Archive of Our Own

When Arthur wakes, the first thing he notices is that his body aches. Not the ache of a recent wound, not the ache of a hard training session the day before. Not the ache of long-healed injuries still moaning for attention. 

A different kind of ache: a groggy, sticky soreness, clinging to his bones like a sickness that still hasn’t quite worked its way out. 

The second thing he notices is how much time and how much silence he’s had to think all of that in the first place. 

He drags his eyes open, then immediately squints and turns his head back into the darkness of his pillow. The room is bright; the sun shines in with full strength, not the typical rose-orange morning rays. 

If it is still unusual to have Merlin in his room again, it is still a thousand times more unusual for him to let Arthur sleep in this late. 

“Gods,” he croaks into the bedding, sluggishly flexing one hand. It hurts to move; his knuckles pop and crackle. “Merlin, it must be nearly noon…” 

There is no response. 

Gingerly, Arthur rolls onto his side, hanging onto the blankets with his eyes closed for a long moment. When he still hears nothing, he slowly opens them, squinting again as he adjusts to the brightness. 

Merlin is in the room, negating Arthur’s assumption that he’s alone. But his back is turned, his head bowed as he performs some task at the wardrobe. 

“I didn’t realize you’d had such a long break that you’d forgotten how to wake me on time,” Arthur says. His voice is still froggy with sleep, but the tease would have been half-hearted even if he’d been fully awake. They both knew Merlin hadn’t had a “break.” 

“Of course, you never did wake me on time in the first place,” he tries again, when Merlin doesn’t answer. 

There is a single noncommittal noise from across the room. Merlin steps away from the wardrobe, his back still to Arthur, and moves over to the fireplace, where he begins hanging a set of clothes to warm before the flames. 

Arthur narrows his eyes. 

“Fine,” he says, watching Merlin’s back closely, “bring my breakfast here then. The day is cold enough to eat in bed.” 

He waits, expecting a series of pointed jabs about being fat, about lazing about in bed at all hours of the day, about being a pompous prat that wants his food served on a silver platter. 

“Just a minute,” Merlin says, still hanging clothes. 

Silence, filled with a chill that has nothing to do with winter, settles in the room once more. 

Arthur pushes himself up, the covers sliding off his torso and letting in the cool air. The sickly ache in his body increases with movement, and he shivers unconsciously, but he ignores the discomfort. He pushes the blankets off his legs and steps onto the floor. There is a thick fur rug right by the bed, warm and welcoming, and his toes curl in distaste as he leaves it for the freezing stones beyond. 

Merlin stands abruptly, sending the last article of clothing he had hung swinging wildly, but still, he doesn’t turn around. “At the table then, sire?” he asks. With unnaturally fluid movement—none of his usual ambling—he goes directly to the dishes and uncovers them, setting the silver covers aside as Arthur watches, arms crossed. 

“Yes,” he says at last, letting his arms fall from their position. Slowly, he makes his way toward the table. “I’m already up, aren’t I?” 

Merlin nods, his head still ducked, and circles the room to the bed, where he begins plumping the pillows. Somehow—intentionally—he manages to do so without once facing Arthur’s direction. 

It is odd—unexpected. It’s been over two months; they’ve been settling in. They’ve been growing used to one another—growing comfortable again. Getting there, at least. 

This… avoidance, verging on skittishness. Arthur hasn’t seen that in weeks. The latter not at all, really. Merlin might have been avoidant, tight-lipped, emotional—but he hadn’t been skittish. He’d always leaned more toward defiant; that’d been part of his personality from the moment Arthur met him. 

So his refusal to face Arthur… 

It isn’t just unusual; it’s unsettling. 

Arthur stops his slow progress toward the table. He crosses his arms again, considering, and then under the cover of the sound of shifting bedding, he approaches Merlin, his bare feet completely silent on the stone floor.

“I’ll—” Merlin says quietly, and then breaks off as Arthur touches his arm. 

Merlin startles like a spooked horse, even bringing one hand up to his heart like he expects it to jump out of his chest with fright. A moment later, he lets out a huff of a laugh and, sounding almost like Merlin for the first time that morning: “Gods, you startled me—” 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, stunned. 

Merlin’s face is purple. 

One eye swollen shut, his lip split, dark blues and reds mottling his cheek, right jaw, and nose. Under his eyes, the skin bulges dark and puffy, and the eyes themselves are bloodshot and worn. Both cheeks and half his forehead is scraped, speckled red scabs already forming. Parts of his face gleam where salve has been spread across.

