again, and released Merlin's shoulders with a small rasp of fabric. "Have you seen my book of teas?"

Author's comments: FINALLY. I accidentally forgot to save, and lost a lot of changes at first xD oh deary me.

So here we are, chapter two! Hopefully I got to answer a couple of your questions. Thank you all so much for the follows and the reviews, I love you all so much -cuddles- gwahhh! You're so awesome! You've really encouraged me to keep going when I was frustrated and things.

Ah, more boots and old things and dust and ahyeahhh.

Any thoughts? Comments? Good riddles? Tips? XD Reviews make me so, so peachy! Have a wonderful Friday!