Thank you so much for all the reviews, favourites and follows. The support for this story has been amazing and I am humbled! Big shout out to Caldera32 for her hard work as a beta.

Here is the next chapter, I hope you like it - as always your thoughts and opinions are very welcome.

Chapter 7 Choices

He could feel the floor beneath him and knew he was alive because everything hurt. It was silent and very dark. There was a breeze against his skin and when he licked his lips they were grainy, he choked on the film that covered them. His body jerked and he felt pressure on his chest. Forcing his eyes open was a mistake, bright light and blurry images assaulted him so he closed them again. His chest was being rubbed and his cheek received a slap. Hey! What the...?

Arthur opened his eyes again and saw Gaius peering down at him. The physician started running his hands over the king's face and patting his torso, checking for injuries. The old man was mouthing something.

"I can't hear you," the king says - his voice makes no sound.

Suddenly, he remembered - everything.

The royal jerks up, but is forcibly pushed down by a gnarled hand. No, I need to see him, where is he? What has happened to Merlin? He's frantic, struggling to break free, and is craning his neck to find his servant. I must find him. He starts to kick and try and get up. Suddenly there is a weight on his legs and shoulders – Leon's face meets his own; it's white and full of anguish. Merlin, where is Merlin? No one is answering my questions; can anyone hear my questions? Does anyone care? The room is full of dust and debris; broken windows, wrecked furniture... and then he sees them. Two brown boots stick out from behind the bed, legs rolled out and motionless – Merlin. The fight is back on; he needs to see him, to know what has happened. A hand grabs hold of his jaw and prizes it open. Cold liquid trickles down his throat, he wants to gag but his nose and mouth are pinched shut, leaving him with no choice but to swallow.

It's a sedative - he's had them enough to know. Soon he will slip back into oblivion. Arthur can already feel his movements becoming sluggish and his vision dimming. Why won't they tell me? He fears their silence, and part of him welcomes the encroaching darkness because now he won't have to think about what he's done.

A tempest had been raging over Camelot for five days, the like of which had never been seen before. The atmosphere was charged - the air seemed to fizz; there was thunder, lightning, and torrential rain. Ominous black clouds made the sky so dark it was like night even during the day. Arthur did not care – it matched his mood. Nature could be such a destructive force and yet, miraculously, there had been very little damage to buildings and wildlife. The king's chambers had been the only part of the castle to receive a direct hit – or so everyone presumed. There had been no casualties, well that's not true; there was a victim - he was laid out on the bed and had not moved in the time since the incident, not a twitch.

Arthur observed the body solemnly; it did not look like Merlin. It was a shell; the person that usually resided there was gone. Everything that made the man who he was had deserted, leaving behind a ghost. The royal could no longer hear the wit or see the smile. The bright blue eyes full in equal measure of mischief, wisdom, and compassion were closed – perhaps permanently. The magic left and took his friend with it. The king couldn't stand to look at the broken vessel any longer and turned away – more accurately he couldn't stand to look at what he had done, what he caused because he had to know the truth at all costs.

Merlin has magic; surely that negated everything - justified Arthur's actions somehow? It's what I've been taught, isn't it? The sorcerer's connection to the king needs to be severed; it was essential in the same way amputating an injured knight's limb saved their life. It was for the best - difficult but in time he would learn to cope and adapt. Arthur lurched forward, gripping the desk, and swallowed down the vomit those thoughts provoked. Once his breathing was under control he gulped some water, but the acrid taste remained. He wondered if he could ever wash it away.

Even during Uthur's reign there had been a show of a trial before an execution - Merlin hadn't even gotten that; he never had the chance to defend or explain himself. For all Arthur had endured at the hand of others - being made an orphan, second best for Guinevere, hunted by Morgana and betrayed by his uncle - it paled into insignificance compared to what he had done to his best friend. The king was solely responsible, no external force to blame. In losing his brother the monarch had lost part of himself. Things would never be the same; he could not adapt, and he had never felt so alone or broken.

He had to make this right; he turned back to the figure on the bed. Arthur had confessed all to Gaius; everything that had happened, and all that he had learnt. The physician was professional but curt and distant. Gaius believed the potion had somehow stripped Merlin of his magic and the warlock could not continue to live without it. There was a pulse, but it got weaker daily. Gaius worked tirelessly, searching through ancient tomes, trying to find a cure. The physician had not disclosed any more about his ward's gifts – it was not his place; it was Merlin's. Should the young man die he would say more – Arthur did not want to think about that although it was becoming more of a reality with each passing day.

Gwaine had punched him; the royal rubbed his face at the memory. Leon had revealed he'd always had suspicions about the servant, which were confirmed when Merlin nearly drowned on that voyage. Both knights had passionately defended the young man, spoken of his loyalty and bravery. Gwaine had sworn, had insulted Arthur, Uther, and the regime. It was only after all the shouting and screaming ceased that they agreed they all wanted the same thing – For Merlin to recover. The two knights had been dispatched to find the druids and seek their assistance. No one else in the castle knew what was going on, only that the king's servant had been injured during the ferocious storm.

Arthur had been lied to for years; he should be incensed - and there was a part of him that wanted to get angry. However, it was not his own suffering that played over and over in his mind like a waking nightmare, it was the look on Merlin's face when he realised his friend had poisoned him. Even as the servant lay dying he'd tried to protect Arthur, had told him to run. The last memory Arthur had of his brother would be of his golden eyes - it was a terrible punishment and yet it was no more than he deserved. The royal inwardly cursed, he'd been so obsessed with the notion his friend was keeping something from him, he'd not even considered why. What was so terrible it could not be shared? Instead he'd arrogantly waited for a confession, and when it had not been forthcoming Arthur had lost all reason. Merlin had always been steadfast and the goodness of his soul was never in question - why couldn't that have been enough? It should have been plenty. He did not deserve the unwavering faith of his friend. Of course a magic user would keep that secret. Now that he knew, all those strange things that surrounded and made up his servant began to make sense.