“Forget it,” Merlin says, turning back to the bed. “I’d prefer you let it go, Arthur.” 

“Forget it?” Arthur repeats. It comes out hardly more than a whisper, he’s so shocked. “Merlin… what… who would do this? What happened?” 

Merlin pulls away from him and hastily finishes making the bed. He hurries to the laundry hamper, bending to lift it with a clear grimace as he answers, “It was an accident. Nothing to worry about. Please, just let it go, all right?” 

Without waiting for a response, he ducks his head and leaves the room—one arm holding the hamper against his side, one arm wrapped around his ribs.

~~~

Standing at the table, Arthur makes himself swallow down two sausages and half a piece of fruit. He can’t really taste the food, but he feels it going down, settling in his stomach. The sick ache still clings to his limbs. 

Then he pulls one of his longer coats over his sleep tunic and trousers, steps into a pair of boots, and exits his chambers to head toward the physician’s tower. 

The castle is already alive with midday bustle. As always, courtiers, guards, and servants alike bow to Arthur as he passes, but today Arthur hardly remembers he ought to nod or smile in acknowledgement. His mind is just as busy as the rest of the castle—but not with matters of state, the condition of the kingdom, or the process of reacquainting Camelot with magic.

Instead, his thoughts race with the meaning of Merlin’s secrecy—secrecy he’d thought he’d never witness again—and who might have hurt him. The dark bruising on Merlin’s face, the way he’d held his torso—the images are branded into Arthur’s vision. 

Someone had beaten Merlin, egregiously and on purpose. 

Why wouldn’t he say who did it? 

Distracted, and walking fast even though he isn’t properly watching his surroundings, Arthur doesn’t see Gwen in his path until it’s too late. If she’d been looking up, she’d have seen him and moved, like everyone else had already done—like they are supposed to, Uther would have said. 

But she hadn’t been watching where she was going either. 

So they collide, making both of them stumble back, trying to regain their footing, and the linens she carries are sent tumbling to the floor. 

There is a general commotion—passers-by jumping out of the way or coming to an abrupt halt, exclamations of surprise and alarm cutting over each other, and Arthur and Gwen fumbling in the middle of the chaos. 

“Guinevere,” Arthur murmurs, as soon as he realizes it is her. Immediately, he kneels and begins clumsily piling the fabric in his arms. 

She glances at him, then instantly ducks her head to the task at hand. In a few moments, the linens are off the floor and divided somewhat evenly between the two of them. 

“Come with me,” he says under his breath, then sets off down the hall. Merlin has always been very close with Gwen; there is a chance she knows something. 

He turns a corner, takes a few steps to a short stairwell away from the busy hallway, and makes his way down hurriedly. A few more strides take him down a long corridor, and there he pauses and ducks through two pillars to a tall window. He sets the linen on the sill and turns, expecting to find Gwen. 

She isn’t there. 

Frowning, he steps back through the pillars. Gwen stands at the foot of the stairs, her arms full of rumpled fabric, and her head bent so he can’t see her face.

“Guinevere?” he says again, this time a question. 

“What did you want to say?” she asks. She sounds the way she had when he’d stayed in her house and behaved so childishly—exactly the same, except colder. Just as angry, but far more confident in her anger. 

“I—what’s upset you?” He takes an uncertain step forward, then another. Her head is lowered, and she is clearly reluctant to be near him. An image of Merlin’s beaten face rises to the forefront of his memory. “Are you hurt?” he asks, something painful forming in his throat. 

She lets out a huff. “No.” 

Relieved, but confused, he takes another step forward, then stops again. “Then what’s wrong?” 

Finally, she lifts her head. Her eyes are full of tears—full of pain—but her mouth is twisted, almost disgusted. “What’s wrong?” she repeats, her head tilting to one side and her voice incredulous. “You know what’s wrong, Arthur!” 

Before he can do more than open his mouth, she goes on, gripping her bundle tightly. 

“I don’t think I can ever forgive you,” she says, her voice trembling, “not after something like this. Not when it’s Merlin.” 

“Guinevere,” he gets out, more stutter than name. “What—what do you—” 

“Stop it!” she cries. She steps forward, bringing them closer together, and raises one hand from the linens to gesture, as if her voice alone can no longer convey her anger. “Stop with this pretending! I saw what you did to Merlin last night. I’m the one that found Gaius. I might be the only reason Merlin is still aliv—!” 

Suddenly, she breaks off and turns away. She lifts her free hand to her mouth, covering a clear sob. “I’ll never forgive you,” she says again, and then she rushes down the corridor, clutching her bundle close to her chest. 

Arthur can hear her crying for a whole minute before it fades into the distance. 

