Part 2

Three Weeks Later

Gaius bustled about his chambers, collecting the various herbal remedies and placebo concoctions he needed for his castle rounds. These he arranged in his medicine bag, then latched and shouldered it. He was already late, but the noblemen and their ladies would have to be patient for an elderly man getting on his years.

He went to the table by the fireplace, where Merlin sat quietly with his head bowed. The physician touched the back of Merlin's hand that rested on the rough table, and the young man obediently turned the appendage palm up. Gaius placed the tip of his index finger on it, then slowly traced out:

R-O-U-N-D-S.

Merlin nodded, giving him a small smile. Gaius returned it sadly, though Merlin was unable to see it. He turned and left, trusting that one of the knights would stop by after training and sit with his ward. A pitcher of water and his cup had been left in easy reach, and half of the boy's breakfast was still on his plate. He ate excruciatingly slowly.

When Merlin had been brought to him, he hadn't at first realized the extent of his injuries. His damaged, festering eyes had been quite enough. But then he'd discovered the skull fracture behind his ear, which accounted for his later learned deafness. Gaius and Gwen had been quite devastated indeed when Merlin woke, disoriented, and only recognized where he was by the familiar smell of the apothecary.

But still, that was not the worst of it.

They had stripped him of his clothes to bathe and redress him so he might rest more comfortably, only to see that—No, Gaius could not think of it. It was too terrible. It was enough to Gaius nightmares, and Merlin suffered from them constantly as he slept. Gaius had pieced together enough from his feverish mumbling all that had happened: Arthur's discovery and his resulting fury, and the subsequent allotment of Merlin's torture. Gaius couldn't decide whether it was a worse fate than he would have faced under Uther's hand.

For the first week, Merlin was mostly kept in a drug-induced slumber. There was always at least one person at his side, and sometimes up to three would sit with him through the night. Gaius' almost omnipresence was rivaled only by Gwaine's.

Gwaine had stopped drinking.

The day Merlin and the king had been rescued, Gwaine had gone afterwards to the tavern and had drunk himself into a stupor. He had stumbled to the physician's quarters to visit with his poor friend. His abrupt, clumsy touch, accompanied with the strong stench of liquor, had frightened Merlin to panicked tears, and Gaius had quickly shooed him out and calmed the trembling lad.

Despite the fierce hangover the next day, Gwaine had remembered the reaction. Guilt weighing heavily on his conscience, he had kept away from Merlin that afternoon, and had instead borrowed a neighboring knight's squire to fetch him a bath and take nearly all of his clothes to the laundry. Afterwards he forced the squire to smell him and the clothing, and to report any alcohol fumes.

Only then had Gwaine returned to the tower, looking more noblesse and sober than anyone had ever seen him.

Over the days, Merlin healed. The skull fracture would heal on its own, and perhaps his hearing would with it. An unlikely scenario, but there had been more miraculous recoveries than that in Gaius' lifetime—most of them of a magical nature, but he digressed.

Merlin's sight was unsalvageable. His eyes had been purged of their infection by means of carefully-applied maggots, which ate away the rotten flesh. It had taken a day and a half for the insects to complete their jobs, and most of them crawled out in search of a more reliable food source. Those that were left Gaius flushed out with clean, warm water. Silken thread closed the wounds, knitting the flesh but not the eyeballs themselves back together. The heart-breaking scars were covered with the softest scraps of cotton linen they could find, and were changed and sterilized every night.

The bruises faded. The scrapes on his wrists had long since disappeared. He could sit up on his own, walk with unobstructed direction. He fed himself, could still speak. Merlin recognized his friends by smell—Gwen had begun to wear the same perfume every day—even before they reached for his hand to communicate.

It had been Merlin's idea, that method.

"Gaius," he'd asked halfway through the second week. His mentor had gone to his bedside immediately, announcing his presence by laying his hand on his ward's soft black curls which had been growing longer. "Where is Arthur? …He hasn't come, has he?"

