Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin isn’t sure where all of the blood is coming from but he’s certain that there’s a lot of it. 

It trickles down his brow, slips over his cheek. 

He can taste it in his throat and on his lips.

Something frigid seeps beneath blue fabric as bones jolt under pale skin. Stones, dust and something wet mixes under his boots as he struggles to hold his own weight. His knees shake and his already weakening grip on the wall waivers.

He tries so desperately to straighten but something inside Merlin’s chest shifts and he’s sent toppling back to the floor in a heap.

An agonised cry escapes him as ribs collide with ragged stones and he runs trembling hands across the cobbles, letting the almost gentle slice of the debris beneath him steal away the burn from the rest of his body. 

He shouts out again, hoping, praying as his voice cracks that the scream can penetrate further into the castle but he knows how far beneath the kitchens he is, how far away the Knights would be on the training field, how far away Arthur must be, sitting at his desk, still working on the same endless treaty for King Hywel that Merlin promised he’d be there to help with.

He attempts to turn, tries to stand once again but his leg twinges and his knee buckles excruciatingly. He collapses into the same heap as before with a mocking thud. 

Merlin knows he could make an effort to call out to Mordred, that he could scream bloody murder and beg the Druid to find him, to bring Arthur and direct him to the lowest, most isolated sector of the castle, to find him alive. 

Or he could lay here, where he was left by Sir Cadwyn and the other men that Merlin refuses to learn the names of. The men that lay waste to his body with bright smiles and vile eyes whilst that familiar buzz under his skin fizzled out, forgotten in its banishment within the Kingdom. Something in his heart aches and he begs himself to try again, to wobble to his feet and bite down his pain, to climb his way through the towering levels of the castle and find Arthur, maybe even apologise for being late to their meeting. 

Instead, he gargles as his vision swims and the taste of metal rises once again in his throat. He shivers violently as he claws pitifully at the floor and Merlin finally lets the fight fall away from him. 

His skull bounces sharply on the cobbles and as his eyes roll deep into the back of his head he gasps loudly into the echoing silence below Camelot.

Chapter Text

Words blur into splodges of black on parchment and Arthur grumbles low in his throat.  

He’s been expecting Merlin to stumble through those doors for the past three candle marks, to trip over his own feet and make up some poor excuse of being sent to wash King Hywel’s socks by Guienvere but the metal of the lock never rattles and no familiar form straggles through. 

Arthur knows all too well how overworked his servant is. 

He’s all too aware of the recognisable way Merlin’s eyelids tend to hang low, or the way he hunches over, only to remember his position and square his shoulders as if waiting to strike an oncoming opponent. The way he longs so dearly to turn Merlin in the direction of his bed and let the smaller man sink into his mattress. Watch as his eyes flutter closed and his breathing steadies out. Maybe even reach for him, if he were feeling so brave. 

But now he feels cold, and the fire sits unlit in the hearth and Arthur hisses to himself as his eyes graze over another line of the treaty that makes little sense to him at all. 

He smacks the quill back into the ink pot. 

“Christ- M er lin!” He shouts “Where the bloody hell is that fool?” He grinds his teeth hard as he bangs his fists firmly on the mahogany, standing quickly as he makes his way to the door. 

“Have you seen that absolute imbecile?” Arthur asks as he tears the door open and the guard straightens before responding quickly. 

“No, Sire. Not since noon. Sprinted past here with that look on his face, Sire.” Arthur’s heart almost dares sink. He’s well aware of what that look means and what it usually entails. 

Either Merlin is planning on disappearing for days without a word to anyone, only to come back with ‘the tavern’ excuse gracing his lips and a bruise across his face or a gash lining his stomach. Or Merlin will find the most inopportune moment to come rushing through dark oak doors with barely threads of proof to back some new found treasonous accusation. 

But Arthur knows just how often Merlin happens to be correct in his judgements and the more often he come’s to think about it he finds he would trust Merlin with more than his life, he would probably follow the man off the ends of the Earth if he even so much as whispered the words. He blinks the thought away.

He thinks for a moment, head still poking from the door as he lets his fingers hammer on the wood he grips onto and he swings hurridly on his feet like an impatient child. 

“Fetch me Sir Leon. Now.” 

An echo of ‘Yes, Sire.’ lingers behind as the guard stands to attention and dismisses himself, sprinting off down the hallway. Arthur turns to the next man in armour. 

“You. Sir Gwaine should be in The Rising Sun, the tavern, at this time.” He doesn’t even need to check the way the candle melts to know. “Find him. Bring him to me, I don’t care how drunk he is. Tell him it’s Merlin.” 

Another shout of respect floats away as the guard melts into the walls of the castle and Arthur sinks back into his quarters, letting the door slam behind him. 

______

“You would like me to have the Knights search the castle because you haven’t seen Merlin in… 5 candle marks?” 

“Yes.” Arthur and Gwaine spit out simultaneously. They share a look, neither presses the other further. 

“Sire, may I ask what you might believe has happened to Merlin? This is becoming a recurring issue, is it not?” 

“No. Only when I know for sure-“ 

“It’s that bloody King isn’t it? And his pathetic excuse for Knights. They’ve been arseholes to Merlin since they got here and I swear-”

“It hasn’t been… that bad, Gwaine,” Leon interrupts and Arthur raises a stern eyebrow. Leon clears his throat, tapping anxious fingers together before setting his eyes once more on the Knight standing beside the King. “Since their arrival a few of King Hywel’s Knights have been beheaving rather… boldly towards Merlin” 

Arthur felt something thick settle in his stomach and he ignores the way his own breathes start shortening ever so slightly “And you decided not to mention this, Sir Gwaine?” The long haired man tips his head, a twitch Arthur has come to understand is usually followed by some form of escalating violence. The sudden need to gut a visiting Knight surges through him but he knows that he cannot start accusing people without sufficient proof, he’s learnt that lesson before when it comes to Merlin and out of town royalty.

“Don’t you ‘Sir’ me. You should’ve come to us hours ago when you first knew-“ 

“Remember who you’re talking to, Gwaine.” 

“-When you first knew Merlin was missing. Sire.” 

It’s patronising, It’s something his father would have considered practically treason. He doesn’t care. 

A harsh shout sounds from outside his door, followed by boots scuffling along on the stones and Arthur almost reaches for his sword until he sees the desperate look on Leon’s face and the grin that switches places with Gwaine’s half-drunken scowl. 

“By the Goddess-“ 

The door slams open and Arthur drops his head into his hands 

“Sire, when do we depart?” Mordred's voice comes strong and righteous as he enters the threshold into Arthur’s chambers. 

Lancelot enters behind, followed by a glowering Elyan and a confused look Percival, who pushes his unsheathed sword out threateningly before slamming the door shut on the still jeering guards. 

“We don’t depart at all, Mordred, not yet at least.” Arthur grumbles into his callouses, running a pair of shaking hands down his face until he can taste the residual ink on his fingers. 

“Sire, with all due respect, If Merlin is in danger why not converse with all of us?” Elyan chimes in.

“Because I don’t know where Merlin is-“ 

“And why Gwaine, of all people?” 

“Oi-“ 

“Will you please-“ 

“We should let the King speak.” 

“Thank you, Percival-“ 

“What about Merlin, I thought he was meant to be with you?” 

“Yes, Elyan-“ 

“So, where is he?” 

“Yeah, Princess?” 

“Gwaine, you already know that I don’t-“

“Shut it!” Arthur has heard Lancelot shout plenty of time but somehow this time his voice reverberates around the room and Arthur is stunned quickly into silence, he almost forgets that he himself is the one in charge as he links his fingers together, ready to take instruction from the tanned man. “As you were saying, Sire?” 

“Oh, right, yes.Thank you- Very much- uh. Shit. Merlin, he, uh.” Arthur clears his throat, almost shying away from having to admit that he may have placed Merlin in harm's way but he cannot waste a second longer to ponder on it. 

“Sire? Are you quite alright?” Leon’s now quiet voice practically slips through Arthur’s ears as he’s consumed by his own mind and the anxiety that grows every second that they sit idly whilst Merlin remains unseen. 

“As you may know Merlin has a very dangerous tendency to uh- disappear one day and then reappear a few days later with unexplained injuries or obvious stories to tell with no way of telling them-“ Arthur clears his throat once more and something inside of him releases and he knows. He knows that the younger man is here, within the castle, he just knows it. He just doesn’t know where. He refocus’ himself. “Merlin. I haven’t seen him in five candle marks and I’m worried that something may have happened to him. The last time he was seen he was running. And he was carrying that look on his face, the one where he knows something.” 

Arthur isn’t sure what he’s expecting, maybe Mordred to laugh in his face at his stupidity, maybe Elyan to turn and curse. Percival to follow quickly, snarling from the door as they both mutter for their lost time. 

But instead all six of them stand and stare, waiting for their King to continue on. So he does. 

“I haven’t seen him and I’m- knowing his track record he’s probably being held for ransom by some lizard beast. I want this entire castle searched, top to bottom, every room needs to be wiped clean. If the idiot isn’t within the castle walls then- well.” Arthur keeps his mouth shut, unwilling to even begin to propose the plan of action steaming through his mind should Merlin not be traced within the hour.

He meets as many amenable eyes as possible. Arthur stands then, pulling himself up he places both hands firmly on the wood beneath him. 

“Report back to me before you even think about doing anything else.” Everyone knows it’s aimed at Gwaine. Arthur juts his chin towards the door. “Go.”

______

Arthur sits. He stares past his hands that rest impatiently in front of him, elbows propped up on the arms of the chair. 

His foot taps the stone, the evening sun tucks itself away behind an oncoming storm. Arthur waits. 

He glares at the door for what seems to be an eternity, though he can still hear the belts of Merlin’s name as the Knights pull further away through the castle. 

He stays, his lips pursing as his sword beams from where it rests against the desk, his legs tingle with a certain urge that Arthur isn’t sure he enjoys. 

He thinks about the Lord’s visiting from Northumbria. How they’d ridden strongly into the Courtyard, their stallions gliding through every twitch of their black leather reigns, carrying hand crafted leather bags clipped with weapons Arthur has never seen before. Their confident smiles and apparent admiration for the King were once again enough to lull Arthur into the sense that for once, everything would go as planned.

He’s seen much of them up until today. Their broad shoulders and stern voices were strong enough to have the entire court practically clawing at the ends of their deep blue cloaks in adulation. All except for Merlin, who’d sat scarcely idle beside Arthur in that very first meeting and scowled across the table at Sir Iwan and Sir Cadwyn who had mumbled incomprehensibly to each other, throwing the servant smiting looks of their own. 

Arthur has grown to know Merlin's array of scowl’s well. Where his eyebrows dart inwards subtly and his jaw sets as he bows his head, fiery eyes trained, unmoving from their newfound target.  

Something mocks him inside as he continues to sit and stare at the way the golden details of his sword glints in his eyeline. He bites down another embarrassing growl of frustration as the candle burns on and the tension seeping through Arthur’s heart refuses to shift. 

His focus realigns on a spec of spilt ink that sits on the knuckle of his ring finger, the spot sits peacefully as Arthur remembers that Merlin is supposed to be aiding him in writing new and updated sections to their proposed treaty, how Merlin is supposed to have written the rest of Arthur’s final speech by now but instead the poor excuse of a servant is slinking around the castle somewhere doing things without Arthur. 

He lurches from his seat and grips his sword tightly, carrying it low as he storms to the door and slides into the hallway.

“Sire?” The regular guard on the door shouts after him as Arthur picks up his feet and begins to plummet down the hall to the nearest stairwell. He sends himself flying downwards and he’s nearly responsible for the decapitation of a rather flustered Mordred as he lands.