~~~

Arthur stretches a hand behind him, leaning some of his weight against the pillar he seeks. He glances back at the window, staring at the bright winter light streaming down on the abandoned linen. 

Gwen disappeared at least a few minutes ago, but he can still hear her choked sobs in his memory, still clearly see the betrayal so plain in her expression. 

I’ll never forgive you. 

Not when it’s Merlin. 

She’d spoken with such disappointment—such horror.

I might be the only reason Merlin is alive. 

He finds that he’s leaning fully against the pillar, his back flat against the cold stone, and his hand pressed to his chest. It’s strangely difficult to breathe, like he’s been running hard, even though he hasn’t moved for several minutes. 

I’m the one that found Gaius, his mind whispers. 

The sick ache in his limbs, pulsing with the beat of his heart, seems to tighten its hold on his body. It begins to hint more meaning than a mere sickness.

He shoves off the pillar, leaving the linen twice forgotten on the sill, and strides down the corridor. The castle rushes by as he moves, living beings and still objects blurring alike as he speeds by. He ducks through it all, intent on his destination, his feet taking him to the tower without his mind having to direct them.

“Gaius!” he exclaims as he bursts through the door. “Gaius, you have to tell me what’s going on.” 

He’s met with silence. 

The chamber seems deserted. The old books, the shelves of medical supplies, and the cluttered table sit in perfect stillness, staring back at Arthur as if horrified that he’s disrupted the quiet. 

Then a creak breaks the silence again, and Arthur raises his eyes to the little room off the back of the chamber. The floor creaks again, and the door swings inward from its half-open state. Gaius stands in the doorway, something metal on a chain hanging from one hand. 

He lifts one eyebrow impressively high. “Sire.” 

“Gaius,” Arthur says. Relief rushes through his body, and some of the tense feeling in his muscles seeps out with it. “I must ask you something; I hope you know the answer.” 

“Merlin?” Gaius asks. 

Both people Arthur has already questioned have avoided his questions—or spoken right over them—so he’s put off guard when Gaius immediately follows his train of thought. “I—yes. He’s… Gaius, he’s been beaten. His face is black and blue, his ribs—”

“I know,” Gaius says. Arthur stops talking, following the older man with his eyes as Gaius descends the stairs and makes his way to the table. “And I knew, of course, that you would see and have questions.” 

Arthur waits. “But…?” 

Gaius shakes his head. “No but,” he says quietly. “Merlin does not want me to tell you, but I thoroughly disagree with him.” He sighs, sets the chain on the table, and folds his hands in front of him before looking at Arthur properly. “He wants to protect you—he always does. Sometimes he forgets things are different. Now that he can do so safely, he can and should tell you when issues arise.”

“‘Issues,’” Arthur repeats. He lifts one hand and rubs his forehead. “Certainly, I agree. I thought we were past…” He expects anger at Gaius’ blatant confirmation of Merlin’s continued secrecy. And there is anger—it’s just not fiery enough to drown out the stab of hurt. 

“Give him time,” Gaius says. There is a note of warning in his voice. When Arthur looks up, his face and eyes are set with the same protective anger that Arthur had seen constantly after Merlin’s magic came out. 

Once he gives Arthur a sufficiently warning look, Gaius’ focus shifts. He looks back down at the chain he’d held when Arthur had first stepped in, then runs one finger across the metal pendant. 

“Do you remember this?” he asks. 

Arthur steps forward, moving around the table until he stands next to the old physician. He scans the chain and pendant. It’s just a thin, dark silver chain, with a round, flat little medallion hanging off it. The surface of the medallion, which is only as wide as the pad of his thumb, has strange markings that look almost like a language but not quite. “No. Should I?” 

“You were wearing it last night.” 

Arthur feels his facial expression change; his eyebrows shifting down, his forehead wrinkling. “I think I would remember,” he says uncertainly, turning to look at Gaius. 

He smiles wryly. “It’s magical. From what I can tell, it magnifies the wearer’s emotions and simultaneously removes most of their inhibition. As I said, you were wearing it last night.” 

