Chapter One: A Murder in the Lower Town

For the seventh morning in a row, Merlin wakes with a gasp, tears staining his pillow.

He hasn't cried while being awake in years. He doesn't remember the last time he had such an opportunity. After a while, he was convinced he had no more tears to shed. Yet while he sleeps, for an entire week, he somehow manages. He resents it.

The nightmare is all too familiar now. It begins, as it had for the past eight nights, with Freya. He was cradling her, holding her with his too-weak arms, feeling her chest, her shoulders–her whole body–shuddering with the effort of her own breathing. The wound in her stomach and chest poured rivers of too-hot blood over his hands, his lap, his chest. Her eyes, wide and scared, looking up at him. Pleading. And he felt shame for feeling so wretched and tortured, for having the audacity to feel pain while she was there dying in his arms.

Then it would change, and he would see Lancelot, that last sad smile gracing his features as he walked through the veil between worlds. And Merlin felt just has he had that night, felt the red-hot betrayal and anger that Lancelot would take this from him, would take away the truest friend he had the privilege to call his own, that he would sacrifice himself when it was supposed to be Merlin. For taking up such a foolish and noble errand that was supposed to be Merlin's. And an unflinching, horrible sorrow once it had washed away.

Once more the scene would shift and it would be Balinor, looking up at him with pain and an unfamiliar paternal pride as once again Merlin's hands became smeared and coated in a loved one's blood. Sharing words of parting wisdom Merlin couldn't hear for his own shattered sobs. And he would feel rage at the man who killed his father, rage at his mother and his great uncle for shielding him from the truth. Impotence that he couldn't save his own father from what had been meant for him. Betrayal at Arthur's well-meaning attempt at comfort, and the shame would come again and choke him. The overwhelming shame for not doing enough, not being enough, for feeling the way he felt when his father had been ripped away from him.

Then, it shifted again, and instead of Balinor in his arms, it was Morgana. The kind soul he once knew choking and fighting for air, her arms too weak to push him away. But she had tried. The hand that had seconds ago offered him water scrabbled at his chest. And her face, once so disposed toward mischievous smiles and disapproving frowns, twisted into betrayal and anger. And fear. And he watched. And was torn apart again.

Then once again, the scene changed, showing this time Mordred as he appeared in the vision Merlin had been granted those many months ago. Plunging a sword with triumph and zeal into Arthur's chest. The blood and the metal glinted in the dirtied sunlight of Camlann, and Mordred raised his gaze to grin at Merlin.

But it wasn't Arthur who fell, it was Will, on that dusty stretch of road that runs through Ealdor still standing and in shock for a few moments after the arrow had thudded into his chest. Will, who lay on the bed dying, gasping and coughing blood, sacrificing his good name for the sake of Merlin's secret in one breath. Damning his friend with the next. No one else had to die. No one had to, had it not been for Merlin's cowardice. His secret. His birthright.

But then it shifted, and it wasn't Will dying on the bed, but Gaius recovering from torture. Gaius, who had given himself over to unimaginable pain at the hands of Alator, a man who later swore allegiance to Merlin, the very same man Gaius had sworn to protect.

And then again, it wasn't Gaius on the patient's bed, but Merlin, who once more felt the burn and agony of Nimueh's poison run through his veins. Merlin, hanging from the roof of Morgana's shack, the fomorroh digging into his skin, his spine. Merlin, convulsing and writhing on the forest floor, the serket's poison running white-hot from the wound in his back to the rest of his body.

Then it had been the people of Camelot, dead in the streets for his mistake. Poisoned by their own water. Burned in their homes by dragon's fire. Slaughtered where they stood by invading armies.

Then again, it was Freya, her fingers struggling to touch his cheek as they had been too shy to do before, coated in her own blood. Then Lancelot. Then Mordred. Then Morgana.

Again and again until he woke, choking on his own sobs.