“Sire- by the gods, what-”

“Mordred! I apologise I-” Arthur straightens himself, untucking his tunic from where the collar has dipped under itself. “-I thought I heard my name being called. I didn’t want to miss anything.” The King tries his best to hold Mordred's sight in his but he finds himself eyeing a particularly grey piece of stone in the wall. It was far less embarrassing than looking at Mordred knowing the sudden pinkness of his own cheeks.

“No-one’s found anything out of the ordinary yet. Sire. We’re now heading down to the storage rooms. Then we’ll continue on to the cellars, then the tunnels.”

“Right.” Arthur nods appreciatively at the plan that Leon has clearly laid out for them, his messy hair falling into his eyes as his head dips but he refuses to acknowledge it. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Merlin is certain that it’s the shaking of his own body that wakes him from his slumber. That with every tremor that rattles through him his heart bleeds a little more. He can hear it in his jaw, the way it clicks slightly. He can feel it in his thighs and the way that they ache. He can see it on the floor, running down from his eye, trickling through his hair and coating his tunic. His hand is sticky, he isn't too sure why.

A distant drip sounds from the shadows down the tunnel and Merlin manages to hold his exhausted eyes open just enough to make out the flame of the torch that graces the Sorcerer with some light. The orange dances between his lashes and for a second no spasm shoots through his body, no twitch shakes him distressingly.

But then something hitches in his throat and the burn underneath his skin resumes without warning. 

Despite the pain he heaves his eyes open further and the cobbled arches above flood his vision.

Merlin is well aware that, when being followed, cornering yourself in a suddenly unfamiliar part of the castle is the worst option to fall prey too. But he hadn’t been paying proper attention to where his half absent mind was taking him. His own thoughts attuned by the face of a Prattish King and his hatefulness for being late.

He had felt them behind him before he’d seen them. A new danger, one present in stops and starts throughout King Hywel’s stay, rising up behind him as he walked through the halls, into feasts and meetings and now, to Arthur’s chambers. The familiar buzz under his skin had spliced harshly through him like an airborne blade but he’d kept his pace, not drawing any attention, letting them believe he was yet to notice them. 

Then a brash shout had sounded from behind him and he’d moved quickly further through the castle, past Arthur’s chambers in hopes that, if they were after Arthur, he could draw them away first. Then he’d caught himself, so far into his own mind that the corridor in front of him had come as an unwelcome surprise. The bricked up deadend only held a thickly dusted suit of armour and a fading banner, portraying the familiar red and gold crest of the Pendragons that had seemingly been forgotten in this sector of the castle and before Merlin had the time to spin on his heal and make haste a strong hand had latched onto his shoulder and the sickly flesh of another had covered his mouth painfully. 

Merlin isn’t even sure how the three men had gotten him so far below the castle without a single prying eye being all that suspicious, but as time slowly melts away no footsteps sound within the shadows, no echoes of his name flow into the dying orange glow of the torch.

He calls out once, and only once, praying to the Goddess herself that it is enough to sway the young druid to search, to come to him, to bring the King. 

Merlin can’t decide If he wants Arthur and the Knights to see him in such a state, to see the dark sticky liquid that somehow coats him, to see the tears that fall so humiliatingly. But then he realises how much he needs the torturous pains to stop and for the ever growing cold to be expunged from deep within him. He prays Arthur finds him soon, he aches for that comfort. Shame curls unwelcomingly in his stomach, settling in beside the throbbing pain of something Merlin can’t quite remember. 

 A shiver wracks his body and he gives his eyelids the respite they’ve been begging for. 

He is oh, so alone, and the shadows consume him quickly.

Chapter Text

Mordred holds his sword close to his body, against his hip, the blade rests upwards, ready for the force of a strong swing to pull it toward a currently unfound target. The wooden door that once stood in the way between an old storage room and themselves now chucking up dust from where it had smacked harshly against the floor. 

The pair search quickly, around corners and behind the crumbling shelves, scanning the darkness for any sign that Merlin existed in this part of the castle. Mordred almost hopes they don’t find anything, the room sends a shiver down his spine and Mordred is barely glad he knows there’s nothing here and judging by the ever growing scowl on Arthur’s face, he knows it too. 

A subtle creak sounds from the corner of the room and it sends both men spinning uncontrollably in the direction of a particularly old set of shelves The two of them listen intently as the creaking rhythmically continues. 

“Merlin?” Arthur dares to half shout half whisper into the dimness but there is little in the way of a response, only another single creak as Mordred feels the hair resting on the forehead drift upwards with a gentle breeze, then silence.

“It’s only the wind, Sire. These units are old, probably much older than us. I wouldn’t be surprised if they collapsed any second.” The words feel sour in his throat as he only tries his best to help, to prove that, even as the youngest of them all he is as much a Knight as the others even without the aid of his magic, but then the Kings eyebrows dip into a furrow and Mordred hides the way a flush of embarrassment inches up his neck.

“Come, we need to be faster, I’m getting sick of having no answers in a castle with only four bloody walls!”

The Castle has more than four walls, Sire , Mordred thinks, then he shakes the thought from his mind. A figure of speech, Mordred, that’s all.

______

They’ve made it further under the castle, searching one of the old wine cellars when a familiar itch makes the hair on Mordred's arms stand up straight. A tingle works its way through the Druids veins, up to his elbows, dancing past his collar and around the back of his ears, it slithers through his brain and it almost burns him so he tries his best to joggle it away, as if a rather angry wasp was invading his space a bit too much. He flicks his head, attempting to dislodge the feeling but then he stills as he begins to feel the way the voice pulses into his mind in choked splutters.

He hones down on his own senses, pulling every last ounce of energy that courses through him and he pulls it quickly to the space behind his eyes. Something- someone is calling out to him and he’s certain that he will let death bestow him before he misses the chance to listen. He doesn’t need to be a genius in order to know that it has something to do with their missing Warlock.

The tunnels, bring-, Mordred, please, beneath the castle, tell Arthur-

His neck twitches as the words echo almost seamlessly through his ears and then drop suddenly. The voice shudders and drops low, dissolving into silence and Mordred thinks maybe he’s gone deaf before the heaviness of Arthur’s breathing slowly etches its way back into his hearing.

“Mordred? You’ve gone pale, what is it?” Concern laces the King's voice and the shorter man shakes his head. He bites down the growing pangs of dread that swirl in his stomach. Half a lie stirs behind blue eyes.

“Why don’t we-” He sucks in a breath. “The others have this part of the castle covered. We should start low, in the tunnels perhaps? Meet them halfway and save some time, cover more ground.” His mouth moves faster than his mind allows but he watches as Arthur’s expression changes briefly and something inside Mordred pangs expectantly.

“Mordred.” The King’s voice is far stronger than it previously has been in the last few candle marks and the blonde holds his sword low in a way that was surely intended to be unthreatening but Mordred cannot help keep his eyes trained on the way Arthur’s hand grips the hilt. Even if his grip is far weaker than it should be. “I know it makes you feel uncomfortable and… and untrusted but you can trust me and if something is wrong I trust you to tell me.”

The young druid shifts his own sword in his grip, expensive leather sits weighted in his hand and his now lightly dusted armour feels somewhat heavier than usual on his shoulders. The deep red cascading down his back suddenly feels treasonous. He sucks his lips between biting teeth and as he meets Arthur’s regal eyes he swallows.

“It’s Merlin. He- He called out to me, mentioned the tunnels, and you. Then it all went silent.” He doesn’t dare breathe before he utters his next words in fear of a perfectly sharpened sword to the neck. “I think- He’s badly hurt, Sire.”

Something sickly begins to claw at his throat as he speaks the words of Merlin’s ability and condition to the King but Arthur knows and he’s never shown a single problem with the knowledge of Merlin’s gift, his power. In fact, he only ever seems to encourage it but never whilst Merlin is actually present which leads to Mordred’s only moral quarrel being that Merlin is somehow so very unaware that Arthur knows.

“The tunnels? How would King Hywel’s Knights even know about the tunnels, no ever goes-” Arthur speaks in a tangle of words until his voice suddenly halts and something seems to snap behind his darkening features. Then Mordred blinks and he’s met with wide eyes and a now rising blade. “Bastards.” It’s barely a whisper. “Alert the others. Now.”

Mordred nods curtly before sliding back on his heel in a frantic attempt to launch himself back down the corridor towards maybe Leon or Lancelot but before he can take off a strong hand latches onto him and as his head swings swiftly towards the weight he’s met with pained eyes filled with something Mordred recognises only as desperation. 

“No, with your… mind thing, we don’t have the time. Multi-task, please , we need to move.”

Mordred nods once more, almost bothering this time to let his nerves scream at him to disobey, to slam his eyes shut and deny everything but Emerys needs them, needs him . His heart picks up its own panicked pace inside his chest and he brings quick words forwards in his mind, branding them deep within his own memory before letting his eyes flash that glorious gold in the darkness of the growing depths of the castle. 

He lets himself catch a glimpse of something akin to awe on Arthur’s face as he comes back into himself and as the gold melts away from his iris’, he allows his lip to bend subtly upwards in a gentle smile. Then he turns once again, more poised, filled with more purpose than before. He swats an encouraging hand in the King's direction, letting his smack land gently on his shoulder and he almost scolds himself at his own improper behaviour but then that sinking feeling from before reappears, buries itself deep within his gut and he ignores every other ounce of feeling that his nerves are firing. He starts the directionless sprint down the hall, almost abandoning Arthur by the wine cellar he pushes himself away from the sudden lack of echoing cries of Merlin’s name throughout the winding halls beneath the Kingdom.

Chapter Text

Leon swears silently to himself that there is nothing more disconcerting than hearing the distorted voice of your young magical friend bounce around inside your skull, he also swears he will never be able to forget the size of Gwaine’s eyes when the echo of Mordred’s shaking whisper had flown through his head. 

He’ll joke about it with the others later, now is not the time. 

Normally, in an event such as this, Leon would be the first to jump to King Arthur’s defence and even be the one to band together the Knights himself, it’s just that- Well, Arthur has been becoming rather familiar with this sort of protective panic a lot lately and Merlin somehow always seems to be found completely unscathed amidst a full scale manhunt. 

However, this time something rotten settles inside of Leon’s stomach and the familiar glow of overcast daylight fades so quickly behind him as the unsuspecting wooden door rattles shut behind him and he’s certain that this time he was wrong to so swiftly overlook Arthur’s unease. He feels the beginnings of guilt come to rest eerily atop his shoulders. The Golden Dragon that swirls there on the left, that sits sternly on a sea of Pendragon red seems to mock him. A rough hand skims through his hair, his own gloves sliding through tangled curls, he ignores the weight pulsating in his chest and pushes forward. 

They press further down into the growing darkness, the torches on the walls growing more rare by the minute and something pulls Leon back to his childhood. Maybe it’s that the way that the walls curl around corners almost as if the bricks and stone can somehow bend seamlessly, or the distinct dripping that resounds around the dullness that reminded him of the gentle times before the striking blades and merciless blood filled battles. 

A time where a future King and young Master would barrel through these tunnels in hushed giggles and giddy rebel, they’d spend countless days together down here, battling each other with wooden training swords in secret, quarrelling until they passed out against damp walls with smiles on chapped lips. 

And then one day the responsibilities grew too large for spare time to just be something they woke up to, and the tunnels beneath the castle became a distant memory for the both of them, rarely revisited, barely appreciated. 

Despite his stature Percival has somehow managed to melt into the shadows ahead, dipping in and out of view as the torches barred sparingly to the wall let off what little golden glow they can. 

