Chapter Seven: A Test of Loyalty

Arthur didn't know what to feel. He wanted to shout and scream and throw things and weep and stab a practice dummy until it was nothing but a pile of straw. And above all, he wanted to shake Merlin—servant, liar, friend, traitor, sorcerer—and demand why. How could he?

Merlin had seen what magic had done to Morgana, to Camelot. He'd seen countless sorcerers executed. He'd known that magic was against the law, against everything Arthur's father had stood for. And he'd gone and learned it anyway.

Everything made a horrible, twisted sense now. So much sense that Arthur was dumbfounded that he hadn't seen it before. Merlin did have some sort of supernatural force guiding him and keeping him safe—magic. Magic that he had lied about. Arthur had trusted Merlin with everything and Merlin had lied to him.

How long had this been going on? How long had Merlin been lying to him? Since his wedding to Guinevere? Since Agravaine's betrayal? Since his father's death? Since Morgana had turned? How long?

All the years he'd spent with Merlin flashed through Arthur's mind, seen with a new light. Had Merlin had something to do with the army of skeletons? With his father's brief bout of madness? Or had he had magic longer than even that? Had he been involved with that spell that made everyone sleep? Or even longer? Had he been part of the magical plague that had nearly stolen Guinevere's father?

The last incident brought to mind a memory he'd almost completely forgotten: Merlin, bursting through the council chamber doors, crying that he was a sorcerer.

Oh, but he was thick! Merlin had come right out and admitted it! And what had Merlin said to him, just hours ago? Swearing loyalty, and what had he said? Powers…Arthur hadn't really concentrated on what Merlin was saying, dismissing them as delirious ramblings, but now…

Merlin was dead right now. Dead trying to protect him with his magic. Arthur could still see in his mind's eye the way Merlin had slumped over, the way his body had spasmed, the bright red dripping down his face…

And that was just like Merlin, wasn't it? Dying to protect him. Merlin was stupid that way. Arthur had always known Merlin had some idiotic, inexplicable desire to try to protect him. Merlin had said as much to Arthur before, and the king had seen it—Not only just now, but several times over the years. Following him to face a dragon. Jumping in front of the Dorocha. Drinking poison for him—twice now.

And that was the one thing, Arthur realized, that overshadowed whatever lies Merlin had told him: Arthur could not question Merlin's loyalty. Merlin had dragged him away from battle when he was injured, accompanied him on every quest, stayed up all night for him when his father had died, and just been there when Arthur had needed him. And hadn't he even thought before that Merlin always seemed to do these things through sheer force of loyalty?

Not just loyalty. Not luck, either. Just a little magic.

Merlin had magic, and for some inexplicable reason, he'd decided to use it for Arthur. He'd sworn it to Arthur just hours before, along with his loyalty…and his life.

Merlin was dead.

Merlin was dead. Dead, gone. Taken from him. He would never call him a prat, never give him unexpected but surprisingly good advice, never give another half-baked excuse, never grin that stupid grin, never make him the butt of a joke again. Merlin was gone, and Arthur could not follow and drag him back.

And that hurt even worse than the thought of Merlin's lies.

Arthur sat there for hours, unable to sleep with his thoughts swirling around his head in a continuous cycle of betrayal and rage and grief. He was so distracted that he missed the approaching footsteps, and so was thrust back into the wall without warning when the door opened. He smacked his head hard enough to see stars, and he could have sworn he heard Merlin's voice admonishing him. Careful, prat. You've had enough blows to the head to last you the rest of your reign.

Gwil entered the cell, and Arthur felt a fresh surge of fury overcome him. He knew it was futile, but he clenched his fists against the wall anyway, and imagined the things he would do if he were free and had a sword.

Gwil stopped before him and stroked his chin, studying Arthur for a moment. From the bags under the alchemist's eyes, it looked like he hadn't slept either. "What is it about you? Of all the people he could have chosen, why you? What have you done to inspire such loyalty?"