The old man had been at a loss as to how to answer. He couldn't somehow mimic Arthur's secret presence in the room, nor how he busied himself to exhaustion with council meetings, realm taxes, training, and brooding—and besides, the king had commanded no one inform Merlin that he had been there. How he thought the crippled man would be told Gaius didn't know.

But Merlin had been thinking. It was all he really could do in his state, besides chatter inanely in his dark, silent world. But even that he had diminished as his friends had taken up the task. During their visits his hand was allowed to rest on their chests, and he quickly became accustomed the tickling vibrations of their voices.

"Write on my hand?" Merlin had suggested, holding one out in the general direction he knew Gaius to be.

The physician mentally kicked himself. It was such a simple solution. He should have thought of it long before then!

M-E-R-L-I-N, he had written, very slowly.

The muscles in Merlin's palm had flexed slightly as he had done so, testing different platforms. "Merlin," he said, grinning.

Gaius smiled, too. Then he did another test run.

H-O-W-A-R-E-Y-O-U-?

"Ho…ware…How are you?" Merlin had answered after a moment of concentration. He had already forgotten his question about Arthur.

They had practiced a good deal more, discovering which way was the easiest for Merlin to decipher. Capital letters on his flattened, upturned palm worked best. He could follow long sentences if they were done slowly enough and with brief pauses between words, but the shorter the easier. The system quickly caught on with his visitors, though Merlin still much enjoyed feeling them talk.

Gaius reached the bottom of the stairs at the same moment Gwaine did, still sweaty from the early morning knight training. The mail-clad man flashed the physician a charming smile, taking a bite out of his red apple.

"Merlin's up?" he ascertained as he passed.

"Of course," Gaius responded, eyebrow hitched despite the coy smile on his withered lips. "He's waiting for you, Sir Gwaine."

"Excellent." Gwaine bounded up the spiraling stairs two at a time, finishing off his apple quickly. The core he chucked out of a window as he passed, running a hand along the cool stone wall. The days were less hot than they had been since the summer was waning and the rains were returning.

Gwaine did not bother to knock on the door. Merlin, by then, was used to being touched to garner his attention, and only startled if he was woken abruptly from sleep.

Merlin felt the floorboard shift minutely beneath his feet and held up his hand. A second later he caught the scent of acrid sweat, and knew it was a knight. He felt Gwaine's familiar, callused fingers, and he smiled.

"Gwaine. How was practice?" he asked, his voice a little louder than necessary. He had lost volume control and articulacy precision in his deafness, but no one quite minded that.

A-W-F-U-L, Gwaine wrote, shaking his head.

Merlin chuckled. "Has it been raining?"

N-O, he answered, taking a seat beside him at the table. S-U-N.

"Too hot, then," Merlin mused.

Gwaine tapped the heel of the warlock's palm twice, their quick sign for an affirmative or agreement. He noted the half-eaten hunk of bread on Merlin's plate, and refilled Merlin's cup with water. He absently brushed away the smattering of crumbs that trailed from the plate to the edge of the table.

"Are Leon and Percival back from patrol?"

N-O.

"Did you see Elyan and Gwen off this morning? They've left to visit their father's grave, right?"

Two affirmatives.

"How is…How is Arthur?"

Gwaine paused at the question, instantly feeling his blood boil. The mere mention of the king was enough to anger him, and seeing him at training every morning was even worse. He'd skipped several sessions in the last week alone because Leon was not there to force him to attend. If Arthur had noticed his absence, he certainly didn't seem to care.

He had been absorbed in his own interests, and rarely spoke to anyone unless he had to. Arthur divided most of his time between his chambers and the council room, and at the times he disappeared it was to secretly watch Merlin in Gaius' quarters. He refused to allow anyone to tell Merlin he was there.

It was that that really pissed the knight off.

And King Arthur still hadn't told them the full story, he was sure. His flimsy excuse that the bandit leader didn't harm him in order to secure full payment of the ransom wasn't enough. Arthur could have promised extra gold for Merlin's safety. And Arthur wasn't the one who had been chained up, either.