Leon wishes that Mordred had been more specific with his instructions to get to the tunnels as fast as possible, a little ‘left’ or ‘right’ really wouldn’t have gone unthanked. Leon also wishes that maybe Gwaine had been left behind for a few minutes, his constant whining and worrying was slowly driving the beginnings of a rather unpleasant headache into his mind and looking at Lancelot, he wasn’t far from experiencing the same predicament. Gwaine grinds to a halt in the middle of an unlit archway and Leon manages to dart backwards before colliding with a Knight he believes to be Elyan, though he can’t be too sure. 

“-Fuck sake, Mordred, a little more on the information side of things would have been lovely. Mordred, you short bastard, where are you?” An anger filled shout reverberates down the tunnel and a sigh sounds from Lancelot's direction.

“Do you have to be so, you know, vulgar?” 

“Didn’t you grow up in a farming village. Full of farmers. That swear all the time?”

“No-?”

“Now is not the time for this, we need to find the others-” Percival says from somewhere in front of him and Leon makes a mental note to ask the giant if he is also part ghost, then he stops himself and shakes the thought from his mind. Gwaine is corrupting him, he doesn’t like it.

“Percy, would you say ‘bastard’ is vulgar?” 

“Gods, Gwaine, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Oh, C’mon, Lance-”

Leon knows exactly what Gwaine is doing, the second it all becomes a bit too real, the moment there’s a chance that just being a Knight of Camelot might not be enough the young man seems to let his mind escape itself, he turns into a jester and looks to annoying others in an attempt to make them laugh because to him, if others are laughing then surely, there cannot be another issue at hand, especially not one so dire. 

Leon would know, he’s tried it himself before though his attempt at comedic relief ended only with tears falling from his eyes and a shaky breath pulling itself from his lungs at the sound of the door shutting in front of him. He isn’t all that sure how Gwaine is always able to keep the facade going. Maybe Leon’s jealous, maybe he just really misses Merlin telling the dark haired man to shut up. Maybe he just really misses Merlin. 

“Gwaine, please, if you happen to know where King Arthur and Mordred are then do carry on, lead the way if you must, but if not then shut it or I swear once we find Merlin I will have him magic your mouth shut.” 

Gwaine chuckles loudly. 

“He can’t do that” He turns to Elyan. “Can Merlin do that?” Elyan shrugs his shoulders. “Elyan, can Merlin do that?” 

“I don’t-” 

Something clatters behind Leon and his hand is already gripping the hilt of his sword. Strong leather bindings meet calloused skin but he’s barely able to pull the blade from its sheath before whatever noise has stolen his attention is shoving him down hard and a sudden roar erupts from where he’s just turned his back.

He hears metal scraping against metal as the wind is pulled harshly from his lungs and a shadow lands forcefully on top of him. More urgent shouts fill the slim walkway as a flurry of red, all too familiar to Leon rises like a phoenix through new light that seems to flood around them. The knight barely has time to bring defensive arms up towards fisted hands before a regal shout of its own fills the tepid air. 

“Mordred, hold yourself!” 

Even the walls seem to still as Arthur emerges from the looming darkness like a wraith with a torch in hand and suddenly everyone can see the almost brawl that lays splayed out on the mossy floors. 

“Mordred, what are you- Arthur?” Gwaine shifts his pointed sword between itching hands. Everyone just seems to stare at the way Mordred is still pinning Leon to the ground with a knee to the chest, his fist raised bravely, or maybe stupidly as if you were to look to his belt you would see the hilt of his own sword poking out from behind Camelot red. 

“You can get off of him now, Mordred…”

“Yes, quite the spectacle you made there, Mordred.”

“Hang on a minute, Sire,  you told me to-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, glad you idiots could finally join us-”

“Rude.” Lancelot swats Gwaine in the shoulder.

“-Mordred here was just trying to trace Merlin through the tunnels but then we heard you and thought that maybe Merlin’s attackers had gotten themselves lost- But that doesn’t matter now.” Leon watches as Arthur shakes his head, a small smile threatening to break out as Leon hauls himself off the floor, trying not to stand on his own cape, and as he straightens himself he swears that the King suddenly becomes 14 years old again, fighting to be carefree and laughing when wanting to, not when instructed to. The way his lips curl inwards to fight his amusement and how his hair falls just above his eyes, it makes something in Leon glow. But then the same rigid furrow of his brow takes over and Arthur clears his throat. “Mordred has a trail and somehow, even without magic, you lot were closer than we were.” Arthur throws a questioning eyebrow to Mordred who simply turns a bright shade of orange. Or maybe it is just the light from the torch Arthur has.

Why didn’t we take a torch off of the wall instead of walking around in darkness?  Leon questions himself. Not the time, he thinks again.

“It’s this way, Sire, I’m sure of it. I can feel him, he’s close.” 

Leon waits for a snicker or remark from Gwaine but something in the air shifts and the voices that he’s expecting never sound. Lancelot is glaring away into the distance, brooding almost, and Percival takes the torch from Arthur, holding it high, letting the King raise both hands to his sword, the lack of armour on the King unsettles Leon but he doesn’t say anything. Attempting to stop Arthur from leading the plight to Merlin would probably end in his own execution. He’s come to understand that letting Arthur do what his mind- what his heart tells him in situations that involve Merlin is always best and to let him do so uninterrupted. Leon fumbles his cape away from his sword. He lets Arthur and Mordred pass in front. 

He’s grown up knowing that one day the Knights of Camelot would be his, after Arthur’s authority, of course. He knows they’re apt on how to defend themselves, how to protect each other but after years of seeing his friends, his brothers, fall to beasts and attackers that could’ve been prevented with a simple swivel of a head he’s gotten sick of putting those he loves on a funeral pyre. He prays each night that he sees it no more. That’s why he chooses to bring up the rear. He can defend from the back. He can and will fight for his fellow knights with his life, giving them the chance to break away should they need to. He knows that they would never leave a man behind even for their own actuality. But knowing that, in exchange for his own life he could bring them the chance of survival settles the years of guilt that buries itself so unmovingly into the crest that sits just beside his heart. 

He feels Arthur sink back next to him as they finally start to move again, leaning in close quickly, ready to push back through to the front should he need to and something close to nostalgia settles into his chest, he welcomes it gladly. 

“Why didn’t you take a torch off of the wall? Instead of… You know, walking around in the dark.”

Leon’s neck twinges in irritation. 

“Not the time, Sire.”

He almost pulls a laugh from the King. Almost.

Chapter Text

Elyan remembers. That’s what he always does. He knows the intricate details of small things he’s certain his mind should have left behind years ago; The slowly growing crack in the bricks of the hearth in the guild that he promised Gwen in passing that he would fix a week before their father died. Or the 10 gold he owes Gwaine from a drunken bet during a night off in the tavern that he knew the taller man was never going to remember, he never does. He especially remembers the way that Gwen scolded him one frostbitten night under the twilight whilst he stood guard outside their cramped little house the week of a series of vicious monster attacks. He was only ten at the time but he knows he stood tall with a sword that he was barely able to lift above his waist and a scar that fades so unnoticeably into his skin. But the only memory swirling inside of his mind now is the rancid proud smiles and the almost sickening tones that rang out the moment King Hywel, his knights, and his advisors plodded into the courtyard in front of the castle. 

He stood tall then too, shouldered between a leading Gwaine, and Mordred who hung behind his left shoulder, arms tucked nervously within draping red. Across from him stood Lancelot, who Elyan is certain never once took his eyes off of the swords that hung none too threateningly at the side of the one blonde knight that somehow exuberated the most arrogance Elyan had ever felt in one place. He’d watched as smug faces lowered themselves from horses that carried far more weight than anyone in Camelot would deem kind towards the animals. 

But he’d tilted his head down and kept his mouth shut, demonstrating his best display of the highest respect he could muster from deep within his chest. He’d even kept his lips sealed as the Knight, Sir Cadwyn, had greeted the King so kindly, so respectfully, only to meet Merlin’s eye to the King's right and let his expression turn to that of disgust. He knows Merlin is used to that response to his presence in King Arthur’s grand line up of his finest defenders. It doesn’t mean the others have to like the all too familiar reactions.

Elyan had tried his best to stay focused in that moment, he remembers bowing his head and shaking hands firmly with those who had greeted Arthur with seemingly such high regard. However, something within the growing Autumn breeze had shifted and with it so had the tenor now looming over his shoulder. Elyan had turned, ever so slightly to laugh away the poorly landing joke of a knight that he isn’t too certain of the name, Sir Tomas perhaps, who had made it clear that Merlin would also be receiving no acknowledgement from him and as the taller, paler Knight had brushed passed Elyan to greet Mordred, the Druid’s hand waved dangerously close to his sword, eyebrows sitting low on his face letting dark, blown wide eyes peer threateningly through thin lashes. Elyan let his own eyes pulse wide in an unseen warning and Mordred had dutifully cleared his throat and carried on as if nothing had ever happened. 

Elyan had passed it off as one of those feelings Mordred had told him about, when an almost warning pricks under his skin and the icor that flows through him tries its best to escape outwards, to defend him against a threat that his mind has yet to identify as a danger. He’d  wanted to question Mordred more on his darkening scowl after they’d trundled up steep stone steps and started the walk towards the throne room but he’d been brushed away in the crowd by sweeps of deep blue and swords Elyan wasn’t too keen on taking his eyes off of.

Now,as they march their way down dank tunnels with a spectre of orange as their only light, Elyan thinks back to the moment he’d realised Merlin wasn’t all that he made himself out to be. Of course, he’d known Merlin was different since the day he’d met him, his blue eyes always seemed to have a voice but no way to speak, a story to tell, but no strength to tell it, not yet anyway.

Elyan remembers the smell of pine and the feeling of his cape against bare arms, using the fabric to protect himself only from the beating down summer sun and the way that beams broke like reflections from a mirror through the tree canopy as it began its long descent into the horizon. He remembers the gentle buzz of the campsite, Gwaine and Lancelot threatening each other half heartedly by the tree line, feeding and unsaddling the stallions for the night. Percival and Merlin gathering firewood off to the east and Mordred letting the small blue butterfly that had landed on his cape rest quietly just over his knee. Leon and Arthur were keenly discussing plans for the next days travel. 

He recalls the memory fondly, watching carefully, taking in the view and breathing in the fresh air of the woodland, Percival reaches down to add another log to the already growing pile in his arms. It’s the height of summer, he thinks, we surely don’t need that much wood . He doesn’t say anything though, just watches. He watches as the butterfly on Mordred’s knee flits away and as Arthur bats Leon on the arm with a deep laugh, and he watches as Merlin trips silently, the pile he’s gathered in his arms angled to go toppling to the floor, but it remains in place, every last twig sticks dutifully in his arms as if he hadn’t moved a muscle and Merlin’s breath hitches as he opens his eyes and Elyan holds in a gasp as a single trace of gold melts away from his eye line. 

Idiot , he thinks quietly as he eyes the man from a distance. 

Then Merlin meets his eyes from where he stands in the grass and Elyan doesn’t look away, only offers a small smile from his place on the fallen tree truck he’d claimed the moment they’d chosen to stop. He can see the sudden fear behind previously calm blue eyes but Elyan only continues to smile, letting his gaze dart back to Mordred as if he’d never seen anything. And that’s when he swore to himself that he would continue on silently with that knowledge. 

He’d never speak a word to anyone, not even the King if it were his own life on the line. He would never let the secret pass his lips, but he would always remember.  

Now he steps quickly behind Percival, the ash from the torch floats away towards the arched bricks above and Elyan listens to the silence, how the sounds of footsteps crunching on years of debris rattle in his ears, how only a few quiet clatters of armour sound from within the burning orange light of the torch that’s held just above his head. 

