A/N: I don't own Merlin. That was the luck of the BBC.
Ahhh this flaming chapter. I'm still not happy with it, but after weeks of writing I wanted to just get it out there.
Hope you guys enjoy!
Arthur was sat alone in the council room, the lords long since departed after the commotion of earlier. He toyed with a scrap a fabric between his fingers, his mind lost in thought. There was still so much to process since his conversation with Merlin – a hundred thoughts, a hundred questions, and very few answers. How had he not spotted something was wrong with him earlier? They'd been back so long, and Merlin had become more and more withdrawn with every passing day, he'd stayed pale and tired, with purple bags underneath his haunted, far-away eyes. He was truly an idiot – anyone who took one look at the warlock should've been able to see that he wasn't getting better, and instead of doing something, Arthur had left him to fade away. Today should not have been the first time he noticed that Merlin wasn't Merlin, especially with Gwen implying he'd been even worse when she'd found him.
Was this Merlin on a good day? How much worse could he possibly get?
Of course he wouldn't immediately bounce back. Arthur relied on his servant to come back from anything thrown at him with a laugh and a smile, no matter what hardship they'd faced. Merlin was the rock in a thousand stormy oceans. Except this time, he wasn't. He'd been tortured. He'd watched men come back from war, come back from being held prisoner with the kind of wounds Merlin had endured, and never been themselves again. Some spoke nothing but gibberish, some lived their lives in fear.
Others couldn't face theirs anymore.
He never thought for a second Merlin would be one of those men. No, he was Merlin. He was the person that pushed the king's curtains open with a gleeful grin at ungodly hours, the person that distracted him on hunts so he'd miss whatever would otherwise be a certain shot, the person that made him smile even in his darkest hours. Merlin couldn't be that person.
Except he was.
The fear in his eyes was the same as those other men. Arthur sometimes forgot, especially as of late, that Merlin was just as fragile as any other man. Magic and loyalty and bravery, whilst they made his friend who he was, didn't make him indestructible. In fact, it was because of those traits that he was now suffering the consequences. Anyone with even an ounce less of courage and allegiance would've faltered under that monster, but Merlin kept going through it all and he didn't deserve to now have his mind splitting into pieces.
He'd speak to Gaius. They'd go through every book lining those shelves, and if needs be every book in the library to find some remedy. There had to be a mix of herbs or minerals that could alleviate Merlin's fright. There just had to be. He would not lose Merlin, even if he himself gave up, Arthur would not. He'd fight for Merlin as he had done with Gwaine, as he had done with Arrington, as he should've done with Drin. They'd bring the old Merlin back one way or another.
Arthur sniffed, his eyes glassy. This wasn't fair. None of it was fair. He was the king, he was supposed to be the one tortured for information; the one who'd lay down his life for his kingdom. Merlin had never signed up for this. He was just a servant who Arthur had dragged out with him for the fun of it one day, and never stopped. Until now.
'Well, you could start by telling me why in god's name Merlin is lying in that bed right now.'
They'd been the first words Gaius had spoken to him upon their return, the accusation in his voice evident. Merlin shouldn't have been out there, even with the (unknown to him) protection of his magic. Why was he there? It was a patrol, it was a job for trained knights. Merlin had no combat training, no endurance training, nothing. He didn't even have any fucking armour. Of course something like this would've happened sooner or later, and it was all his fault.
He'd never forgive himself if Merlin couldn't come back.
Arthur had never doubted Merlin's strength before. Whilst his physical strength had been a subject of great humour for him and the knights before, his perseverance and resilience were something to be admired. But he had such a long, difficult road ahead, even if the king was determined to see him to the end of it. He didn't know what to do, how to help, how to make sure Merlin knew they weren't giving up on him, no matter what.
Arthur fought back the wetness in his eyes as he clutched at the material in his hands, looking down at what would forever be a constant reminder of his cowardice.
The bloody remains of a neckerchief.
Across the castle from the King and his thoughts, two shadowy figures were once again meeting under the fading light of the torch glow.
"Well, that was a failure of biblical proportions." Arrington was pacing up and down, sweaty hands clasped behind his back. It literally could not have gone worse for him. Not only had he failed to convince the king there was something up with his servant, he'd got himself essentially fired from the council, a job he'd had for eons.
"Did you think he was just going to change his mind after five minute and one council meeting? He's had years with Merlin. It's not surprising the king hasn't shifted his position at all." The second figure stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall, a cold contrast to the perspiring lord.