I saw what you did to Merlin last night, Gwen murmurs in his head. Arthur stops on an inhale, the breath frozen in the shock of realization. 

Gaius continues. “Gwen came here long after the evening bell. She told me—” 

“That I was beating Merlin,” Arthur finishes.

Gaius shifts, perhaps surprised Arthur already knows, but Arthur isn’t interested in the older man’s reaction. He stumbles slightly, then takes a step back and sideways, sinking bonelessly onto the nearby bench. When he lifts his hands to drop his head in them, he notices for the first time that his knuckles are scraped and scabbed. 

His gut recoils, and he turns his head away from the sight, shutting his eyes. 

Merlin’s bruised face can’t be so easily erased. 

“Yes,” Gaius says, after a long moment of silence. “If Gwen hadn't come to find me, and if I hadn't managed to take the chain off…” 

Arthur makes a sound in the back of his throat, his gut clenching again. Gods. He grips the flesh of his legs, his hands trembling, and his knuckles ache. 

“Again, Merlin didn't want me to tell you, likely fearing this reaction—” 

“Does Merlin know?” Arthur interrupts. He opens his eyes and stares up at Gaius. “Does he know what the item did? That it wasn't a curse, that it only amplified…” He can't bear to go on. To reference what was apparently stewing deep inside him—the capacity to nearly murder his closest friend. 

Gaius doesn't answer, but his expression changes enough that Arthur knows the response anyway. 

He turns away again, a fresh ache lodging itself in his chest. Memories replay in his mind, foremost among them Merlin startling away at his touch. Had it been more than mere surprise? 

Had it been fear? 

“Sire,” Gaius says, his tone gentle. “I'd like to examine you. This is dark, unstable magic, it may have done you harm—” 

Arthur shakes his head. He stands, lifting one hand in another gesture of dismissal, then balls his hand in a fist at the sight of his broken skin. “No.” 

Gaius starts to open his mouth, likely to insist, but Arthur doesn't wait to hear him. He turns on his heel, moves to the door, and pulls it shut behind him. 

The tower stairs are just as constricting as the topmost chamber. 

He hurries down them, stumbling a little in his haste. The sickly ache in his body ripples through his legs and up his spine—proof, as he now knows, of the dark medallion that’d taken his body for its own. 

Arthur shudders. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops, turning to lean sideways against the frigid stone wall. He lifts his right hand and places it on the wall near his face. Stark against the grayscale, the scabs and bruises stand out red and blue, inescapable. 

His stomach churning, Arthur wants nothing more than to run for the furthest reaches of the castle, to escape to the depths of the dungeons or the fresh air of the ramparts and stew in the horror of his actions. 

He was capable of… he was the sole cause of Merlin’s fear and pain, of Gwen’s broken heart… He shuts his eyes, pretending he can’t feel the water trying to form under his lids. 

He can’t. He doesn’t have the luxury of punishing himself. He has responsibilities—he’s the king. 