Then a commotion up ahead steals his attention away and Elyan lets himself feel the well known manner his heart almost dares to stammer inside his ribcage. He uses the dying light above him to peer through the murk and he sees the way Mordred is secured in place, standing frighteningly still, eyes alight. He’s poised in a way that Elyan has never seen from the younger man, even in the moments before a stealth strike on an enemy. 

Someone calls his name, Elyan doesn’t consider who it may have come from, he’s too focused on that same molten shine he’d seen from Merlin’s own eyes all those years ago. He refuses to look away. 

“Mordred?” This time it’s Arthur, Elyan can recognise the hidden panic within his voice but he still keeps his eyes trained on a now unexpectedly pale man. Gwaine’s impatience begins to show itself from where he stands next to Lancelot. 

“What’s the matter?”

Arthur places a firm hand on Mordred’s shoulder, shaking sternly and when Mordred’s eyes remain wide, gold and unseeing. Elyan allows a mild worry to set in. 

“Mordred!” Arthur’s knuckles practically turn white as their grip on Mordred's shoulder tightens. “Fuck sake, Mordred!” He’s shouting now, voice fading into the tunnels and he can hear Gwaine whisper under his breath “ What’s going on?”

“Maybe he’s found something?” Percival adds in, the torch burning dangerously close to his fingers, he wants to urge the taller man to throw it down and pluck the next one they find from the wall, he also wants to slap Mordred out of whatever trance he’s gotten himself into and carry on never ending abyss ahead of them. He also wants to go to bed but he pushes that thought to the back of his mind. 

“Give the man a moment.” Lancelot chimes in, he’s always seemed to know more than the others, like he’s always one step ahead of everyone else and it only makes Elyan want to ask more questions.

“Merlin is still missing, Lance, he may not have a moment.” Gwaine voices again and Lancelot only rolls his eyes. 

“Here we go again.” Leon mutters from somewhere behind him, they all ignore it. 

“Can you two stop arguing for more than five minutes?” Percival spins, almost taking Elyan’s hair up in flames with him.

“What did I do?” Lancelot mumbles 

“Shut it, all of you. Give me that.” Arthur reaches for the torch, flexing his fingers before snatching the pole away from Percivals red tinged hand. Arthur releases his grip on Mordred's shoulder, leaving a scrunched up cape in his wake but then he swings the torch dangerously close to the druid's face and Elyan calls out in protest as the flame grazes Mordred’s skin. 

“Sire, what are you doing-” he never wants to misjudge Arthur’s actions, but then Mordred’s eyes leap quickly back to a shadowed blue in the dim halls and he sighs, as if his eyes shining bright was a breath he’d been meaning to let go of. 

Then a wide gaze shoots upwards and Mordred stares at a questioning Arthur for a few tense seconds and Elyan can feel Gwaine’s raised eyebrow from behind him. 

“Mordred? Are you… okay?” He swallows hard, his voice leaving him as he tries to scratch out a response but then Arthur looks at him and Mordred’s facade seems to shatter, his eyes turn to a murderous shade of black and Elyan grits his teeth hard. 

“I’ve found him.” Arthur throws down the torch he’s holding, almost setting Gwaine’s cape on fire but the long haired man has no quarrels to make as Arthur rips an unlit torch from the wall and uses the last dying embers to set the fabric alight. 

He can almost hear his own heart settle but only just as they stride off into the unknown, a flaxen flare leading the way to their fallen man.

Chapter Text

Gwaine has always hated the dark, the way there’s no way of telling what’s out there, what’s lurking behind you in the starless void. But that’s never what truly scared Gwaine. Instead it’s the way that the world just seems to so silently stop and suddenly there’s nothing to distract himself from the incredibly distressing belief that he cannot solve it all, that there are tragedies set and inevitable deaths looming that he cannot prevent. The way that his voice travels but no laughs or spouts of annoyance dance back to him. They way he cannot stop the inevitable with his humour, cannot help even himself in a place where there is no way to see through the dusk. And even more, when the light finally returns and vision is taken, oh so regretfully for granted, there's still the small slither of a chance that all along you were actually all alone to begin with. 

And even with the short breaths of his brothers around him he can feel the loneliness creeping in, the way there's a space in front of him next to Elyan that should be inhabited by a younger man that took far too long to come into himself and even with the way Merlin has finally filled out his shirt he still holds the biggest part of his being close to his chest and Gwaine could say that he’s hurt about Merlin not trusting him with a secret so heavy to carry but then Gwaine also remembers just how heavy that secret may be and he knows that’s exactly why Merlin never dared share it.

He keeps his eyes focused on the way the torch ahead projects outward and how he can see the bricks above and that somewhere along this tunnel, or maybe the next, Merlin is waiting, lying there, hurt in a place that truly infects even the tiniest places that the light may be hiding. And he too did it all alone. 

Gwaine can feel his heart hammering and he tries his hardest to keep his face straight but the way sweat drips down his back has him itching to square his shoulders and let a growl of frustration rip from his throat. 

He hates the way his feet feel in his boots and the hair on the back of his neck only angers him further and when they slowly grind to the third aggravating halt in however many minutes Gwaine barely retracts his wrist before it slams into the wall beside him.

“What is going on, where the fuck are we going, Mordred?

“Gwaine-” 

“No, Percival, I want to know-”

“He should be here.”

“-What?”

“He should be here. I saw him. I saw this cross path, I saw-”

“Well, he’s not here, Mordred.”

Mordred spins to meet his eye and he recognises a flash of something across the druid's eyes and Gwaine slams his mouth shut, spinning around before jamming the palms of his hands into his eyes and breathing deeply. They stand imobile in a small square where four tunnels branch off under red bricked arches. The tunnel they had just spent the best part of a candlemark coming from stands hushed behind them, the tunnel they were following mocks them ahead, beside Gwaine stands another arch of looming darkness and where Lancelot comes to rest beside him stands the fourth. 

He mutters a timid “Sorry.” and Arthur’s own breathless voice jumps into gear.

“Split up,” he sounds uncertain. “It’s an odd number so someone will-”

“I’ll go alone.” Gwaine speaks up before he can bite his tongue.

“-Easier than expected… Five hundred, count it evenly with one hand on the left wall. If you find another crossroad or you reach 500 you turn back and wait here. If you find something, shout. Loud. I would dare to go further but there’s a point where even I don’t know where these tunnels lead. -Should probably… find out at some point… major security risk.” Arthur holds the torch almost mockingly as he attempts to eye Leon through the haze and Gwaine sees his own patterns within the King. He definitely thinks he loves it, or maybe not.

Arthur stands there, looking amongst his men and Gwaine watches as Arthur’s features attempt to fight against its own emotions. The King clears his throat. Gwaine waits.

“For Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is quiet yet strong. The monarch has hope yet, Gwaine prays maybe one day he wouldn’t mind sharing some. 

He hesitates as responding whispers echo between the surrounding archways and slowly, figures begin to slink away into the darkness.

For Merlin. He thinks to himself. 

He doesn’t bother to turn slowly and face the walls that will soon consume him, instead he sucks in maybe the deepest breath he’s been able to stomach in the last few candle marks. And then he spins fervently and he launches himself into that same void, with one hand trailing against crumbling brick and the other resting achingly over sharpened steel. 

______

One hundred and forty seven, one hundred and forty eight.

He can feel every grain of clay within the bricks, every piece of sand and stone and dust that has settled there over the years and with every piece that glides over the pads of his fingers, slices ever so gently into the hardened skin. He lets his mind attempt to fight the ongoing darkness. He mutters to himself quietly, counting every moment that passes like a ritual in his mind. He acts as if he will turn back without Merlin. He won’t. His free hand drifts anxiously, impossibly closer towards his sword.

Gwaine can hear every drip in the distance, every rat that squeaks past his feet in a frightened hurry, the smell of damp only gets worse as he ventures further onwards. Another rat scurries past his feet and he aims halfheartedly to kick it away but something stops him from hitting it, he blames it on the darkness instead of the thought of Merlin’s reaction at the harm of a defenceless animal.

One hundred and eighty two, one hundred and eighty three.

He speeds up, letting his hands drag a little harder against the wall.

For the love of all that’s holy, Merls, where are you? 

Another drip sounds in the distance, his eyes started to differentiate between brick and cement a while ago.

One hundred and ninety, One hundred and ninety one. 

Something works its way into the back of Gwaine’s mind and he attempts to shake the unwelcome thought away

You’re wasting time, you won't find him here, go back, the dark- You. Are wasting. Time.

Gwaine steps onwards, still.

“C’mon, Merlin, give me something.” He’s talking to nothing, his hand carries him further.

Two hundred and twenty four, two hundred and twenty five.

He keeps going. The two pints he’d managed to down before a guard he'd barely even recognised had dragged him from his barstool in a frenzy have long since worn off. There’s nothing keeping him going except raw adrenaline and the image of a hurt Sorcerer who sits, shied away in a never ending system of tunnels that Gwaine had never even known existed. He will bollock Arthur later about informing his Knights on their defence and attack points after Merlin was safe.

He hopes someone else has already located Merlin and that he is either too far away to hear the yell or it is about to ripple down the tunnel from behind him like the first rain after a swelteringly dry summer and he will finally be able to evacuate the eerily lonely tunnel before his spine manages to rattle itself apart.

He pushes forward once more and the grain from the bricks begins to dig a little too deep. 

Two hundred and seventy six, two hundred and seventy sev-

Something he hasn’t heard before sounds in the distance, not a drip somewhere up ahead, not a squeak of a rat below him. Something is shifting and Gwaine is certain his heart may be about to implode.

He lets his hand finally rest over the hilt of his sword, gripping the bindings hard, preparing to unsheath the metal and swing hard, he crouches ever so slightly, listening. 

A torch would’ve been a fucking brilliant idea, thanks for bringing that up, useless mind. He thinks to himself, a futile attempt to draw a chuckle from himself.

The noise sounds again, something- almost a wheezing that Gwaine can hear pulsing in and out like a flame. He pulls the steel outwards, letting it drag out of the sheath with a spark in order to bring it close to his chest, melting through the darkness. He lets the weapon lead him onwards.

“Show yourself.” He etches onwards, the worry working its way further up his throat, trying desperately to escape.

“Merlin?” He ignores the way his voice waivers. “Merls?” He bores holes into every single thing his vision can make out.

“Merlin?” He steps cautiously onwards, until something, a lump on the floor slowly renders into existence. “Merlin?”

The wheeze sounds again and every single atom inside of Gwaine drops simultaneously. 

“Fuck, Merlin.” Gwaine drops his sword as if it were on fire and he tries his best not to worry about the way the dark mass on the floor doesn’t even flinch at the sharp sound. Gwaine falls hard onto his knees and musters the voice he’s been wanting to scream with all bloody day.

“Arthur!” It comes out cracked and choked. He shouts again. “Arthur! Shit Merlin, look at me, c’mon, Merls, open your eyes, you little- Merlin.” Gwaine sinks low, bringing his ear against Merlin’s chest and he can hear that same wheeze from before, the strangled attempt at breathing and it’s almost enough to send Gwaine to an early grave. 

“Arthur! Get here, Now!” 

Gwaine can hear the far too distant shouts of his own name in return but he turns his attention back to the way Merlin is barely breathing, eyes shut as if he were sleeping peacefully, his head tucked away where his arms attempt to cradle his skull. 

Suddenly, a scent Gwaine has unfortunately become all too accustomed to fills his nose and he tries his best not to turn away and vomit. 

Iron sits heavy in the air like sulphur and Gwaine pulls Merlin around, settling him as gently as possible on his back against the stone floor and he taps lightly, slapping the man's cheek, trying to elicit some sort of reaction from Merlin, to know that he’s still alive. He gets nothing except a barely audible gasp as Gwaine puts too much pressure on a low section of Merlin’s chest but it’s enough. He pulls his hand away and he can already feel the blood coating his palm, he tries his best to wipe the stain away on his trousers, he knows he’ll be burning them later.