For all sorcerers had done to Camelot and his family it was nothing to the genocide those associated with magic had suffered; so why would that idiot come to the very place that would see him slaughtered?

The last time Merlin had been close to death Arthur had saved him, dived into the ocean and dragged him from the waves. This time he had been the instrument of the man's destruction. The royal stared at the bed; he'd insisted it have blue covers. Arthur felt a stab of remorse when he remembered screaming at a servant to make it so. The king did not consider himself superstitious, yet he had a specific shirt he wore whenever he went into battle – it had been repaired several times and was now threadbare, but it brought good fortune so it was not to be thrown away - the servant was currently dressed in that special shirt. When Merlin had recuperated on the ship he'd taken to wrapping a blue blanket around his shoulders like a cloak. At the time, it had amused the king that, despite being peasant-born and sick, his gangly friend still managed to look noble in his attire – it suited him. Arthur knew it would make no difference, it was ridiculous, but the royal was desperate. He wanted Merlin to have the opportunity to use the makeshift garment again – as he recovered.

The royal started to pace and looked to the skies. It was hard to believe, but could that huge power fuelling the raging storm have once been contained within the frail and empty man before him? He asked whoever was listening for some kind of miracle. Whatever the price, he would pay it. Merlin and magic were inseparable and Arthur would have to deal with that. Right now all he wanted was his brother back.

Merlin did not hurt anymore, his joints and muscles did not ache - all pain had left him. He was no longer lying but standing and as his vision began to clear, he could make out a figure in front of him. The man's rough and weather-worn face held a comforting smile that was so familiar, yet the warlock barely knew him.

"Hello son."

"Father?"

Am I dead? In Avalon? Suddenly everything that had happened was too much and he just needed to be held and feel his kin. The young warlock broke into a wide grin and moved towards the dragon lord, ready to embrace him, however the older man moved backwards – seeing the hurt and confusion shadow his son's features, Balinor clarified.

"You are between worlds, neither dead nor alive; until you make a decision you cannot touch or be touched."

"I have a choice?"

"You have always had a choice, for the magic that flows through your veins makes you unique and more powerful than any sorcerer who has ever been or ever will be."

"Then why did I fail?" The young man's brow creased in anguish and tears pricked at his eyes.

"You have not failed, Merlin, don't ever think that." His father held out an arm, palm outstretched, then he bit his lip and let the limb fall back to his side; he drew a breath and said earnestly, "You have achieved much in such a small time. Already you have changed things for the better and we are so proud of you, of all your accomplishments and the difficult choices you had to make."

Merlin said nothing but became aware that there were others present; he scanned the area and saw Will, Lancelot, and finally Freya. He smiled at her. She was more beautiful than ever and his heart swelled as he remembered the touch of her skin and the warmth of her breath. I could have that again. I could learn about my father, see my friends. The people present made him feel safe, loved, and true – they knew him, the real him, no lies, no pretence. He yearned to be with them, to no longer hide. He took a step forward, but stopped when his father spoke again.

"Your life has been difficult; you've had to make hard decisions -too many burdens and so much expectation on one so young. It was not what I would have chosen and I would take away the pain if I could, but you have been strong; you have done well. No one would blame you if you wanted to stay here but the journey is not over. Arthur needs you now more than ever."

"He poisoned me!"

"That was not his intention,"

"He'll hate me!"

"No, the half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole – see for yourself."

Merlin followed his father's hand and looked down. Below he saw himself lying prostrate on a bed, pale and motionless. Beside him Arthur strode up and down, hands on hips, back straight. The king's hair was a mess, he had several days growth on his jaw, small semi-healed cuts were evident on his face and his clothes were crumpled as if they'd been slept in. He stopped pacing suddenly and kicked the bed with considerable force; he kicked again and again, then started laying into the mattress with his fists causing the figure within the covers to bounce up and down.

"He seems angry," the warlock observes apprehensively.

"Yes, but not at you," Balinor reassured his son.

Arthur was shouting but Merlin couldn't hear any sounds. He saw the monarch flinging his arms around, gesturing at his servant who remained inert and oblivious to Arthur's fury. The king dropped to his knees exhausted, all the fight gone – he rested his elbows on the bed, head buried in his hands and shoulders beginning to shake.

Merlin felt his throat constrict, he wanted to go to his king and comfort him somehow – just as he had always done - it pained him to see the monarch so undone. The royal usually had such a tight hold of his emotions. With the exception of anger he seldom showed anyone his true feelings - it seemed like an intrusion to watch. The warlock was roused from his thoughts by movement in the scene playing out before him. Arthur had collected himself and, still kneeling, he reached over the covers and grasped his servant's hand in his own.

The Merlin stuck in-between worlds looked down at his own hand as if trying to register Arthur's touch. He wiggled his fingers but felt nothing and turned his attention back to his father.

"Sleep now, my son, for there is much to think about. When you wake, it will either be here with us or back with your king." Balinor gave a sad smile, "Know that whatever your decision, whichever path you choose, you are loved always and without condition."

The warlock felt tiredness envelope him like a warm blanket and he knew no more.