Merlin scrubs at his face, sitting up. His room looks the same as it always had, but feels smaller this past week. More cramped. More unfamiliar. Several empty vials litter his nightstand, only a film of yellow liquid hinting at what had been inside them. Morgana used to use them to banish nightmares.

It hadn't worked for her, either.

During the night something cold leaden has curled into his chest and stayed there. He tries to take deep breaths like Gaius has taught him, but can't force his lungs to expand correctly, can't get his chest to lift with every breath. The leaden thing stays and seeps into his bones.

He lays on his bed for a long while before finally getting up and dressed. He throws on clothes mechanically, unthinkingly, and makes his way down the stairs.

Gaius is still sleeping. Merlin moves quietly past him and out the door into the cold morning air.

There are few people moving about this early in the morning. It's still before dawn, and the whole castle glistens with a slight, glittering crust of frost.

Merlin makes his way upward. He uses servant's passages and stairways for most of the journey, but still finds himself nodding to the few odd passersby or guards on his way.

The turrets, however, are empty. He pads quietly to a spot fairly between any tower and pulls himself up onto the cold stone. One of his legs dangles over the side, swinging through the frigid, still air. Camelot lies quietly beneath him.

He watches quietly for a long time, trying to will his thoughts into something resembling calm, if not stillness.

"I fear you'll get in trouble this high up," a voice calls.

Merlin doesn't look toward it. In his absence of response, he hears heavy footsteps tread closer to him. A familiar mop of black hair comes into his peripheral vision as his visitor comes to a stop next to him and leans on the high wall of the turret.

"I'm afraid," Merlin says, "that I will get into trouble no matter where I am. At least here, I have a view."

"And what a view it is," Mordred murmurs.

Merlin chooses again to not respond. The pair are quiet for a while before Mordred speaks again. But, true to form, the younger man chooses mindspeak rather than disturb the quiet air.

You are troubled, my lord.

Merlin sighs, sending a puff of vapor into the air.

A burden shared is made that much lighter, Mordred presses.

I think too much of the past, Mordred, Merlin responds finally. And worry too much about the future.

Mordred allows himself to think about that, then says, Is that what troubles you? The past and future?

Merlin snorts. If you think I am in some referential way speaking about Arthur, you're mostly wrong.

The Once and Future does not trouble you? Mordred asks, and Merlin wonders if the younger man is trying to reference chores or laws.

No, Merlin replies, tone more thoughtful than Mordred expects. Not more so than usual, anyway.

Then what does? Mordred asks.

Dreams, Merlin replies simply.

Mordred nods. They are quiet again for some time as they watch the dawn break over the city.

I was plagued with nightmares for a long time, you know, Mordred tells him. Of many things. Mainly memories.

Merlin turns his face slightly to look at Mordred more fully. The young man seems pensieve, his green eyes fixed somewhere in the distant landscape.

You used the past tense, Mordred, Merlin points out. You are no longer troubled by them?

Not as often, Mordred says. No.

What happened? Merlin asks.

To make them stop?

Merlin nods. Mordred looks at the other man carefully, and this time chooses to answer aloud.

"I found a hope greater than my despair."

Merlin furrows his brow slightly. Mordred inclines his head at the older man–the closest he ever gets to truly bowing–and takes his leave, walking back toward the warmth of the tower beyond.

Merlin turns to looks at the dawn and the city, thinking for a good while longer before finally lowering himself to the stone walkway and turning toward the kitchens.

The king, much to Merlin's surprise, is already awake when he gets there. Arthur is sitting mostly dressed at his desk, his head held in one hand. He uses his thumb to pass his mother's ring back and forth over his bottom lip.

After a moment, he looks up, eyes locked on Merlin. The manservant, for his part, is still top startled to move. He is still poised halfway through stepping toward the table to deposit the platter of breakfast he had snatched from the kitchens on the way. The door hangs open behind him.

"Merlin," Arthur says, voice quieter than normal.

"Sire," Merlin says. The door closing punctuates his sentence. He remembers himself and straightens.

"Sit," Arthur commands.