“Merlin, you’ve got to open your eyes. Fuck, please.” Gwaine dares, only for his friend's life, to scope more. He drags trembling hands down around Merlin’s ears, behind his head and down his neck. He ventures down past his ribs and another pained gasp sounds from the man.

Keep going, at least he’s alive. You need to know what’s hurting. If you can move him without killing him.

For once he listens to himself and he carries on, down Merlin’s thighs and towards his tattered boots and he cringes inwards as all he can feel is the slickness that somehow finds a way to coat him again, he can feel it sinking into his trousers where they rest against the floor, he can feel it on his skin. 

Into his trousers, on the floor.

Merlin’s bleeding out onto the floor beneath him. He’s kneeling in a puddle of Merlin’s blood. 

This time he cannot fight it, the gag escapes him and he battles with the urge to empty his stomach onto the floor but he manages to hold it in and shouts out again, it’s all he can bring himself to do.

“Arthur!”

“Gwaine!” This time it's a mix of voices but Gwaine can still pinpoint the regal curls of Arthur’s accent in the chaos, much closer now and somehow far more pained than before. Panic has finally overtaken Arthur in the mystery of the dark tunnels and Gwaine listens as his voice leaves nothing to the imagination, as bombarding footsteps begin to hammer up towards them and Gwaine feels that he should brandish his sword, swing it wildly and threaten whoever dares step where his eyes allow him to see. Instead, he cradles Merlin’s head that is coated with something in his lap and he blinks back the tears that threaten, so teasingly to spill over his cheeks. 

He manages to make out the beginnings of light, the orange glow of the torch comes into view down the tunnel and Gwaine prepares himself for what he will see when the light reaches him.

He keeps his eyes focused on the way Merlin’s chest rises and falls far too slowly, far too shallow and the noise that rattles through him agonisingly as he does so. 

He barely has time to register the way the footsteps almost barrel into him and how the walkway illuminates but then six racing figures suddenly slow and catch up to each other, frozen in time as the only torch they’ve managed to acquire finally lays a blanket over the two shuddering shadows on the floor. 

Arthur’s voice comes in a half cracked, incredibly broken sob.

“Merlin?”

Chapter Text

Arthur knows what death feels like. He was brought into this world by a woman destined to die, he watched the way his father’s eyes had drained themselves of any soul only moments after being so full of light, even if only for a few moments. He’d sent off countless friends downed in battle, his own sister. This? This felt no different than the many before. In fact Arthur was certain it felt substantially worse. 

He blinks and Merlin is closer than before, he can barely make out the way his eyelashes rest gently on his cheek, he can see a deep crimson that should never stain Merlin’s skin. He doesn’t even realise he’s dropped to his knees until, someone above him removes the torch from his grip as he shakily pulls himself across the damp floor next to Gwaine, who cradles Merlin’s head so gently that Arthur fears it may break if the other man were to breathe any harder than he already is. 

He never lets his hands touch Merlin. Only lets them hover, quaking violently over dampened clothing, across hematic stained skin. He tries his hardest to muster any words he possibly can but they catch in his throat and Gwaine seems to understand his struggle.

“He’s alive.” The man’s voice is filled with nothing but raw anguish, but Arthur cannot bother to feel anything other than pure fear. It flows through him like it’s all he’s ever known. 

He watches as the torch above moves slightly and he can make out the blood that dribbles like treacle down Merlin’s head, the split in his usually soft-looking lips, the way his tunic clings tightly to mottled skin, he can see the ribbons of flesh under the fabric that rests over his ribs. He’s never seen anyone look so pale before, so ghostly. He suddenly starts to feel just an ounce of the rage that Gwaine was speaking with before. 

“Sire?” Someone all but whispers behind him but he cannot take his eyes away, cannot stop looking at the horror before him that he is sure has already burned its way so unbiddenly into his mind.

“Sire. We need to get him to Gaius.” The voice is soft, calm even and he hears the sound dip close to him. It’s probably Lancelot though he can’t find a way to care. “Arthur. Merlin needs help.” And it’s like someone picks him up and shakes him. It’s as if someone mutters the words inside his own head and he can barely hear his own voice as he begins to rattles off orders, hands still only hovering, he won’t allow himself to touch Merlin in this state. 

It will make it all far too real , he thinks.

“Leon, Percival. By the time I’m back upstairs I want the cowards that did this either in cells or on their knees in the throne room. I don’t care what injuries they may sustain in the process.” 

Cowards. Arthur is certain there are far better words to describe the recreants that have done this. 

“Gwaine, I-”

“No.” 

Arthur hears the; I’m not going anywhere. that Gwaine doesn’t quite get out but Arthur doesn’t bother arguing with him, it will only waste time that Merlin may not have and he cannot blame the man either.

“What do you need, Sire?” Elyan volunteers and Arthur knows he doesn’t need to thank him.

“Alert Gaius we’re coming, tell him-” Arthur can barely speak the words without choking on the lump in his throat. “-Tell him to prepare for the worst.” Something inside of him breaks a little.

There’s a shuffle behind him, the all too loud rattle of armour and three shadows on his shoulder disappear into the darkness. The orange glow remains with them but Arthur knows they won’t make it out of the tunnel system before the embers die. 

“We need to get him up.” Gwaine mumbles quickly and even with the way Arthur sees his tanned hands trembling he manages to set Merlin’s head down on the stone without trouble. 

Arthur thinks he’s never heard Merlin so quiet, how he usually mutters useless rubbish to himself, how he hums when he’s working and hasn’t noticed the presence of the other man. How he taps his feet against cobbles when polishing and how he snores gently in the dead of night around the campfire. How all of that seems such an impossible yet simple thing to have been their normality before this moment.

“Arthur.” Gwaine is standing above him now and the King, for the first time since he’d lays eyes on Merlin, dares to take his eyes away. He can just make out the two other figures behind him. Lancelot eyes him cautiously, carrying a look on his face that Arthur has never seen before. His eyes are wide and his chest rises in short puffs but somehow he still stands stoic and Arthur can’t fight the jealousy that breaks through.

Then he looks up at Mordred and that little broken piece inside of his heart shatters a little more. The young man has a single tear trailing down his pasty cheek and he only stares at Merlin’s lifeless form. He stands so incredibly still that Arthur wants to make sure he hasn’t slipped into another trance but then Gwaine speaks again and this time Arthur listens.

“Arthur. Get him up. I’ll lead the way.” Arthur watches the way the flame travels as Gwaine takes the torch from Lancelot, he also notices how Mordred still refuses to move. He swallows down bile that rises in his throat and coughs it away. Then he flicks his head back to Merlin and the nausea hits all over again but he cannot let it dwell. 

He wraps a quivering arm under Merlin’s legs and attempts to, as gently as possible, nudge his back upwards just enough to wriggle his other arm through. Every fibre in his body is screaming to keep Merlin here, to bring Gaius down into the darkness and have him treated in the looming dusk.

“I’ve checked, Arthur. No spinal injuries. He’s okay to move.” And Arthur is fully aware that just because the spine and neck are okay does not mean that the rest of the body is. But he also hears the way that Merlin’s chest seems to shudder with each breath so he steadies himself on one knee and lifts quickly, only to be met with a choked whimper from Merlin as Arthur hoists him further into his arms.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. It’s okay. You’re okay, I promise.” He mumbles and he knows that the man cannot hear him, that the only ones listening are behind him, maybe thinking he’s insane, or soft, or- or smitten. But then he looks down towards the man he cradles in his arms and his heart only increases with fear and- fondness , to a speed Arthur never thought possible. He sends a quick nod to Gwaine and the knight juts his jaw back in response, turning quickly, dispersing the darkness with the slowly fading warmth he holds in his hands. Arthur follows hastily, the weight in his arms trembling yet still too unmoving

It’s alright, Merlin. He thinks to himself. I’ve got you.

Chapter Text

The embers from the torch finally gave in a while ago, the only sounds he can hear are that of Arthur’s huffed out breaths and the patter of heavy footsteps that echo through the tunnels. He can hear his heart beating in his chest, faster than usual, much faster. 

Lancelot can make out the few shadows ahead of him. Arthur’s blonde strands peeking through the dark, the silhouette of Merlin’s hair, matted yet still poking out messily from where it rests, wobbling against Arthur’s shoulder. Mordred follows Gwaine obediently and silently. Lancelot hasn’t seen him peer back once. He’s not sure the young druid can stomach it. 

He isn’t sure which section of the tunnels they’ve come to now, he had spent most of the journey down here with his head in his hands but Gwaine seems to be following the way the walls curl just fine and the way the somehow soft breeze blows towards them. Gwaine’s never been so quiet before and Lancelot knows he will find him in the tavern later. It won't matter how long they’ve been down here. 

He listens carefully to the way Arthur mutters jumbled nonsense under his breath, it’s barely audible but Lancelot can make out a few comprehensible sentences here and there. 

You’re safe now-

I’m here, Merlin-

You’ll be just fine-

I’m sorry.

He’s had a feeling for a while that there may be something more going on between the pair. Their usual arguing and general lack of proprietary for King and servant has always been something he struggles to ignore but even with that Arthur has become somewhat fonder of the Warlock. Letting him slack on his daily tasks, he hasn’t been used in a violent bout of target practices recently and Lancelot tries not to notice the softness that has overcome Arthur’s smiles whenever they’re directed at Merlin. He also never sees the King react in such a sensitive way except for whenever Merlin is in danger. 

To put it into perspective; When Lancelot met Merlin, Arthur was known for routinely leaving the man wandering far behind on hunts, getting lost in the woods, and even during bandit attacks, Merlin was the last thing on Arthur’s mind. Now, Arthur has developed a nervous twitch whenever someone even so much as looks at Merlin the wrong way and the King has banned hunts unless they’re on a mission deep within the woods and need the food source because Merlin has always spoken out against them and the cruelty it harbours. 

And that’s only the beginning. Merlin has previously been believed to be late to his duties, slacking and still snoozing in his tiny bed in the physicians chambers. Instead, Leon has been the poor soul who has walked in on the pair, passed out on the rug in front of the dying fire in Arthur’s chambers, raven hair nuzzled into the blonde man's shoulder like a pair of love sick yet highly conservative teenagers. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t dreamt of locking the pair in an incredibly cramped wardrobe until they decide to sort themselves out. 

It makes Lancelot glad to see that Merlin is finally happy, even if he still believes he has to hide the biggest part of himself and the Knight can’t help but feel incredibly guilty for not letting the Warlock know that the only one who doesn’t know that everyone knows is him.   

“That’s where we took the torch from the wall.” Mordred speaks and it draws Lancelot from his dazed thoughts, he doesn’t realise he’s been burning holes into Merlin’s limp form until he looks up. 

He tracks the empty bracket on the stone as they walk past. It sits lonely against the brick but Lancelot notices the way a low beam, much like the one they’d been carrying during their search, lays gently against the rusted metal. He flicks his head forward to meet where the light spouts from and he sees where the others must have left the door ajar slightly in their haste.

Lancelot lets himself sigh out a sound of relief as the darkness slowly gets overtaken by the sconce-ridden stairway that leads to the familiar, more friendly parts of the castle and he matches the quickening pace that starts ahead of him. Lancelot winces on behalf of Merlin’s injuries and he bites back a hiss as the unconscious releases another whimper of pain at the new jostling that shakes his wounds. He prays Arthur does not blame himself though he fears his pleas have come far too late.