On the wall, his hand closes into a fist, sending a sharp spike of pain racing from his knuckles to his elbow. He takes a short inhale, grits his teeth, and shoves himself upright, forcing his legs to take him toward the crowds and away from the pain of solitude he fully deserves. 

~~~

Arthur avoids them all day. 

He doesn’t want the care Gaius will insist on providing. He’d demand a full body examination, followed by treatment—salves, tinctures, pain drafts… he’d want to erase the proof of Arthur’s actions from his body. The thought alone is distasteful; the act would be near frivolous. 

He hardly needs to avoid Gwen, since he never catches even a glimpse of her. But her words and her pain are there in his head, spikes driving themselves deeper and deeper, intent on reinforcing their lesson tenfold. His perfect understanding—his agreement—with her reaction only feeds the shame building deep within him.

As for Merlin… 

Even after he’d learned of the magic—and gods, had it really only been two months since then—he hadn’t wished Merlin’s very existence away like this. Then, the source of the wish had been anger, betrayal, and pain: the pain of a friendship torn to pieces by a terrible secret and all the tiny secrets that came with it. He’d wished it all away, filled with a petty longing for returned ignorance; he’d wanted to simply avoid his pain.

This time, he dreads Merlin’s. He wishes Merlin away, wishes he’d never come to Camelot—wishes he’d never let himself near the death trap that Arthur is. 

He spells misery for everyone that comes near him. 

Morgana turned on him. Agravaine never cared for him. His father died because Arthur hadn’t been fast enough or smart enough to save him. His mother… his mother died just for birthing him. 

He knows that Gwen will leave now, too—and rightly so. He knows with even more certainty that Merlin won’t, and that is why he draws out the day as long as he can. 

Because Merlin is the one person that refuses to leave or betray Arthur, no matter what. Even after all the pain Arthur’s caused, he’s likely to find Merlin exactly where a proper manservant should be: in his master’s chambers, waiting to serve. 

It sickens him. 

So Arthur buries himself in every available task, all the while shifting from chamber to chamber to avoid the three people he cares for most in the world. He works harder than he ever has, fueled by shame and guilt and what feels like grief—until the sun has been gone for several hours and he can’t delay a second longer. As he approaches his chambers, his steps slow. 

His body aches. Beyond that, his mind is exhausted, and somehow it hurts to even breathe. 

He pauses in front of the door. There is noise within—soft footsteps and the faint crackle of a fire. He closes his eyes and honest-to-gods prays that it’s George. 

Before he can raise his hand to push the door open, it swings in of its own accord. He stares into Merlin’s bruised face and watches as Merlin’s surprise shifts to something indiscernible. 

Not fear. Not pleasure either. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, his voice low. He steps to the side a little, allowing room for Arthur to pass. After a moment, Arthur forces his legs to move. He stops a ways in, his eyes taking in what Merlin is already bringing attention to. “I’ve drawn you a bath. Supper after that. Cook told me you hadn’t eaten dinner—” 

“Merlin,” Arthur chokes out. It sounds raw and a little sharp—he hadn’t intended that, but the storm brewing within him didn’t seem to care. “Damn you,” he whispers. 

“I just thought—” Merlin begins hesitantly, and Arthur puts up a hand to stop him. 

“Tell me you didn’t do it yourself,” he says quietly. “Tell me you didn’t draw it yourself…”  

“I didn’t.” 

Arthur forcefully turns away from the sight of the steaming water and walks to the table instead. He sinks into a chair, setting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. He sits in the darkness, the heels of his palms pressing whirling dots into his vision. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, unable to stop the burning question from escaping. Why, Merlin? Why do you always stay? 

There’s a soft scuff, then another, as Merlin shifts forward a few steps. “Gaius told me you came to see him.” He pauses, then, “He told me what he said, what you said.” Another pause. “Arthur…” 

“Don’t make excuses for me,” Arthur says. He raises his head, staring at the wall ahead of him, sensing Merlin studying him. “There’s no one to blame but me. Nothing to blame.” 

“We all make mistakes—” 

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. There is utter silence, and he keeps going, the apologies welling from the dark pit of regret within him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He stands and turns around, forcing himself to look Merlin in the eye. 

“I have wronged you beyond forgiveness,” he says. His tone is steady, reflecting none of the deep grief winding like iron bands around his chest. “I have well and truly tortured you, I have hurt you beyond belief, and yet I cannot even offer you the dignity of remembering the actions I so regret.” 

Merlin’s expression reflects pain and sympathy, but when tears start to form in his eyes, Arthur can’t bear to look any longer. He lowers his head, fingering the scabbed knuckles on one hand. “I am sorry,” he finishes, his voice low due to the ache in his throat. 

“I know you are,” Merlin says. “And it’s really not that simple—” 