The king gestures at the chair in front of his desk. Merlin stays where he is for a moment before taking long strides to the desk. He sets Arthur's plate in front of him, balancing on a stack of reports and meeting minutes, before slumping into the chair.

"You look terrible," Arthur informs him.

"Thought you'd be more pleased," Merlin responds, forcing into the words as much cheer as he can muster, "since the more terrible I look, the more I look like you."

"What I meant was–" Arthur starts, tensing his jaw, "–what I mean is–you've been looking terrible."

"Why thank you, sire," Merlin says, pasting on a smile.

Arthur furrows his brow at his manservant. "You know what I mean."

"I don't believe I do, my lord," Merlin says. "If this is your way of telling me I need better clothes again, I'll remind you that my wages allow for the purchase of one new shirt or pair of trousers each month, and that's if I don't eat."

When Merlin goes to stand up, Arthur points at Merlin.

"Don't do that," Arthur orders. "Sit down. Eat. We're going to have words about this."

"About my clothes?" Merlin asks, hands hovering over his knees.

"No, Merlin," Arthur says. He takes a deep breath and pushes the breakfast plate closer to Merlin. "Really. Eat."

Merlin raises an eyebrow at him. "You say that as if you don't believe I haven't already nicked a sausage from your plate."

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it shut. He glowers at his manservant.

"Have another one, then."

Merlin frowns but does as he is bid, snatching a piece of toast with two fingers and nibbling at a corner. Arthur watches him for a moment, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward in his chair.

"What's wrong with you?" Arthur asks finally.

"Well," Merlin says, heaving a sigh and placing the toast back on the plate, "right now the king of Camelot is insisting I eat from his plate, so maybe poison?"

"Cut it," Arthur snaps.

Merlin takes a moment to look more carefully at Arthur. The king looks irritated, sure, but concern seems dominant in his expression. Brows gently drawn together, eyes crinkled at the edges, lips pulled in a gentle frown. At the moment, Merlin has his entire attention, which is something that happens so infrequently and–typically–under such dire circumstances that Merlin immediately feels edgy and nervous.

"What do you mean, sire?" Merlin asks.

Arthur sighs. "Really?"

"What?" Merlin asks, his voice sounding more defensive than he meant even to himself.

"Something's wrong," Arthur insists. "You look terrible. When's the last time you ate a proper meal?"

Merlin's eyebrows climb up his forehead. "Since when are you so concerned with my dietary habits?"

"Since you shuffle around like a dead man walking, Merlin," Arthur says, his voice quiet. "You aren't speaking as much. You aren't laughing."

"It–" Merlin starts, then stops himself. He clasps his hands in his lap in an attempt to stop himself fidgeting. "I'm fine, Arthur."

Arthur stifles a sigh. He knows Merlin too well by now. Though the other man seems like an open book–an impression easily gleaned from his easy going nature, his freely dispensed friendship, his constant chatter and secret fondness for castle gossip–but in truth, the manservant has a horrible penchant for closing himself off from others. When questions get too difficult or conversations too uncomfortable, Merlin deflects first. Almost like an instinct. He's already tried that tactic, though, trying to goad Arthur into trading insults or teasing him for stealing from the king's plate.

Now is the denial. Next would be Merlin either giving in and actually talking to Arthur, or else shutting down before storming off. The latter seems to be a more common reaction than anything else recently. Arthur has become far too familiar with Merlin's gaze shuttering, his bright eyes dimming, his mouth falling into that guilty, determined line.

These past few weeks, he's seen Merlin even more closed off than normal. The others have noticed, too. Twice just this week Gwaine has approached him with fire in his chest and concern in his eyes to demand that Arthur figure out what's going on because he's not talking to me. Gwen, too, had more than one conversation with the king about Merlin, though her approach was much more gentle than Gwaine's cornering and demands.