Arthur didn't answer, partly out of defiance, but mostly because he had absolutely no idea. He'd been asking himself the same questions for hours.

"I mean, he certainly doesn't do it for the glory…You haven't offered him power or riches or even recognition for anything he's done—I mean, he's still your servant—yet he's so sure you're the Once and Future King and he's completely, unswervingly loyal to you."

Once and Future King. Merlin had called him that before, Arthur thought with a pang. Earlier, when they were eating, but long before that as well. He had always suspected it was a longer, more elegant way of calling him a prat. Now he wondered if it meant something else.

"However did you manage to convince him so thoroughly to do so much for you? What sort of hold do you have on him?"

"Maybe if you hadn't killed him, he could have told you," Arthur said bitterly.

"Ah, but he's not dead."

Arthur's heart soared within his chest, and he could barely feel the wall behind him. "He's—he's alive?"

"Oh, yes. Just barely. And let me tell you, it took no small amount of skill to keep him that way. Not awake yet, but that's probably for the best until I've finished preparing the draft. But you haven't answered my question."

"Why Merlin?" Arthur demanded. "If you needed a sorcerer, why go for one who clearly wants nothing to do with you?"

"Because I don't need a sorcerer. I need Emrys."

"What's an Emrys?"

Gwil sighed and drew out a knife. Arthur tensed. Gwil was here to kill him, then.

The knife pressed into Arthur's cheekbone, just short of drawing blood. "Explain it, Pendragon. I want an answer. He knows you hate his kind. He knows you would have had him killed if you had ever realized what he was—"

"I would not."

Gwil's lip curled into a sneer. "Banishment, then. Exile."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly he thought of Guinevere's face on that night. He remembered the fury that had twisted his soul at the betrayal. He had banished her. He'd regretted it immediately, but he had still banished her. Would he have done that to Merlin? Could he have banished his best friend?

He didn't want to know the answer.

"Or something else, maybe," Gwil mused. Arthur felt the blade slide up his cheekbone, past his eye and forehead and into his hairline. "Imprisonment? That would work far better…"

Arthur swallowed. "If you're going to kill me, just do it."

Gwil flicked his wrist, making Arthur flinch. But no blade had pierced his skin—instead, Gwil snipped a lock of hair from his head.

"Don't worry, Pendragon. That comes later."

He pulled the knife away and strode towards the cell door without looking back.

Arthur eased himself off the wall as soon as the door shut and he was freed. He hurried to the door and leaned next to where he had made deep grooves next to the hinges in what seemed like another lifetime ago.

He had no knife. But he had to find a way to escape. He had to find Merlin and get him out of here and tell him that he forgave him for all the lies.

And then beg forgiveness for himself. Because he knew now that he owed Merlin so much. He had no idea exactly what Merlin had done for him, but he didn't need to know specifics. Merlin was his friend, and he needed him, and that was enough.

If he could just get through the blasted door…He pounded on it with his fists, more to feel like he was doing something than anything else. If he only had another knife, or a sword, or something…

He looked at his own arm against the door. More specifically, at the armor on his arm and shoulder.

Minutes of awkward bending, pulling, twisting, and wrenching later, Arthur's armor was off and wedged into the grooves he'd made earlier in the door.

He was going to find Merlin and get him out of here, or so help him, he would die trying.

Arthur had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, grinding his way through the door with the pieces of his armor, but eventually, he weakened it enough for the hinge to creak so loudly, the whole building must have heard. Arthur cursed, then stood and flexed his raw fingers. Hopefully, that was enough.

It had to be. Merlin was counting on him.

He braced himself on the wall opposite from the door. Then he charged, threw his shoulder at the door as hard as he could, and tumbled with it across the threshold.

Arthur grunted at the impact, but he didn't need to worry about anyone hearing him. No, the crash of the heavy door hitting the ground covered his grunt quite nicely.

Adrenaline pumping, he got to his feet as quickly as he could. Someone would have heard that. Which way should he run?