“Don’t make excuses for me,” Arthur interrupts again, taking a step backward. He lifts his hand, placing his fingers against his forehead, and a sharp ripple of pain sweeps down his arm from his tender hand. “I will not allow it, not this time, not now that we both know what I—”

“I’m not making excuses,” Merlin cuts in. “Of course it was awful, Arthur! Of course you hurt me, you frightened me; of course it is unnatural and horrible to have these injuries by your hand!” 

Arthur flinches at each of course, the words landing like physical blows upon him. 

“But gods damn it,” Merlin says fiercely, “Emotion is not action.” 

Arthur lifts his eyes to see that Merlin is breathing a little heavily, his face set even though he holds a hand to his ribs. 

“Emotion isn’t action,” Merlin repeats, quieter now. “With all that you know now, about all the years I’ve spent here… don’t you think, given that same medallion, I’d have done horrible things?” 

He pauses, as if allowing time for his words to sink in. He takes a step back; he’d been leaning forward slightly, and now he stands a little straighter, lowering his hand from his ribcage. 

“Emotion on its own can be dangerous and volatile,” he says. “It’s choice—personal decision and action—that matters.” He lifts a hand in a gesture, not as energetic as he typically is, but still falling into his second language. “Your control was taken from you. In my eyes, you’re just as much a victim as I am.” 

Arthur stares at him, at a loss after such a speech. Merlin, in the midst of the horrors done to him, in the midst of something like this happening so shortly after the turmoil of his revealed secrets… is somehow still so himself, so very wise, kind, and selfless… it nudges against Arthur’s pain, trying to comfort, yet somehow making it all hurt worse. 

“I cannot agree with you,” he says. 

Merlin sighs, briefly closing his eyes. “Arthur—” 

“Enough,” Arthur interrupts firmly. “Has Gaius examined you? Has he treated you?” 

Merlin looks at him for a long moment. Arthur can only assume he is inwardly debating whether to keep pressing an unwanted point or follow Arthur’s lead and drop it. Ultimately, he decides the latter. “Yes. Last night and this morning, and again a few hours ago.” 

“I assume he also told you not to work today and you ignored him.” 

“Well,” Merlin admits, “Of course he did.” 

“As your king, I’m ordering you to follow his instructions tomorrow.” 

Merlin’s eyes flash. “And as your friend, I’m disobeying that order.” 

“No,” Arthur says quietly. 

“Yes,” Merlin snaps. “I’ve only just earned my right to be here again. I’m not letting you kick me out under the misguided assumption that you’re protecting me.” 

“Misguided?” Arthur raises one hand, showing the scraped knuckles. “How is this ‘misguided?’ Damn it, Merlin, someone has to protect you, since you refuse to do it yourself!” 

“I refuse?” Merlin begins, but Arthur cuts him off. 

“You’re a sorcerer! You could have fought back—you should have fought back!” 

“I didn’t want to hurt you!” 

“I hurt you!” 

There’s a deep stillness after the last shout. Arthur can hear his heart beating, and he can hear Merlin breathing. Beyond that, it is silent. 

After a long moment, Merlin looks down. Arthur straightens, finding that he’d been hunched forward, and swallows. 

“Yes, you did,” Merlin says into the silence. The words cut like a steel blade. He takes a shaky breath, still looking down. The light in the room comes only from the fire and a few well-placed candles, and it flickers across what can be seen of his face, hiding much of the bruising and swelling. “But you didn’t choose it. I had a choice; you did not.” 

“The medallion only used what was already there,” Arthur says hoarsely.

Merlin looks up, shaking his head, and actually gives the barest hint of a smile. “And if it was put on me, I’d be halfway across Albion by now.” 

Arthur scans his face, searching for humor. When he doesn’t find any, he asks, “What do you mean?” 

Merlin breathes in again, a little steadier this time. “Fear. Grief. Shame over my mistakes…” He laughs slightly, and it’s only because Arthur can hear the pain behind it that it doesn’t sound dark and bitter. “Remember, there’s still much I haven’t had the chance to tell you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. It seems like the right moment, even if he might not be able to name what exactly he’s apologizing for. Everything, perhaps. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says, “Just… in one of the stories I haven’t told you, my control was taken from me. I tried to kill you. Multiple times. I don’t remember it, but I was told of it.” He looks right into Arthur’s eyes, and when he goes on, he is solemn and utterly sincere. "What I'm saying is that I understand." 

It's merely a statement, and yet at the same time nearly an oath. Raw with empathy and deeply true, just a few words with a world of meaning. He isn't sure if Merlin intended the underlying request, but Arthur hears it all the same. 

Show me you forgive me by letting me forgive you.

Arthur wants to resist. He wants to hang on tightly to his shame and grief, to keep grasping it close as his punishment. He wants to remove Merlin from his life, protect him, prevent something like this from ever happening again. And yet, he knows he'd only be committing further wrong. 

Arthur breaks eye contact, lowering his gaze to the stone floor under their feet. “Then, Merlin,” he says quietly, “stay here and tell me the story.” 

Merlin takes a shaky inhale. When Arthur looks up, he sees him swipe a hand across his eyes, trying to brush away moisture before it escapes. He smiles crookedly. “Gladly, sire.” 