The other knights, too, have shown their concern in their own quiet ways. Percival sends meaningful looks after Merlin whenever he takes his leave and has made sure three times in the past fortnight to sneak Merlin some honey cakes from Cook. Elyan has tried to get Merlin to play dice with him again, using the usual refrain of the younger man being a good luck charm to try and lure him into a night of relaxation. Even Leon has begun to act on his concern by bribing other servants into completing some of Merlin's chores for him on days when Arthur piles them as high as possible in an effort to get Merlin to snap at him and actually talk.

None of it has worked.

Much to Arthur's surprise, the only one of them so far who seems to have been able to eke a smile from Merlin or get him talking for more than a few minutes at a time is Mordred. Mordred, who, until recently, looked at Merlin much as a kicked puppy would look at its master. Mordred, who had given everyone the impression of a scorned younger brother the way he would vie for Merlin's attention and approval and sulk when it was withheld. Mordred, who until recently had been at best ignored by Merlin and at worst a recipient of the manservant's infrequent and inexplicable ire and distrust.

Arthur had seen the pair on the turrets just this morning. They sat in silence for much of the time they had been together, exchanging sparingly few words. Nonetheless, it seemed to have had an impact on Merlin afterward. His expression had shifted from a serious and–from what Arthur could tell from so far away–miserable mien to something more akin to thoughtful. Still exhausted and inexplicably sorrowful, but thoughtful. That, in and of itself, had to be some kind of progress. At least in Arthur's opinion.

And Arthur feels content with some part of that. The mere fact that there exists in the castle someone, anyone, outside Arthur, Gwen, Gaius, and the knights who has a hope of dragging Merlin out from whatever sorrow has been plaguing him makes him hopeful. Seeing Merlin as something other than miserable, even if not happy, makes him hopeful.

But there's a small, vocal, clawing part of himself that sits right in his sternum that feels jealousy. A part that he has been trying valiantly to squash, but exists anyway. That Merlin could find some kind of solace from a man everyone assumed he hated and not from his friends, from Gwen, from Arthur, from the man who is like his father, seems unjust.

That small part is currently screaming at him, fanning the flames of his anger.

But acting on that would be counterproductive. And a king must not let himself be swayed too much by emotions when there is an achievable goal before him that could be reached by better means than succumbing to anger. Today's goal is a simple one: get Merlin to talk to him.

Arthur considers briefly that he would rather face the Questing Beast again. That would be an easier goal to attain, in his estimation.

"You know," Arthur says, tapping his fingers against his lips, "you only ever lie to me about yourself. It's an interesting quality of yours, Merlin."

Merlin's head yanks up as if attached to a string. He searches Arthur's face, and before the shutters threaten to come down behind his eyes, Arthur thinks he sees something like… fear.

"I fail to understand your meaning, my lord."

"Don't do that," Arthur says.

"Don't do what, sire?" Merlin asks, and his fatigue and unease has steeped into his voice, making it lower and darker than normal.

"Use my titles," Arthur says, huffing a breath. "Deflect. Pick one."

"You don't want me using your titles," Merlin repeats. "I don't understand. You regularly tell me off for not doing that. Have you changed your mind?"

"Merlin," Arthur starts, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Don't be purposefully obtuse. You're thick enough already without trying."

Merlin's mouth quirks up at a corner, and Arthur has to stop himself from sending a full grin back his way.

"I'm serious, Arthur," Merlin says. "I'm fine. There's no need for…" He trails off, then gestures between them to encompass the tense conversation and the plate between them. "All this. Whatever it is."

"This?" Arthur says, his volume rising slightly. "This is me trying to–"

"Wheedle information out of me about some imagined trouble I'm facing?"

"Trying to be a friend, damn you," Arthur says finally. "Why won't you just talk to me? To any of us?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Arthur," Merlin says, voice softer. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm telling you, I'm–"

"Fine," Arthur says, collapsing back in his chair.

"Sire?"

"Just–just go, then, Merlin. Thank you."

Arthur watches Merlin leave, a frown on his face.