Gwaine had gotten a look at the cuffs, saw the rune work etched on the inside. Magic restraints. He'd known all along of Merlin's abilities, but never mentioned it to anyone, even Merlin, out of fear for his safety. The warlock seemed to have been getting along on his own well enough.

He suspected that Arthur had discovered Merlin's magic somehow. But then why did he not execute Merlin? And why the despair when they were rescued? Was he acting? Or was he biding his time until Merlin had fully healed, only to throw him in the dungeons once he was stable? Gwaine would not allow that: He would fight to his last breath.

"Gwaine?"

The knight snapped out of his brooding thoughts, blinking. Merlin had cocked his head to one side with a frown, expressing his concern.

F-I-N-E, Gwaine wrote at last, answering the question with a lie. B-U-S-Y.

Merlin nodded, smiling sadly. "Well, he is the king."

Gwaine clenched his jaw, feeling sick with shame. Merlin deserved much better.

He grasped Merlin's hand and placed it on his chest, launching into a long-winded rendition of the happenings of the morning. Gwen usually talked about what people had been up to—babies born, couples married, the latest kitchen gossip, that sort of thing. Leon recited from teachings of the olden greats, Gaius sometimes chiming in where he faltered. Elyan talked about his travels, but Gwaine always insisted that there wasn't enough adventure in them to make a good story—because Elyan never exaggerated. Percival rarely spoke: he hummed nonsensically. Whether Merlin could tell the difference or not they didn't know, but either way it didn't particularly matter.

"You wouldn't believe the nerves of some of these squires, mate," Gwaine complained. "Strutting around the field like they own it. Nobles, pah! A good bar fight is what they need to toughen them up. There's nothing quite so gratifying as a brawl, I'll you. Especially a drunken one; you don't feel it until the morning."

When Gwaine ran out of words, he fell silent. Merlin sensed that he was finished and pulled his hand away.

"Is it still sunny?" he asked, holding his palm upwards.

Gwaine tapped twice for yes.

"Will you open the window and move my chair to sunlight? I want to feel it."

The knight obliged immediately, tugging slightly up on Merlin's arm to indicate that he should stand. Merlin did so, and Gwaine led him toward the sunny patch that streamed in from the high window, placing the stool a little in front of it so the light would impact the warlock's face. He patted Merlin's shoulder and directed his hand to the seat so that he would sit, then opened the window to let in the warm breeze. Lastly, Gwaine retrieved his chair and settled beside him.

"Thanks."

They sat in companionable silence until Gaius' return nearly two hours later.

Gwaine stood respectfully, a greeting on the tip of his tongue, but it died away when he saw that the physician was not unaccompanied. King Arthur entered with him.

While Gaius looked a bit stiffened in his presence, Arthur was rigid. His shoulder muscles bunched under his red satin jacket that he had worn to his council meeting, and though his blonde hair was neatly combed it looked thin and lank. His face was sallow and ashen as though he were ill, and dark bags encircles his eyes. The cut over his right eyebrow had healed, leaving only a faint pink line that would go away in time.

All in all, the king looked like death warmed over.

Yet Gwaine couldn't even find it in himself to pity the wretched soul. His heart had gone completely to Merlin, and there it would stay.

Merlin was unaware of the goings on, deafblind as he was.

"Sir Gwaine," Arthur said authoritatively, "you are dismissed."

The knight immediately bristled like an affronted dog, lips curling back into a snarl.

But Gaius shook his head slightly, raising an eyebrow meaningfully and dipping his chin. Nostrils flaring as he forced himself to breathe, Gwaine spun around. Looking down at his precious friend, he calmed and tenderly lifted Merlin's hand. The warlock tilted his head in attention as Gwaine wrote a message.

D-U-T-Y.

He smiled. "Go on, then. Don't be late, Gwaine."

Gwaine gave his hand a small squeeze, an unspoken promise to return later, then released him. His expression hardened as he turned away, and he resolutely kept his eyes averted from his king. His muscles quivered as he stormed past the man, begging for release, for a fight. But he couldn't, not without jeopardizing his freedom.