Left, probably. That was the way both he and Merlin had been taken before. It stood to reason Merlin was still somewhere in that direction. He headed left, bracing himself for when he inevitably ran into a guard.

He turned the corner in time to meet his first opponent. The guard drew his sword, mouth opening to shout—

Arthur launched himself forward feet first, slamming straight into the guard's solar plexus. The kick sent the guard crashing into the wall, where his head snapped back into the stone with a horrible crack.

Blood pounding from the exhilaration of a fight, Arthur plucked up the fallen man's sword and twirled it around experimentally. His mouth set in a grim smile. It was good to have a weapon again.

Merlin woke gradually, with an odd taste in his mouth and a voice in his ear.

"Merlin."

The air stung his throat, and his head felt curiously fuzzy. He lifted his head slowly, and opened his eyes slower still. A gut-wrenching moan passed his lips as the light hit him.

"Merlin, wake up."

Shapes formed, blurry at first, then sharper. And in front of him was…

Merlin jerked to attention in his chair, a rush of giddy hope overcoming the dizziness from doing so. It didn't matter that the world was spinning or that his insides felt like they were tearing him apart or that his magic was contorting as it tried to escape. Every pain was forgotten, every trace of despair gone. There was nothing but pure, unadulterated joy, because Arthur was alive.

"Arthur, you're…I thought…"

"I escaped."

"Then I did it." Merlin felt light and unburdened, buoyed by the knowledge that he hadn't failed, that Arthur wasn't dead. "I did it, it worked, I saved you. You're alive!"

"Yes," Arthur said shortly.

Merlin laughed out loud, a dry, raspy laugh that quickly turned into a cough and sent spikes of agony through his head and down his chest, but that did not dampen his elation. He'd done it—he'd saved Arthur, kept the prat alive through one more danger, and on top of that, he'd even managed to survive as well.

Then something occurred to him. "But, wait, how…?"

"Quiet, they'll hear you," Arthur hissed. He looked pointedly at the door.

Merlin obediently took several deep breaths to try and calm himself, then had to stifle his coughs as he choked on the smoke.

"I said quiet. Now hold still."

Arthur moved around to the back of the chair, and Merlin could hear jangling. That was good. The jangling was good. It meant keys. How had Arthur gotten keys? There was something missing here, something important, if he could just think through the aching fog in his mind…

All thoughts were immediately driven from his head as Arthur unlocked the shackles on his wrists. Merlin, clinging onto Arthur's last order to be quiet out of happiness that the king was alive to give it, barely restrained himself from screaming. The shackles blazed excruciatingly hot for a brief moment, then were gone. Blinking away tears, Merlin flexed his fingers. A gentle power started to trickle through them, pulsing with excitement.

He only had a moment to appreciate it before Arthur was unlocking the larger chains. He nearly bit his lips clean off trying not to make a sound, and still let out a huge gasp when the chain finally came free, like his whole being had been holding its breath and was just now able to let it out.

His magic thundered through him, pouring out of his skin in a rush of golden light, warming his fingers and toes and rushing to fight the fuzzy wrongness in his head. He tumbled out of the chair onto his hands and knees as the chains released. Then his magic slowed to something like a limp, as if it were injured. It probably was—being suppressed like that couldn't possibly be healthy.

Merlin stayed there in a crawl for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe without enormous weights wrapped around his chest. He felt…not quite whole again, but so much better. Hurt, yes, damaged, yes, but hopeful. Arthur was alive and as soon as Merlin got them both out of here, he could sleep and recover and everything was going to be alright.

Arthur moved in front of him, and Merlin started to push himself to his feet—

Only to have Arthur's boot crash into his shoulder, sending him sprawling back to the floor with a grunt.

"Did I say you could rise, you idiot?"

There was no relief, no fondness, no concern, no teasing, no trace of friendliness in Arthur's tone.

Merlin started to get up once more, rubbing his sore shoulder where Arthur had kicked him. "Arthur, what—"

Arthur kicked him again. Shoulder throbbing painfully, Merlin gazed up from the floor in absolute bewilderment.