Merlin tries his best to go about his day as normal following his conversations with Mordred and Arthur. It seems that unconsciously, the paths he follows take him out of the way of most other people. Some servants give him a wave and smile as he passes by, which he returns. At some point, Gwaine catches sight of him and looks like he means to leave the training field to come talk to him. Merlin flashes him a grin and hurries on toward the armory, ignoring the look that follows him as he goes.

Mordred catches up with him in the armory and the pair spend time in comfortable if not entirely companionable silence sharpening swords. Mordred gives him another respectful nod before exiting the armory and leaving Merlin to his chores.

All in all, the day passes much like the ones before it had. Merlin tries to think of a few other things to do that would keep him away from the dark, cramped confines of his room–something to stave off just a little longer his nightmare-ridden sleep–but finds himself unable to do so not long after night falls.

He returns home after Gaius has already fallen asleep and trudges up to his chambers. He tries to keep himself up a while longer reading his spellbook and practicing illusions, but before long, he falls asleep again.

Freya, Lancelot, Balinor, Morgana. On and on and on.

A knock at the door pulls him from the painful cycle of memories. Merlin wakes, breath shuddering, and wipes away the tears that still run too-hot down his face.

"Merlin?"

Merlin sighs. "Yes, Gaius?"

The door creaks open, revealing the aged physician. He stands in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

"You don't look as if you've rested."

Merlin sighs. "I haven't.

"Perhaps you should stay home," Gaius tells him. This marks the third day in a row the physician has tried to corral his ward into resting. Both know it will be just as unsuccessful, but Merlin knows the physician can't help himself.

Merlin shakes his head and pulls himself from his bed. "It won't do me any good, Gaius."

"You need rest," Gaius persists.

Merlin ignores him, turning instead to the small cupboard which houses his clothes and rummaging in it for something approaching a clean tunic.

"I'm serious, Merlin. You think your exhaustion isn't showing, but it is. You look–"

"I'm fine, Gaius," Merlin interjects. He finally settles on a blue shirt and red neckerchief, pulling them on with a speed and determination which normally escapes him this early.

"You aren't."

Merlin gets on his hands and knees to reach beneath his bed to fetch a pair of boots.

"Maybe not," Merlin murmurs, finally getting a hold on his shoes and pulling them out. "But that hasn't stopped me before."

"The dreams have continued? Even with the draughts?"

"Yes, Gaius."

"Perhaps I could make something stronger for you."

"Please don't," Merlin responds quietly, shoving his boots on.

"It may help, Merlin," Gaius says softly. "It does you no good to put on a brave face. Lack of sleep–"

"It's not a lack of sleep, Gaius," Merlin says, standing up.

Gaius stands in the doorway, arms folded over one another, his face a mask of impassivity and professionalism. Behind it, however, is a deeper concern, one which Merlin has grown accustomed to over the years. A concern reserved typically for him and other patients who refuse to take a physician's advice. Merlin gives Gaius a tired smile and picks up his jacket from the end of the bed where it had been discarded the night before.

"Really, Gaius. It's a lack of rest. I'm sure it's just… an overactive imagination at work."

Gaius hums but chooses not to comment further. Merlin pushes past Gaius and clatters down the narrow stairs. Gaius follows after him, much more slower but perhaps just as sedate as the young man. Merlin is just grabbing something from a cupboard when a knock comes at the door.

"Enter," Gaius bids.

Sir Leon opens the door and hovers there, his face grim.

"Excuse me, Gaius," he says, then spies Merlin. "And Merlin."

"What is it, Sir Leon?" Gaius asks, making his way toward the table.

"We have need of you in the lower town," Leon says, shifting slightly on his feet. "There has been an incident."

"Incident?" Gaius asks, already moving toward his medical bag.

Sir Leon takes a step forward, shaking his head. "There is no one to treat, Gaius."

"If there is no one to treat, I have difficulty imagining what need there would be for me, then," Gaius replies, eyebrow raised.

Sir Leon sighs. "It's better if you see it, Gaius. Bring what you think you'll need with you."