He’s nearly blinded by the way the stairs spiral round and the wooden door opens to let the light decimate what feels like years of unseeing. The glow from the torches on the wall are enough to tell Lancelot they’ve been down there long enough for night to have overtaken the Kingdom, enough for the storm to be directly overhead. He bolts the door shut behind him and makes a note to bring up in the next council meeting that they shouldn’t bother to search where the tunnels come out, they should simply brick the stairwell up completely, the entire way down and pretend it never existed. It would sure make walking past it a lot easier to stomach.

He turns and Arthur has already started to disappear down the hall, the Knight can make out the way he easily holds Merlin’s weight and he knows the sweat that drips down Arthur’s neck isn’t from exhaustion. He can also see just how pale Merlin truly is and it sends a heavy weight down into his stomach, he catches the sight of something littering the floor, something that would’ve been swiped away hours ago if it weren’t so recently placed. Spots of blood. He swallows down the unwelcome lump forming in his throat. 

He’s shaken from his mind by a looming presence next to him and he knows from the silence that Mordred is still in some crazed state of shock, eyeing the same droplets on the floor that he was before. 

“It is not your fault, my friend.” He lays a firm hand on the man’s shoulder and steps in his line of sight, an attempt to ground him before he spirals more, if that’s even possible. “He’s out of that Labyrinth. That’s all you need to do.” 

“He would’ve been out of there faster if I’d’ve been better, If I’d done more.” His voice shakes and Lancelot remembers how young this man still is. Only a child in the eyes of many, but a valiant, brave Knight nonetheless. Perhaps one of the best.

“What more could you have done, Mordred?” 

“ Find him.” It’s filled with hatred, anger.

“You did. Without you we would still be searching down there like a gaggle of blithering blind mice. We found him because of you, Mordred. You and your talents.” He tightens his grip on Mordred’s shoulder just a little, he offers a small smile and the shorter man finally meets his eyes. “Now come on, Merlin needs us.” Mordred shakes his head.

“No, I- I’m going to find Percival and Leon.” 

And Lancelot feels something pang in his chest and it aches but he tries his best not to look too much like a kicked puppy.

“Mordred-”

“If those Knights did… this to Merlin, that proves just how strong they can be when the time calls for it. The more men to detain them the better, especially if the King himself is absent when doing so.” And Lancelot cannot disagree that the druid has a smart mind, a plan and the kindness to pull himself away from a man he practically worships in order to defend those that may need it but he still cannot help but feel that this is because Mordred can’t even begin to stomach looking at the Warlock without that horrifically intense feeling that Lancelot can’t find the words to describe, he should know, he’s felt it plenty before.

He nods firmly and shoots another pursed smile towards Mordred.

“Send for me, should you need backup until Arthur can pull himself from Merlin’s side.”

Mordred sends a knowing look and he speaks out a “Thank you,” before he starts walking backwards, turning quickly as he reaches the corner and Lancelot watches as the Knight skips a step before launching himself down the hall, towards the direction of the stairs. 

He sighs deeply, the slight inkling of failure creeps into his veins but he shakes the thought away and clamps his eyes shut. He blinks away the irritating bright spots from where the light still clings weirdly to his eyes. Then, he spins on his heel and traces Arthur and Gwaine’s steps through the hallway, almost skipping past the kitchens and the wine cellars. 

His feet meet the stairwell and he’s running now, pushing up, taking the shortcut through the courtyard and he ignores the questioning looks from servants and maids, the mumbles of Is something wrong, Sir Elyan was headed that way too earlier. He sprints past it all, whipping his cape through the oak door before it can slam shut in the wood. He barrels past the guards that stand, placed at the bottom of the few stairs leading up towards Gaius’ workspace and he barely misses being decapitated by the spears that the guards shove threatening towards him as he heaps his way through. 

Stern shouts follow him but he refuses to stop for anything and as his fingers meet the splintered door to the small room he doesn’t even let himself breathe in fear that such a small disruption may cause a catastrophic event to occur. As quick footsteps work their way up the steps behind him he lets the splinters dig piercingly into his skin and he twists the handle pushing the door open quickly.

Chapter Text

Percival can hear the wrath filled bellows that suddenly fill the throne room, drowning out the clashing from the storm that rages overhead but then another sharp sting pounds across his knuckles and he refuses to drop his arm. Instead he grips Sir Cadwyn’s collar, hoisting the man upwards onto his knees, facing him definitely as he pulls his fist back for another shot at the now defenceless man's face.  

The struggling weight in his grip snarls past the blood that coats his teeth and it does very little to calm Percival’s temper though the darkening bruise taking shape around Cadwyn’s watering left eye does bring a little joy to his racing mind. 

He releases his grasp on the man's red spotted tunic and all but throws him down, only to turn his gaze to Leon at his right who has stilled himself above a kneeling Sir Tomas and Sir Iwan. Spare shackles bounce across Leon’s belt and nothing but wishful murder floods Sir Tomas’ black eyes as he spits out a seething “ fucker.”  It’s the youngest of the three that takes Percival by surprise. Sir Iwan seems to cower lowly behind the darker haired man and his pitiful whimpers make even the new addition of King Hywel look down on him with nothing but disgust. 

“Lay another hand on my Knights and I will have King Arthur strip you of everything that you hold dear, Sir Percival.” His name sounds sour as it passes the King’s lips and Percival wants to launch himself at the man with his hands clawing for his neck and a knee aiming somewhere that would be sure to cause a mild discomfort. King Hywel eyes him, somehow managing to look down on him despite their differentiating height but the Knight only continues to breathe heavily, he knows a small splattering of blood that does not belong to him lays across his cheek. Three guards shoulder the King tightly though they appear to shuffle uncomfortably at the sight of the thug-like display laid out on the floor of the throne room. He swallows any response he may wish to utter, he already knows Leon has moulded a much kinder script in his mind than the one Percival has sitting on his tongue. 

“King Hywel, by order of King Arthur himself we are arresting Sir Cadwyn, Sir Tomas, Sir Iwan and any others believed to be involved in a recently uncovered plot against a member of this household.” Leon’s voice is stern but Hywel’s face only seems to redden with something Percival thinks isn’t entirely directed at Camelot entourage.

“King Arthur may have given you these orders but where is he now? I strictly refuse to hand over my most trusted men until I speak with King Arthur myself, boy.” 

“It is Sir to you and until King Arthur steps through those doors I am incharge. I am arresting your men on the suspicion of a plot against a member of the King’s household. They have already been restrained and you would be wise, King Hywel, to stand down. Do not hesitate to think that I will not detain you myself should you pose a threat to me or my men. You are in Camelot now, Sire . It may come as a shock to you to learn but this is not your domain, you have little in the way of power here.” Percival feels something akin to worry seep into his bones, scurrying past his pent up rage like a miniscule spider. King Hywel is still a King and despite the very pleasing way Leon speaks to the man he is very much on his way to starting a full scale war with a Kingdom that has already proven their lack of fear when it comes to a highly respected ruler and the most skilled warriors this side of the Eastern borders.  

He watches onwards as King Hywel’s rage travels further down his neck and the veins that sit on his forehead bulge widely, Percival wonders if the King's greying hair will soon start to fall out or if maybe the man will have a heart attack and keel over at the way he is being spoken to.

The heart attack will be rid of him. Then he remembers Hywel is only defending his men, I don’t care, he halts his own forgiveness, a poisonous batch almost always starts with the source.

Hywel stays where he stands but he straightens himself, thinking deeply whilst he squares his shoulders but before he can open his mouth to speak the heavy doors to the throne room swing open and Mordred grinds to a halt in the doorway.  

An odd silence fills the hall as Mordred’s eyes narrow and he steps past the King, observing the older man cautiously. King Hywel only stares back with a tilt to his head that asks little in the way of questions, it acts more as a threat than anything else. 

“How can I be sure this isn’t some kind of rebellion against the King? I demand to know where he is, I need to speak with him about these fundamentally ludicrous accusations.”

“Surely even someone with your level of incompetence knows the word groundless indictment.”

Percival sends his boot thumping into Cadwyn’s chest where he’s managed to climb to his knees and he can feel the way Mordred’s eyes settle quickly onto him but this time, instead of bitter hostility, his gaze is filled with surprise. The druid steps up beside him and looks down at the three men settled in various positions on the stone floor.

“Are you sure Arthur will be alright with this action being taken in his absence?”

“He gave the order, Mordred. I don’t think he will give less of a shit about these little bellends.” Percival practically spits his words out, directling the drivel that flies from his mouth towards the groaning blonde lump on the floor. Mordred’s shrugs beside him, seemingly unbothered at Percival’s unfound rage. He scans his eyes over the other two men before he turns his attention back to the King in front of them.

“Something is off about him. I don’t like it.” 

Usually Percival would make a joke about how much he sounds like a younger version of Merlin but he feels speaking those words now would not be in his best interests. Mordred would also usually be met with the same mocking of his worrying but this time no one cares to misjudge the man’s well known ‘funny feeling.’ Leon speaks out once more.

“Excuse me?” Somehow arrogance fills Hywel’s voice more than it previously has

“King Hywel, with all due respect,” Percival holds in a snicker considering his previous words against the ruler. “If there is anything we should know I advise you tell us now.” 

“And what are you suggesting I know, Sir Leon.”

“You haven’t asked a single question regarding your men’s situation since you arrived-”

“I would remember who you are talking to-”

“And I would remember what Kingdom you are in, I will say this only once more, King Hywel, If you are privy to the knowledge of a connivance against this household I suggest you start talking.” Percival keeps his eyes trained on King Hywel as Leon’s voice raises authoritatively, in a way he is certain he’s never heard before. Not even in the face of new and disobedient Knights. Then Hywel turns to face him, his eyebrow crooked upwards as his mouth hangs open in a sort of disgust.

“And you, Sir Percival? When I first met you I knew you were a man for following orders of those above you.”

“I am following orders.” That’s all he says. Arthur has made it quite clear that he sees himself and his household as nothing but equals. But Hywel does not need to know that.

“The orders of a man who is not present to prove the pretence in which they are set and as two of you are common and the other clearly unable to give a King the respect he deserves I will stand incharge of this court until someone brings me King Arthur.”

“That’s really… not how that works…” Mordred mutters out beside Percival and the giant can feel his own expression morph into one of pure confusion. 

“Release my men this instant, Sir Leon-”

“We can keep going back and forth like this all night, King Hywel-” A particularly sharp crack of lightning shakes the castle. 

“Guards! Arrest them!” And it’s as if the King has held his entire cohort behind the wooden doors leading into the throne room.

“What the-” Mordred jumps back, clearly surprised that he’d missed the sudden back up Hywel had somehow managed to arrange. 

Percival unsheaths his sword quickly, swinging the blade out around him defensively at the rest of the cohort King Hywel had arrived with. Around thirty Knights in their chainmail, some brandishing the same never seen before weapons they’d arrived with, pour around the King and direct their ordnance towards the three men dawning Pendragon red.

“Not so tough now, are you?” Sir Tomas spits out with a disturbingly smug grin on his face and Percival promises that if anyone were to accidentally get their head caved in it will be him. Cadwyn will follow shortly after. He ignores the way the bound Knights have started a hurried shuffle to the sides of the hall. They truly are cowards , he thinks.

“Oh, so now you pull your sword, Percival. I thought you’d made the very baffling choice to use your fists when you prance about holding one of Camelot’s most finely made blades at your hip. You truly are a peasant .” Hywel shouts over the sound of clattering chain and Percival can hardly recall the last time someone wholeheartedly looked him in the eyes and called him a peasant but he can definitely remember the belittling feeling that itches to seep into his veins. He lifts his sword high, he will not kill today, for Arthur’s sake, but he will disarm as he was trained to do. One way or another.

He swings through first, slamming the flat of his blade against the hammering down arm of another man and he pushes against the weight bearing down on him, he shoves the opposing Knight’s arm back and kicks him hard in the stomach, sending him backwards into another three trying their chances with the giant. 