~~~

Arthur sits idle, one hand resting limply on his desk, the other tapping randomly against the side of his chalice. He should be working—there are plenty of documents splayed in front of him—but instead, he finds himself sitting without moving, turned slightly in his chair. 

He’d been woken at the usual time that day. 

Merlin had arrived with more genuine pep than Arthur had seen in months. He’d ripped open the curtains, whistling loudly. With his injuries, he couldn’t heave Arthur bodily out of bed, but he’d yanked Arthur’s pillow out from under his head. Finally, as Arthur had groaned in complaint, Merlin had waltzed over to the table and stolen one of his sausages. 

Arthur had hidden his grin in the mattress, since his pillow had been rudely snatched away. 

And then, following the rules they’d agreed upon the previous night between stories, food, and medicine, Merlin distributed every single duty that didn’t directly relate to attending Arthur’s person to other members of the staff. 

He is currently absent from the room, delegating something or other, leaving Arthur alone. 

Arthur still feels slightly off, his body still hosting the remainder of that sickly ache and his hands still bruised and scraped. But he is approaching normality, and mentally, he is centered and at ease. He and Merlin had talked long into the night, and despite both their physical states, had somehow made more long-lasting progress in several hours than they’d ever previously managed over the span of several weeks. 

He grips the chalice more tightly and raises it to his mouth, taking a long gulp of cool water. 

A knock sounds through the room, and caught off guard, he chokes. He coughs once, twice, setting the chalice down. Clearing his throat with a third cough, he calls, “Enter.” 

The door swings inward, and Gwen steps inside. 

Arthur can’t move or speak for surprise, but Gwen doesn’t wait for him to begin the interaction. She curtsies, then immediately bites her lip and straightens, twisting her fingers in clear agitation. “May I… is it all right if I… I was hoping—” 

He stands, his chair scraping loudly across the stone. Rounding the desk to bring them a little closer, he says, “Guinevere. Yes, please. Come in.” 

When she hesitates, he goes on, feeling slightly formal and awkward. “I am glad you came. I have—” 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. Her hands twist tighter. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I spoke with Merlin earlier—the enchantment—or… or curse, whatever it was—of course it wasn’t you, and I should have—” 

“Guinevere,” he interrupts, and she raises her head. 

“I’m so sorry—” 

Arthur moves forward quickly, slowing just before he reaches her, allowing her the space to draw back. She doesn’t. Instead, she takes the last step and wraps her arms around him, her words cut off as she buries her head against him. 

He can feel the tears she’d been trying to hold back begin to wet his tunic, and instantly, any last awkwardness is washed away. 

“I don’t care,” he says softly, laying his cheek in her hair. “I understand.” 

“I knew you’d never do something so awful,” she says. “I should have trusted that and questioned what had happened and instead… I’ll never forgive myself, and—” Her body tenses in that startled way that means she feels she’s blundered her words. “And I’d—I’d never ask you to—” 

Arthur shakes his head, unconsciously beginning to rub his hand slowly up and down her back. “You’re already forgiven, because there is nothing to forgive.”

He pulls back slightly, placing his fingers under her chin and gently tilting her head up to look at him. “You saw something horrible,” he begins haltingly, “that no one should have to see. You reacted with righteous anger and hurt—because you are a good person, and you have a good heart.” 

He removes his hand, but she remains looking up at him as he finishes, “There’s nothing to forgive, Guinevere.” 

A few more tears spill over, but Gwen smiles through them. He bends to give her a kiss, and when Merlin steps in a few minutes later, they are still standing together, talking with her hands clasped in his. 

“Oh, good,” Merlin says immediately. He grins, cheeky and pleased with himself. “I guessed right then.” He gestures toward the tray he’d just set down, laden with more than enough for two people, not just one. “I thought an early dinner for two wouldn’t be amiss.” 

Gwen laughs, wiping the last remains of moisture from her eyes, and leaves Arthur’s side to squeeze Merlin’s arm. “Thank you, Merlin,” she says. “And thank you, for…” 

“Of course,” he says easily. 

“Sit down,” Arthur says from behind them. Gwen tosses him a smile over her shoulder. “Both of you,” Arthur adds, swatting Merlin lightly on the back of the head. 

“Ow!” comes the obviously fake cry of pain, and Arthur gives a fake scowl back as he settles in his own chair. 

“Sit down and stuff your ugly mug—that’s an order!” 

“Yes, Your Prattishness,” Merlin says, bowing his head in exaggerated deference.

Gwen starts laughing, and after sitting down, Merlin joins her, one hand pressed to his ribs while he snickers into the other. Arthur leans against the back of his chair, watching them, and even though he’s not laughing, he’s smiling. 

He’s at peace—and more importantly, they all are.