"I don't know what I will need until I know what is going on, young man," Gaius replies, crossing his arms.

"Someone has died," Leon answers, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. "But the circumstances and… and the scene… are such that the guards and knights present are unsure what to make of it."

"Ah," Gaius says. "Something magical in nature, I presume?"

"We have no idea," Leon replies honestly. His face is drawn and while his tone is apologetic, Gaius thinks this may be the closest to shaken he's ever seen the man.

"Perhaps Merlin should accompany me," Gaius says, waving a hand at his ward. Merlin musters enough energy to look surprised, and Leon mimics his expression. "He is my apprentice, after all, though he has thankfully not had much opportunity to know this side of the practice. And his young eyes may be better at spying details than mine are at this point."

Leon doesn't take the time to think this over much. Instead, he gives Gaius a brief nod.

"I will arrange for someone to wake the king, then."

"Very good," Gaius responds. "Would you let us know we could find the place?"

Leon describes it to them and takes off the hall to inform a servant of what has happened and to arrange for someone else–likely George–to take over for Merlin for as long as Gaius needs. Gaius directs Merlin to collect a few items, then the two leave their chambers toward the lower town.

Grey winter clouds weep a gentle rain over Camelot as they walk. Their breath fogs and hangs in the air before them as they go, leaving a small trail of steam curling up into the air behind them. Merlin adjusts his various bags and pulls his thin jacket closer.

It doesn't take them long to reach the scene. A few knights loiter outside the entrance to a small house, barely more substantial than the hut Merlin had grown up in, keeping the few onlookers firmly away from the house. They nod to Gaius and Merlin as they pass.

The interior of the house is more gruesome than either party had been prepared for. Scents of blood, smoke, and excrement hit them as soon as they enter the house. Merlin looks around, eyes slightly wide. Blood has been smeared over the ground and walls. A small fire still sputters and pops, low in the hearth, and seems the only thing left untouched: a small bed and table are overturned, the small window in the front broken, the carefully preserved jars of food knocked off shelves.

And in the middle of the hut, swaying gently in some nonexistent breeze, is a body. A length of rope keeps them suspended a foot above the ground, attached to the wooden joist above that keeps the thatched roof from falling inward.

"Gaius…" Merlin says, then stops himself. The words become tangled around the knot in his throat and die before they can reach his tongue.

"Merlin," Gaius says quietly. "Tell me what you see."

Merlin swallows, then casts his eyes about the room.

"Lots of blood."

"Yes. Do you notice anything about it?" Gaius asks.

Merlin knows the tone Gaius is using. Not quite gentle, but patient, quiet, and firm. It's one he uses when trying to guide Merlin to a particularly difficult answer, or when trying to calm Merlin down. The young man considers this for a moment, then concludes his mentor must be trying to do both at once.

Merlin forces himself to walk forward and looks at the hut more closely. A large pool of it has aggregated beneath the body, shining in the low light from the fire. He looks up at the body and spies jagged canyons running lengthwise up each forearm. He grimaces and steps back.

"Lacerations to each forearm were the likely cause. Or at least are responsible for most of the blood."

"Good. What else?"

"I don't know, Gaius."

"Pay closer attention to the body, Merlin. Don't tell me you have been this inattentive during our lessons."

"Gaius–"

"Think, Merlin."

Merlin sighs, then turns to look at the too-pale body again.

It had been a young man, someone Merlin is sure he had seen before wandering about the lower town. Sandy hair, green eyes still open, mouth gaping. He looks horrified.

"He was injured and bleeding before he was hung."

Gaius nods. "Were the injuries sustained in a scuffle, or were they self-inflicted?"

Merlin flinches. "Self-inflicted?"

Gaius's face softens slightly. "These are difficult questions, but important ones, Merlin. You're a physician–"

"I'm really not–"

"And sometimes, in instances such as these, our anatomical knowledge lends us a different perspective on matters than a knight's knowledge of combat or a noble's knowledge of laws. We are uniquely positioned to help understand what may have occurred here, and bring peace to this poor man's memory and his family."