He slips low, spinning under an attempted slice before he kicks the knees out from under someone else and they practically fold to the floor, something hits him from behind and he spins, throwing his left arm outwards, knocking the figure straight off their feet but then a fist flies past him and he barely registers the taste of iron on his lip as he regains his posture and throws a wild fist outwards, he feels it connect with something, he hears a sharp crack, he doesn’t look to review the damage. 

Percival can make out the way that shadows move behind Leon and Mordred, downed men slowly making their way back up for another go round and he can also see the way King Hywel almost looks worrisome of their strength, that is until Percival sees the flurry of something fly past his head, screaming out as it goes and then Hywel’s eyes light up like a fire. 

“Oh- well isn’t that interesting, Sir Mordred. A Sorcerer amongst the King’s highest ranks accusing another King’s Knights of treason? I am certain this shall make for an interesting discussion.” The King genuinely cackles out and Percival wants to shove his sword where the sun doesn’t shine, sideways. 

“I’m a Druid.” And then Mordred sends another set of Knights barreling into another gaggle of men who dare get too close to Leon. Percival sends another bone breaking punch into the back of one of Hywel’s Knights that seems to be a little too horrified with the way his friends went flying through the room and he too gets to experience the art of soaring. He practically skids over his fellow companions and lands face first on a particularly dazed man's behind. Percival holds in his own laugh. 

“By the Goddess.” Hywel stands in the same place he’s occupied since he entered the room. “Idiots.” He mutters to nobody in particular whilst pinching the space between his eyes. Whilst his head dips against his chest Percival can make out the small patch of bare skin that sits atop his head.

“You boys truly are in so much trouble.” Hywel laughs out again, he bends low, plucking a dagger from the belt of one of his own unconscious men. “Attacking my men, accusing me of having something to do with some crazed plight you seem to believe I’m involved in, harbouring a Sorcerer and most importantly-” Hywel studies the delicate blade in is hand, bringing it to his eye level before shifting his sight to study Leon carefully. “-Wounding me in the process.” Percival watches as he drags the dagger down across his cheek swiftly, a line of deep red already drips quickly from the split skin and onto the floor. Percival can only stand and watch, wondering if King Hywel truly was just a maniac wearing a golden crown. 

He throws the dagger down again and Percival watches where the steel bounces off to before taking a chance look over to Leon, who meets his eye quickly with a truly bewildered expression on his face that he is certain mirrors his own. Mordred breaks the silence. 

“I assure you, you underestimate King Arthur’s understanding.”

“And I assure you, Sorcerer. I do not.”

“Druid…” He mumbles again and Percival once again bites back an immature bark of laughter at Mordred's annoyance. And as if on cue the towering doors to the throne room are practically kicked open and a particularly damp King Arthur storms into the hall with a look that is enough to send a bolt of terror straight to Percivals heart. Though it quickly morphs to the exact expression the other three share.

“What is going on here, Leon?” The trio all seem to ignore the way a pool of red sits messily on Arthur’s previously stark white tunic. They ignore the way it coats his hands like a pair of gloves, the way it sticks to a small cluster of his blonde hair, to the fabric of his trousers. 

“Sire- You’re here. You must understand that I had little to do with this- this atrocity. Your Knights, they cut down my men, they attacked me. And the small one? A Sorcerer no less. King Arthur, I know this is difficult to-”

“What have I done to this man?” Mordred steps over once again and whispers to Percival who simply mutters;

“Exist?” Which is enough to have Mordred humming in agreement, a quick jerk of his chin nods his head and he spins to watch as Hywel heaves out in heavy, terribly fake breaths.

Arthur steps up to the man from where he’d entered the hall and he grips the man's stubbled chin hard in his hand. He’s never seen the King act so improperly before but he does enjoy the baffled look on Hywel’s face as Arthur inspects the slice across his cheek. Then Arthur practically throws his face away like a used serviette.

“Mordred is a Druid. Not Sorcerer, though I’m certain he’s already voiced that.” Arthur turns his back to the King though he continues talking. “The only person in my household that carries a blade thin enough to make a cut like that is currently being stitched up inside the Physicians chambers after an attack that seems to match that of a murder attempt.” Arthur stops just before the body of a quietly groaning man who clutches his head tightly. He bends down and snatches a handkerchief from the knight's pocket, he then hands it to Percival without a word. The giant opts to wipe the now drying blood from his lip. Once he feels the crust brush away from his chin he throws the fabric back down, not looking where it lands. Arthur carries on. “And I do have to ask, Hywel, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Arthur plots down solidly in the throne that sits idly atop the few stairs at the other end of the hall.

It’s the opposing King's turn to welcome the expression of pure befuddlement and Percival watches as he attempts to stammer out a full sentence.

“I- What- Did you not hear a single thing I just said, Sire?”

“Yes, but I chose not to really listen to any of it. Simply because I do not care. I gave them the orders and as usual they followed them perfectly. Whatever happened here was not because of them and their disobedience. You should be glad it wasn’t Gwaine, they would’ve been dead before they set foot in the room, maybe you too. Now do tell me, Hywel, what reason do you have to order an attack on Merlin?” Arthur’s voice shakes as he speaks Merlin’s name but he still manages to power over Hywel’s own incompetence. He seems to think for a moment and Cadwyn shuffles uneasily where he kneels on one knee under the narrow windows. 

“Whatever my Knights have decided to do is of their own accord, I can only offer my most sincere condolences.” The King places a pale hand on his heart and manages to make half a bow before Cadwyn shouts out.

“You traitorous bastard!”

Hywel’s head peaks up from where it's glancing at the floor and his eyes remain unknowing. 

“Sir Cadwyn, that is no way to speak to your King, especially after the accusations thrown at you-”

“Hywel. I’ll make it quick and simple for you because I really am becoming sick of your shit.” Percival watches as Leon’s head spins at the King’s profanity aimed at another ruler in such a way. “One of my patrols found a rather large cluster of your Knights hiding out in the woods near the Eastern borders. A cluster of Knights which attacked my patrol the very moment they were seen. No questions asked. My servant was attacked and left for dead underneath the castle in a system of tunnels that most don’t even know exist and Sir Cadwyn has just kindly made it very clear that you in fact do know something about this so If i were you I would start talking because you must not know me very well if you haven’t learnt that my pyre’s are no longer reserved for Sorcerers or Druids but rather visiting Kings who feel the very unwise need to piss me off.” 

“You knew? About the Sorcerer?”

“I’m gonna hit him.” Mordred bites his own nails in an attempt to cool his nerves and Pericval can’t help but admire his patience, if it were him he may have already sent a fist his way.

“Are you deaf as well as dumb? Yes. Well aware, in fact.”

“And you- You allowed this?” 

“That is no concern of yours. Start talking and I may bother convincing Gwaine not to build the pyre himself.” 

“As I said before, this has nothing to do with me-”

“He told us to do it. Ordered us. The Knights in the woods were for you.” 

“Iwan, hold your tongue.”

“Merlin was never meant to be in the tunnels but we missed our mark. The guards outside-”

“Shut your mouth this instant or I will sew it shut myself!”

 -”Your door were never meant to see him. A trail was going to be left to lead you into the woods where King Hywel had the Knights stationed to attack you.” 

“I warn you. Sir Iwan, shut your trap!”

“Once you were wounded- or worse, Hywel’s plan was to take over the castle. He wanted Camelot as his own, it’s all he’s ever wanted.” 

“That’s enough!” Somehow, in the chaos of the declaration King Hywel had managed to scoop up the same dagger as before, aiming it squarely for Sir Iwan’s chest before releasing it cleanly into the air. Percival sucks in a sharp breath, Leon eyes dart to his left, Arthur stands firm, Mordred’s shoulder’s hunch and gold flashes to life in his eyes, the dagger flies away, slamming uselessly against the wall before clattering to the floor. 

“Well, that was only slightly less embarrassing for you than the admission, Hywel.” Arthur lowers his gaze to the other two men who kneel amongst the unconscious and injured. “Are the words he says the truth?”

Sir Cadwyn sets his gaze on the King emotionlessly, contemplating his next move before his stance seemingly deflates and he nods his head slowly. Sir Tomas on the other hand doesn’t quite follow in his friends actions.

“This mistreatment is absurd, King Hywel would never dare plot against you and frankly you should be embarrassed to believe the words of such idiotic fools.” 

Arthur simply raises an eyebrow in response, a scowl stealing away the much softer expression that sits there. “Leon.” 

That’s all that is needed before Leon moves quickly. Unhooking a spare pair of shackles that were placed on his belt he heads towards a suddenly trembling Hywel who appears to shudder with hesitation before he spins quickly and makes a beeline for the heavy doors behind him but he can only take two paces before his entire body jolts to a freeze and Percival doesn’t need to look at Mordred to know his eyes are molten once more. 

“You bastards, this is farcical! I demand you release us at once.”

“Give it up, Tomas. It’s over.” Cadwyn’s voice is one of defeat and Percival is happy to see he’s finally been knocked down a peg or two.

“No, I refuse to be-” Percival turns to Arthur with a single question in his eyes and Arthur only purses his lips and looks away. Fabric bunches in his fist as he reaches Tomas and draws him close before rearing his head back and sending his forehead pounding into Tomas’ skull. The weight goes limp in his hand and the insufferable voice seems to silence suddenly. Percival watches as he drops the weight and Sir Tomas flops to the floor. Percival knows he’ll probably have a headache to deal with later but it’s worth it for an ounce of quiet. 

Arthur’s eyes meet Leon as the click of the shackles echo through the hall and he orders Hywel and his knights down to the dungeons where they shall remain for the foreseeable future. Or until Arthur gets bored and the training dummy in the fields doesn't seem nearly as appealing as a cowering monarch. Percival doesn’t bother to pick Tomas’ limp form up and carry him over his shoulder, instead he picks up his foot and opts to drag him as far as he pleases until they reach the dungeons. Arthur locks the far door behind the throne before heading to join them at the door where Mordred follows a rather defeated looking Cadwyn and a still shaking Iwan, he escorts them off down the hall. 

Arthur steps over the last few bodies and he gestures for Percival to head out of the doors where a band of armoured guards wait by the entrance, presumably to watch over the door that Arthur is now locking, trapping the slowly awakening men inside. Some help you lot were, he thinks to himself.

Arthur assesses the way Tomas’ body drags behind him though his face remains stern and Percival is certain the slowly browning blood that almost covers his clothes looks much worse as a bright flash of lighting illuminates the bailey before them. “Good job, Percival.” 

“My pleasure, Sire.” The pair head together in the directions of the dungeons, Percival can feel the beginnings of a headache settle behind his eyes. He grins through it.

Chapter Text

Merlin isn’t too sure what’s going on exactly, it’s as if he’s seeing the world underwater and everything burns. 

He knows he’s travelling but he’s not too sure how. His eyes flutter open and his lashes dance in front of his vision where soft glows of orange pulse in and out. He’s jostled slightly and the burn increases to a roaring agony but he isn’t sure if he makes any cries to try and get it to stop. 

His head is nestled comfortably against soft fabric but he can feel a warm trickle drip down his neck and it sends a shiver down his spine which only accentuates the rippling pain.

There’s a heavy thumping against his arm and he’s sure he knows that rhythm . But he’s also sure the suits of armour he’s passing are moving, so maybe not. 

Merlin wants to ask what’s going on but he cannot get control of his own voice and he hears nothing as he tries to get his cords to work. He feels the familiar way he’s carried and he can make out the sound of a thud and then his head is slipping backwards and a sting comes pressing forward as it hangs limp over a soft muscle.
Then he’s being lowered and it feels like he’s falling but before long something soft meets his spine and blotches of colour hang eerily above him.