Arthur towered over him, looking down at him with a regal hint of disgust. "You will address me properly, sorcerer. Did I say you could rise?"

The words hit Merlin like a physical blow. His euphoria at seeing Arthur alive, at feeling his magic again, died in an instant. He swallowed, shakily got to his knees, and directed his stinging eyes to the floor. "N-No, my lord."

Arthur said nothing, but Merlin could feel the king watching him, as if waiting for him to try to get up again. Sobs were forming in the back of his throat. Arthur knew. He knew, and he hated him.

Merlin raised his gaze, but didn't dare look straight into the king's face. "I'm—I'm sorry. I tried to tell you so many times—"

"You betrayed me."

He flinched and looked back at the ground. His voice wobbled as he tried his hardest not to cry. "I didn't…P-please, I only wanted to p-protect you. I still do. That's wh-what it's f-for. For you. And for Camelot. Everything…Everything I did w-was for you, Ar—sire."

"So you confess, then? You confess to using sorcery in Camelot?"

Merlin's throat was closing, and his voice came out as barely a whisper. "Yes."

"I see."

Merlin didn't dare look up at Arthur's face, but he knew what it looked like. Hardened, detached. Judging him. Tears were spilling down his cheeks now, no matter how badly he'd wanted them not to, and he realized Arthur was probably sneering at him, despising him for his weakness.

The only sound for several moments was Merlin's quiet, ragged sobs. He had imagined how this conversation would go so many times, and now all the worst of them were coming true. There was no sign of his friend in Arthur, just a cold, wrathful king. Arthur wouldn't forgive him. Arthur hated him. Arthur was alive, but Merlin had still lost him in every way that mattered.

"Am I your king, Merlin?" Arthur asked finally.

"Y-yes, Ar—my l-lord." Because despite it all, despite the fact that Merlin was sure Arthur hated him, he couldn't bring himself to hate him back. He had seen too much good in Arthur before, paid the price for him so many times, saved him over and over. He'd dedicated his life, his magic, his soul to serving him. He'd bound himself so tightly to Arthur that even now he knew he'd still do anything the king asked of him.

"I'm not going to kill you."

Merlin hadn't expected him to. Arthur was a good man, beneath his prejudices. Still, hearing it confirmed made hope catch in his throat. Maybe, just maybe, Arthur would still forgive him.

"At least, not yet. Seeing how…effective you can be at least warrants some more thought. So you'll remain alive as long as you remain useful. I'll work out where to keep you once we reach Camelot. For now, you can be useful by getting me out of here. You may rise."

Whatever relief Merlin felt turned numb. Keep him? Arthur was going to…keep him. Like a pet. Locked in the dungeons, like... Like what Uther had done to the Great Dragon. Keep him locked up and alone, to be summoned only if Arthur needed advice on defeating a sorcerer. Or maybe Arthur would actually let him out to fight whenever magical attacks came, then send him back, like a sword being put neatly away in the armory. Or maybe he'd just leave him there, in the dark, chained and cut off from his magic and everyone he loved.

Something inside Merlin broke. He stayed kneeling on the floor, unable to move, his entire soul consumed with grief.

"I said rise, you incompetent idiot. You said you wanted to protect me? Well, get on and do it! If you even can."

Slowly, as if every movement cost him dearly, Merlin rose to his feet and turned to the door. He could feel despair threatening to overwhelm his exhausted body, but shoved it aside. He could mourn later, when Arthur was safe. Protecting Arthur always came first.

"Go on, sorcerer," Arthur hissed in a merciless taunt. "Prove you're worth keeping by my side."

Merlin listlessly stretched forth his hand. The cell door blasted off its hinges.

Merlin took in a deep, sucking breath, ignoring the burn at the back of his throat. "This w-way, sire," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady as he stepped through the doorway.

Behind him, Arthur's lips twisted in a cruel smile.