Merlin glances at the body again, still twisting slightly in the air, toes pointed to the ground. He nods once.

"It's hard to tell," Merlin grinds out finally, looking about the room. There was obviously some sort of struggle."

"Obviously?" Gaius asks, eyebrow raised.

"Well," Merlin says, "the furniture is knocked over. His wrists were cut before he found himself hanging from the ceiling. I doubt that someone with such blood loss could do that to himself before collapsing."

"So there was significant blood loss from the initial wound," Gaius says, and though it was posed as a statement, Merlin knows it to be a question.

Merlin forces himself into the back corner of the hut and looks closer.

There is not, as he had anticipated, a large amount of blood. Just spatters on the wall. Merlin furrows his brow and drops into a crouch, looking closer.

"Maybe not," Merlin concedes.

"What else do you see?"

Merlin sighs and turns, still in a crouch. He sees the overturned cot and flips it over, taking with it the thin, straw-filled mattress.

"Found all the blood," Merlin mutters.

The mattress is soaked in it. As Merlin continues to right the piece of furniture, he hears blood dripping onto the floor.

"It isn't dry," Merlin comments.

"No," Gaius says.

"There's a lot of it," Merlin says, swallowing. "He must have been found either while something was happening, or directly afterward. Otherwise some would have dried."

Gaius nods. "And what of the body?"

"Gaius, I really don't think–"

"Merlin," Gaius says, voice stern. "This is important. Examining scenes like this is not common, but examining bodies to deduce the cause of death may be. At the very least, it is something that physicians must be capable of should the need arise."

Merlin gives another short jerk of his chin to indicate his understanding and moves over to the young man.

"Now tell me what you observe, Merlin. And take your time. This can be difficult."

Merlin swallows and decides not to answer. He carefully reaches out to lift one of the arms but finds it difficult. The body is stiff and cold, and Merlin ends up bringing the corpse closer to him instead of just inspecting the forearm. The rope creaks, and Merlin sees the feet ghost through the air until toes point directly toward him.

Merlin tries to keep the bile in his stomach. He breathes carefully through his nose and out through his mouth, closing his eyes briefly before turning his attention back to the man.

"This cut is deep. Almost to the bone. But…"

"But?"

"The one on his right wrist is shallower. And both look… they look ripped."

"Ripped?" Gaius repeats, stepping closer.

Merlin tries his best to ignore the glassy, green gaze of the body. He tries to ignore the way the arm refuses to lift and the wrist to turn. He tries to ignore the stickiness of the other man's blood gluing his own fingers to the body's forearm.

"Right here," Merlin says, tracing a finger above either extreme of the cut.

"That can be caused by pulling the wound," Gaius says, frowning. "So he was moving about quite a bit after these lacerations were made."

Merlin looks up at the man, taking in the empty stare that seems to be looking directly at him only for a moment before diverting his gaze. He moves behind the body and gestures at a stool.

"That's here," he says.

Gaius turns and raises an eyebrow. "You think this man could have hung himself after cutting his wrists?"

Merlin shrugs. "Maybe. I dunno. But it's here."

Gaius studies the stool, then gives Merlin a short nod.

"Anything else?" Gaius asks.

"I don't think so," Merlin murmurs.

Gaius shakes his head and moves closer to Merlin. "Anything magical, my boy?"

Merlin sighs and repeats, "I don't think so. Any poultice or charm would be obvious when the furniture was knocked over. Maybe he was enchanted, but unless you know of some way to determine that after death, I couldn't tell you."

Gaius nods. "Very well. Please tell the men outside to take the body to the undertaker, and we can bring our findings to King Arthur."

"And what are our findings, exactly?" Merlin asks, moving toward the door.

"That this man was either terribly mentally afflicted–so much so that he would take his own life in such a violent and painful way–"

"Or?"

"Or," Gaius says, "someone murdered this poor man."