He had to force himself to not slam the door behind him, and clopped loudly down the stairs so that his highness would know he had obeyed.

Gaius exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Then he cast a sidelong glance to King Arthur, who was, as usual, staring intently at an oblivious Merlin.

"You wished to speak to me, Sire?" he prompted.

The king blinked slowly, coming back to himself as he registered the question. "Yes," he mumbled. Then he cleared his throat and repeated more firmly, "Yes. How is Merlin, Gaius?"

"He is healing well," Gaius answered. "But I think this is as well as he will ever be, Sire."

Arthur nodded, frowning. "Gaius, under no circumstance are you to discuss this with anyone not in this room."

The old man shot a look towards Merlin dubiously. "Understood, Sire."

"Could…" Arthur cut himself off, closing his eyes as his brow pinched in response to some psychological pain. He took a deep breath and started again: "Could magic repair his senses?"

Gaius stared at him hard. He reluctantly supplied, "Yes, I suppose it could, if used correctly."

"I give you permission to wield magic for the purpose of restoring Merlin to his full health," Arthur said regally.

The physician staggered back, shocked. "But, Sire…"

"But what, Gaius?"

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. "I do not have nearly the power necessary to do something so incredible, Sire."

Arthur scowled, jaw working. "Then…Then have Merlin heal himself. Tell him."

"Merlin? Himself?" Gaius, despite knowing that Arthur knew, was not quite ready to give up the charade.

"He's got magic!" Arthur spat, gesturing wildly in his direction. "I've seen him use it, Gaius! I've seen him use it loads of times, but I've never pieced it together until he—until—"

Gaius had resisted the urge to step back from the sheer force Arthur had used to propel his words. He composed himself silently for a moment, just as Arthur struggled to reign back his suppressed emotions. The old man noted the striking resemblance this distraught Arthur bore to his father after the death of Ygraine.

Arthur swallowed thickly, eyes watering. He blinked them back furiously, but when he looked up to Gaius again his carefully-erected barrier broke once more. He turned his sapphire eyes to Merlin, who could only enjoy the kiss of the sun's warmth on his skin. Was that all that was left for him?

"Gaius," he whispered. "Gaius…I've made a terrible, unforgivable mistake."

The old man looked a bit disturbed, but also concerned. He clasped his hands in front of him, setting his shoulders back. "Arthur," he said. "Perhaps it would benefit your health and mind if you were to share, and then to listen, and then to sleep."

Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. "Benefit me," he muttered. "Meaning you want to know what I've done, why I've allowed this to happen to your ward who is like a son to you. Everyone blames me—rightfully so—and now it is only fitting that I confess."

For a moment Gaius considered denying it. "I do not doubt, Arthur," he said carefully, "that you regret your actions, whatever they were. And while regret changes nothing, it may lead to a better future. Come, sit with me. We will let Merlin enjoy himself there for a while before I let him know I am here."

The king was guided to Gaius' straw-filled cot on the other side of the chamber. If Merlin decided to get up he would not accidentally discover them, nor would he feel the shift of the floorboards from the distance.

Arthur sat heavily and slumped over, burdened with his memories and grief.

"I think, Gaius," he said, "that my father was wrong. About magic."

"Indeed," Gaius agreed. "I myself had advocated that conclusion, as had many others. Most were martyred for their beliefs."

The king nodded tiredly, remembering the story of Gaius' redemption in the eyes of his father. "Yes. And Merlin nearly joined them by my condemnation."

"Why don't you start from the beginning, Arthur?" Gaius asked softly.

So Arthur did. He began with the hunting trip, of their fall from the cliff, of Merlin's rescue; of their capture by the bandits, of Merlin's punishment—most details left aside; of Arthur's thoughts, of his revelation; of Merlin's forgiveness of Arthur's sins in an instant.

Gaius had remained silent for the entire telling, looking sad but understanding. He was not angry. Arthur almost wished he were, that Gaius would hate him. He deserved it, after all.