"But he has shifted mine! I'm now excluded from the council, god knows what else he's going to take from me." He placed a quivering hand up to his face in deep thought. He knew the younger Pendragon was softer than his predecessor, he'd be in a cell right now if he'd tried to pull any such stunt with Uther, but he could still be punished for speaking out of turn. He could lose his land, possibly banished to another.
"You were going to lose that seat any day now. At least you're contributing something, rather than pontificating in front of your followers." The figure shrugged, the amount he cared about the noble's plight evident on his relaxed face.
"And how are you so sure of that?" Arrington sneered with a pout, pointing a finger in the direction of his accomplice.
"Because I know the King. I know he has no time for your nonsense, not like his predecessor." The figure looked at Arrington with distaste. "Believe me, you are no friend of mine." He turned to leave.
"Then why am I helping you remove the servant?" Arrington called after him, his arms thrown outwards in exasperation.
"For Camelot," He spun around slowly, standing taller than the small man, "because you care about protecting her from those that bring… bad influences into the court." A sad grimace crossed his features, and something akin to regret shone in his eyes.
"But why the servant?" His brow was crumpled onto a look of pure perplexity. "I understand he is close to the king, and you said before, he has the king's ear, but he is of little note to anyone. The king seems to almost… care for him," a sneer crossed Arrington's lips, "but he has been in his employ for many years, so that is somewhat understandable. The boy though is an idiot. Why do you care so much?"
"There are things that you don't understand, that you don't need to know." Once more the figure tried to leave, keen to be away from the whole sordid business he was conducting. There was always the risk of being caught in these corridors, be it by a friend or careless maid, but he could not afford to have anyone see him out here in the gloom – especially with the red-faced lord.
"I should know everything if our plan is to succeed."
"Our plan?" He chuckled softly. "You," he let out a breath, "don't know the half of what goes on around here. It seems none of us truly do. You'd do well to keep your nose out of affairs that need not concern you, especially considering your… precarious position within Camelot. The king's been looking for a reason to get rid of you for a long time now, and you've just given him one. You know what they say, two birds one stone."
"You knew I was in danger of losing my place at the council, and you had me agitate the king?" He was growing redder by the second, his voice as loud as she could shout without raising alarm.
"Your politics contrast with everything King Arthur stands for. I don't like you, I don't like what you stand for, but you were useful in talking to him one final time."
With that the figure finally left the scene, strolling calmly down the corridor whilst the infuriated lord fumed behind him.
Arthur was still lost in thought, clutching at Merlin's bloodied scarf, when he was roused by the firm, steady knocking at the door, unmistakably a guard's knock.
He folded the strip of cloth back up and placed it in his pocket, where it had lived for the past month, ever since he'd absentmindedly picked it up off Drin's floor as he'd carried a semi-conscious Merlin out of the building. He didn't know why he'd grabbed it, it was useless as a garment with its shredded cuts, and it had been enveloped by the blood that had pooled at Merlin's feet from the stab wound on his back.
It was a piece of Merlin though. Maybe somewhere deep down in Arthur's subconscious he'd realised Merlin wouldn't be the same again, their relationship would never be the same – now so many things were out in the open – and he'd kept the neckerchief to hold onto their lives before the tower. When they were nothing more than master and servant.
Arthur shook his head. They'd long since moved on from that, they were friends though neither stubborn fool would admit it. And friends always had each other's backs, so Arthur kept the piece of Merlin's past to remind himself that Merlin had always had his back, even when he'd turned his on the warlock.
"Come in." Arthur stood to receive the guard. The door opened and one of the regular gatekeepers stood before him.
"My lord." He nodded his head in respect as he entered the room, a frown cutting deep into his features. He looked puzzled, which could only mean one thing coming from a gatekeeper. They had an unexpected guest.
"Yes?" Arthur matched the guard's expression, tapping his fingers on the table.
"There's an elderly man here to see you, he says it's urgent." Still his brow conveyed the confusion both he and Arthur were feeling.
"Did he give you his name?" Arthur squinted, raising an eyebrow. He knew there was no planned arrivals in Camelot for at least a month, and it would take a major event for one of his subjects to speak directly to him. He really hoped in wasn't some demonic force terrorising villages – he had enough to deal with at present.
"He only introduced himself as Petch, sire, says he's from the lowlands and you'll know who he is. Apparently, it's important."
So, Arrington is one half of the figures who are plotting, but who is the other? And why is Petch in Camelot? So many questions…
Apologies if the scenes seem to be a but jumpy, I'm currently playing whack-a-mole with the storylines and having trouble writing multiple different plots in a single chapter, I'm still trying to find my way through having more characters and sets to write with. There's bits of the writing I really like, but some of it feels a little sloppy. If anyone has any writing tips they'd like to share that'd be awesome.