Something’s missing, -feels too empty , he thinks to himself but he does not have the strength to dwell on it.

He blinks, trying to push away whatever is making his vision fog up like glasses in heat but then a face dips into view and suddenly he can hear his own breathing again. 

He can hear the attempts he makes to mumble the man’s name. The way blue eyes burn into his own and Merlin manages to lift his hand, which he is certain is not that colour normally. He feels something silky beneath his palms and when he manages to pry his eyes open again he sees his fingers trembling in golden hair. He welcomes the familiar warm feeling that rests in his chest.

He feels the whimper tear from his throat as a gentle hush washes over him and a soothing voice seeps welcomingly into his ears. 

Quiet, Merlin, you’re alright . 

And Merlin is certain that he is in fact not alright but he doesn’t have the strength to argue, or the words.

There’s something else that dips into his vision, a flurry of white and a slur of speech he cannot make out. Then blue eyes turn away from him as something floods into the room and a commotion starts up out of view. 

He can hear shouting from afar, a door slamming shut and then he recoils as cold air pierces through his stomach. Something heavy lands in his hand and he doesn’t care to find out what it is but he squeezes hard as another half-scream tears through him. Someone hushes him again and another thick accent breaks through the noise.

You’re hurting him.

He’s helping Gwaine, it’s all he can do. But the blue eyes above him do not look too certain on the words they utter, in fact Merlin wouldn’t be surprised if the ghost above him turns and empties his stomach onto the floor.

He can make out the movements of someone, a young woman with unruly, curly hair. A purple dress trails behind her and a worry line sits unnaturally on her forehead. Merlin knows it doesn’t belong on her face and he wishes to soothe it away, but he cannot. All he can do is keep flittering eyes trained on the face above him as he bends low and then Merlin feels his breath on his face, it's warm and as the man rests their foreheads together he can make out the pattern of a whisper as something dangerous rumbles overhead.  

Suddenly, it’s as if every single nerve in his body is on fire and the presence above him shoots away but the weight in his hand only gets tighter the more he feels himself cry out. His head pounds where he shoves it into the cloud beneath him in an attempt to escape from the fire that burns through the skin on his ribs like acid. He doesn’t know what’s happening, what he’s done, but there’s a feeling of failure, like all this pain was already meant to be over, like he’s lost and then he cannot seem to get his chest to rise. 

Another flurry of colour above him and white hair dips at the edge of his vision in some sort of panicked craze but he cannot find a way to care and he scrunches his eyes up as another bout of agony pulses through him and his vision worsens.

Oh, Merlin, The words float through him like a light breeze and he thinks maybe this time it’s his time to go, maybe the high goddess herself was speaking to him ever so gently but the voice is real and close and Merlin opens his eyes to see him. 

I need you to breathe for me, Merlin, The voice begs softly, please, just breathe in and out. And he tries, he really does but nothing goes in and the skin over his stomach ignites once again. 

For me, Merlin, please, please- And it’s like his lungs find their way of living and his veins open wide and the missing feeling under his skin bursts through like the morning sun and he inhales and it feels magnificent .

A face slips into view, a tanned man, Merlin recognises him and he blinks past his fog but a name refuses to present itself. 

-The Throne Room- Hywel- You should go.

He doesn’t take in the full words of the man, the agonising blaze on his stomach stealing his attention whenever it decides to pang in torment. But then the golden man is looking back at him, drowning in the pain that fills his own eyes and Merlin wants to ask him if he is alright, to hold his free hand out and offer his gift to soothe his worries so he does and the man takes his hand and smiles back at him but it is filled with something akin to heartache. 

Merlin holds his gaze, barely but he manages and he pulls his hand back slightly so that their fingers touch gently. Then he blinks and the joyous feeling of molten icor flowing through his veins reappears finally. 

He lets the golden specs travel from his fingertips and he watches as they dance carefully, up past the hairs on the man’s arm, they wrap around the white tunic he wears that should not be stained in the way it appears to be. Merlin smiles as his magic loops around the blonde man’s neck and wriggles its way through gilded strands until it seems to softly fizzle outwards and the man’s hair puffs out before it floats gently back down to rest above his eyebrows. 

Merlin manages one more smile before he feels the odd way his vision retracts and his arms grow heavy. He feels the weight in his hand squeeze tightly, unrelentingly and he tries his best to keep his eyes focused on the stark blue that creases so alarmingly down at him but something unwieldy has a hold of him and he cannot keep his eyes open any longer.

He feels a panic settle around the room as his iris’ slip behind laden eyelids and he cannot find a way to mind, he feels himself falling, low into something he’s not too sure he knows how to get out of and with one last exhale he feels every component around him shudder to a halt.

Then he is alone in the darkness once more.

Chapter Text

She’s never quite felt a disturbing atmosphere that fills the physician's chambers quite like this one. The stools she sits on is uncomfortable, it rocks unevenly on the cobbles and despite the seasonal dive into an increasingly wet Autumn the heat in the room only bothers her the more she remains in one place. 

Gwen’s hands shake as she rings the cloth of the mild water it retains. She can feel the fever radiating from Merlin but he only seems to shiver more as the cloth dabs gently across his hairline. She huffs out, blowing a stray strand of hair from where it sits irritatingly in her eye line.

As the cloth dries and the body beneath her clams up once more she places the rag back in the bowl and lets trembling hands attempt to sloppily ring the water out. She’s done this before for plenty of injured men, she’s done this before for Merlin yet for some reason she can not stop the tremor that shakes uncontrollably through her hands.

She feels a slow shadow overtake her and then something soft is grabbing her hands and for the first time in several candle marks they remain in one place, steady. 

She peers upwards, through a sea of new forming tears that threaten so dangerously to spill and through the glassiness she see’s Lancelot, smiling down at her tenderly and she lets the man slip the cloth from between her fingers as he sinks down beside her onto one knee. 

He doesn’t say a word, only takes the cloth and places it gently back in the bowl on the work bench beside them, then he reaches for a new, clean strip of fabric and dips it gently into the water, then he brings it up to meet calloused skin. 

He works silently, letting the material drift gently over dusky skin and the rag turns a watered shade of red as the crusted blood Gwen has long forgotten about is brushed carefully away from around her nails, from the lines on her palms, the cracks in her knuckles. 

Once the last of the crimson is parted from her Lancelot slowly raises, leaning inwards and she can feel the warmth of his breath on her face but it is comforting rather than annoying and she feels herself finally manage to breathe a little slower. He leaves a chaste kiss on her reddening cheek and he smiles down once again. 

“Come, love. Give yourself a break, I can take over.” And he slides his fingers between hers, pulling her upwards from the stool before leading her to the table where a hot mug of tea sits waiting. She sighs and something warm attempts to flutter across her chest but as she sits she gets another glance at the pale skin that lays, barely held together by far too many stitches and she cannot let the warmth stay for too long. 

Gwen wraps shivering hands around warm ceramic and she watches the way Lancelot fills the space she once occupied and he takes over her duty without a complaint. 

She can hear the way the rain batters violently against the window and the storm seems to rumble again though further off to the south this time but Gwen can at least pretend she cares that the storm is moving away. The tea tastes peculiarly of honey and she begins to wonder where the Knight has managed to procure the sweet liquid from but then she notices the way Gwaine offers a small smile from where he hides away on the stairs and she remembers just how loose-fingered the man had taught himself to be. His pockets are probably stashed with trinkets and treats he’s plucked from various places within the Kingdom. 

A question dances on the edge of her tongue and the silence in the room makes her feel as if talking will shatter everything that surrounds them into a million pieces but she needs to know if the others share the same query as her. 

“Do you think that he’ll remember?” Do you think it will go back to the way it was? Is what she truly wishes to ask. She’s known of Merlin’s gift for some time now, longer than most, and she only wishes that Merlin doesn’t have to hide his true self anymore. For his own sanity, and maybe hers too.

“We’ll just have to wait and see..” Lancelot’s voice is strong yet filled with something more, something antagonising. 

“None of this would've happened if Arthur had just repealed the magic ban when I told him to-” Gwaine stands from his place on the steps and almost makes to start down them, instead he turns and looks around aimlessly before moving back another step and sitting down again, he brushes the dust from his knees. Gwen plays with the mug between her hands. 

“This wouldn’t have happened if Hywel’s Knights weren’t maniacal blood fiends.” Lancelot counters and Gwaine sucks a breath between clasped hands. “Passing blame only makes things worse.” There’s no malice in Lancelot’s voice, in fact he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. 

Gwen breaks the awkward silence that begins to hang over them.

“It is not your fault either.” Wide eyes lift from both angles to meet her. “You couldn’t have prevented this, you got him out of the tunnels and for that, I’m sure he will be forever grateful, I know I am.” She offers them both a small smile and something in Gwaine seems to loosen for a second but he results to chewing the skin around his thumb, Lancelot returns her smile and continues dabbing the cloth across Merlin’s hair, which now sticks to his forehead in a mix of sweat and water. 

The angry gash that sits pointing down from his hairline looks ragged, as if someone hit him with something, and hit him hard. There’s another smaller cut across his opposite cheek and a split that’s opened across his bottom lip. The echoes of a handprint form slowly around his neck. That’s as far as she can let her eyes travel, the intentional deep slashes that scream between bruised and broken ribs are too much for even her to stomach. 

She takes another sip of tea and wonders what must be happening down in the throne room that was so urgent that it dragged Arthur away so quickly.

“Even if Merlin doesn’t remember. I don’t think I can let him forget.” Gwaine mumbles and Gwen tilts her head in question. “Lance, you’ve known since you met the man.” He then motions to Gwen “He never told you but you still had it figured out before most of us. And I’ve known for… well, I guess since bridge man called him magic in front of me but I still had some pieces to put together after that…”

“Bridge man?” Lancelot questions and Gwaine shakes his head with a forced laugh. 

“My point is we’ve all known something that we probably shouldn’t have known until Merlin wanted us to know. I don’t think I can keep lying to him about it.” And Gwen agrees, she never intended for the secret to be kept on her part for so long, but coming clean to Merlin that he’s not as good at keeping secrets as he tries to be feels like a betrayal of some sorts. She just prays he remembers the way his magic engulfed Arthur with a shine before he went awfully limp in the cot. 

“He deserves to be free. We do not view him as a threat, and he should not believe he would be viewed as one either way.” Lancelot pats another round of cold fabric across Merlin’s brow and Gwen watches as the man's nimble fingers appear to twitch from where they rest beside him. 

Gwen’s never seen the servant so still before, even with the subtle way his fingers spasm. In meetings and long court sessions he’s always bouncing his knee or pulling odd faces at the way the arrogance of the Lords flies around the room. He would whisper jokes some may consider treasonous to Arthur and not so elusively snicker with Mordred about whatever the two were fooling around about in those magical little brains of theirs. But now he lays immobile and it makes Gwen feel more than a little nauseous. 

She goes to bring the tea up towards her lips, blowing gently on the liquid as it still manages to steam across her face but a particularly sharp gasp sounds from beside her and she flicks her head back to where Merlin lays in the cot. 

His head has jerked sideways violently and his eyebrows pinch downwards as Lancelot’s hand hovers still above his head. 

The three simply stare in silence, waiting for the moment that Merlin pries his eyes open, maybe attempting to groan out a word or two but he doesn’t move again. Gwen lets out a defeated sigh and the mug falls away from her mouth. She rests her elbow up on the table and lets her head fall softly into her palm where she tries to slowly soothe away the ache that gradually builds there. Then she runs a tired hand down her face and the rain smacking the small window by the stairs suddenly becomes slightly more diverting to look at than the wraith that lays all too motionless in the cot to her left