"And now, Sire, if you'll allow me," he said, "I will tell my story from the beginning."

Arthur indicated permission with an inclination of his head.

"Nearly five and twenty years ago now, my younger sister wrote to me from a tiny village called Ealdor. You may have heard of it, Arthur. She had taken in the persecuted sorcerer I had sent to her in secret, a young man who had been quite the friend to me. In her letter she had described his escape in the dead of night when knights of Camelot had attacked, having crossed the border. She was quite devastated and asked whether I had been contacted by him, or if I might know his whereabouts. It was very important to her that she find him, though she did not tell me why.

"A few months later I received another letter from my sister. This one detailed her dire situation, begging my speedy reply with advice. She was unable to contact the sorcerer, and I had been unsuccessful as well. Apparently, when I had sent him to her, they had fallen in love. He had impregnated her, and she had only discovered this a few weeks after his departure.

"In this second letter, she informed me that the child had already been born in the spring. A boy. She told me that when he'd first opened his eyes, they were gold. This son of hers was born with magic, Arthur. He was a warlock. Very rare, and very powerful, and so much like his father in many ways.

"My sister asked what she should do. She feared for her son's life. If his magic was discovered, he could be killed. In Escetir, magic was—and is—legal, but sorcerers are required by the king to serve in the army, and are regarded with great mistrust. And because Uther had shown no qualms about sending knights across the border, he could very well be killed by him, too.

"I was no longer a young man then. I had followed your father across the land when he conquered Camelot, stayed when he had married your mother, and still I am here. But my sister was but seventeen years old when she gave birth. She was too young to know the true cruelties of the world, and she feared it.

"In her letter she begged my advice. She begged me to take her child and raise him as my own, to teach him to hide his magic. That I could not do, not as close as I was to your father. Then she had written that she would drown her son to spare him the evils of the Purge.

"I feared that she may have already done so, that her letter had reached me too late and that mine would not arrive to stop such senseless mercy. I quickly wrote in return, telling her to let the boy live. She was the one who would have to raise him quietly. He was a bastard and would not easily be accepted into the village anyway, and it would give her a chance to keep him away, to keep him safe.

"She did as I asked." Gaius paused here, a faraway look in his eyes.

A wry smile turned up the corners of Arthur's lips. "I am clever enough to know that the child of which you speak is Merlin. Ha, born with magic. I might have known that Merlin can do nothing conventionally."

"Indeed," Gaius smiled. "My sister, Hunith, and my ward my nephew, Merlin. So named because his father had once hunted with one, and delighted Hunith by training the falcon to pick the sweetest apples from the tops of the trees for her. She had hoped that Merlin would live up to his namesake and fly far above the chaos and destruction."

"Humph," Arthur breathed. Then he frowned and sat up a little straighter. "You know who his father is? Haven't you ever told him?"

"I have, Sire."

"Merlin told me he didn't know his father."

Gaius raised an eyebrow. "Then he did not know when he told you. I only informed him four years ago, Sire."

Arthur looked at him expectantly. "Who is he? Did Merlin meet him?"

The physician smiled sadly. "He did, Sire. In fact, Merlin was there for his dying breath. But," he said sternly, "that is to come later. Remember, I am telling you the story from start to finish, a brief one though it will be. We cannot skip pages, Arthur.

"I confess I do not know much about Merlin's childhood. I never had the opportunity nor the time to travel to Ealdor, and Hunith could not bring the child here. But you remember that Merlin arrived on his own almost six years ago, now. He had been sent by his mother to me in the hopes that I could teach him better control, though his apprenticeship to me had not been entirely a guise.

"When I met him, he saved my life. I had been up on the balcony by that bookshelf," he pointed, "and had fallen. I would have died had he not used magic. And so would you have, Sire, had Merlin not used it at the feast that evening. He saved two lives in the same day with his illegal magic, even after his greeting to the city had been the execution of a sorcerer.

"Merlin always wanted to help, to do good. He wanted to prove that magic was not evil, that it was a gift. Much like a sword does no harm on its own, so does magic. Merlin wanted to tell you, Sire, many times. It was I, and another whom I cannot mention, who convinced him not to at many junctures. He'd also wanted to tell Morgana as her magic developed, to help her as I helped him, and we prevented that as well. Perhaps if I hadn't…But regret changes nothing.

"The boy has risked life and limb countless times to protect you, and others. He once tried to trade his life for yours. He defeated Nimueh, and won back four souls that night. But his many exploits are tales for another time, and perhaps better told by Merlin himself."

Arthur opened his mouth as though to protest, but was given no chance as Gaius continued.

"It is important that you know of this part of Merlin, for just as you were born a prince and inherited your kingship, Merlin was born a warlock and inherited a lordship of his own. No, don't interrupt, Arthur. Listen.

"When the Great Dragon escaped his lair and laid siege to Camelot, you were sent on a quest to bring back the last Dragonlord, Balinor. You will remember that Dragonlords have a kinship with dragons, and can speak to and even command them. I knew the direction he lay, and knew that there was a chance Merlin would meet his father on this journey. That was when I told him, moments before your departure.

"I expect he was quite shocked and confused.

"He told me the story after the defeat of the Great Dragon, and this is as it goes: You both traveled to the place that Balinor was rumored to be, but you, Arthur, were wounded. Merlin tried to save you with his skills, but it was not enough. Luckily, there was a hidden cave nearby, and there he met a man who healed you. This man was Balinor, he came to find, as did you when you had woken.

"It had taken much to convince him to return to Camelot, but in the end he'd agreed. According to Merlin, you had taken to sleep, leaving him and Balinor alone. They spoke.

"Balinor had once passed through Ealdor, and remembered my sister Hunith, Merlin's mother. He was glad to assume that she had married and bore Merlin with her husband, but no—Merlin insisted she'd never married. Rather, he was the bastard son of Hunith and a sorcerer who had been forced to flee. That sorcerer was Balinor."

"No!" Arthur gasped, eyes widening. "That cannot be, it—Merlin would have told…me."

Gaius merely regarded him solemnly. "I assume you know the rest of that story. The bandit attack, and Balinor's death. Balinor gave his life to protect his son."

"Yes," Arthur responded absently. "I told him that no man was worth his tears…But 'twas his father…His father, Gaius! I cried when my father was killed by Dragoon, but I did not give Merlin that same luxury…"

After a moment of silence in which he gazed guiltily at Merlin across the room, Gaius continued his story. "When Balinor took his last breath, the magic of his dragon blood left him, and was activated—inherited—in Merlin's. Now, Merlin is the last Dragonlord.

"So, Sire, I am sorry to inform you that it was not you who had defeated the Great Dragon. It was Merlin."

Arthur dropped his head into his hands. "I am such a fool."

"No, Arthur," Gaius said. "You were misguided for all your young life. But now you are learning the truth, and it will be you who will become greater than your father."

"Then why do I feel like a failure?"

"Perhaps it is because you have not mended the bridge," Gaius said, directing his gaze pointedly to Merlin.

The warlock was still sitting in the sunny patch, the light dappling across his pale face. He had lifted a hand, apparently amusing himself by playing with the warmth.

"Right," Arthur said. He stood abruptly. "Merlin has waited for your return for quite a while now, Gaius. I still have questions."

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

"Could we contact the Druids? Would they help?"

"I'm sure they would, Sire. They would do all they could for Emrys." At the look of confusion he was given, Gaius clarified: "Merlin's Druidic name is Emrys."

"I see," Arthur said, but he didn't really. "How would we reach the Druids?"

"Merlin could call for them."

"But he can't…You mean with magic."

"I suppose so," Gaius said. "I'm not sure mind-speak would qualify as magic. I don't have the ability myself, but when it is used there is no outward sign of magic being used."

"Mind-speak?"

"It is difficult to explain," Gaius sighed wearily. "Perhaps it is a better question for Merlin, or for the Druids. They experience it, and so know more than I."

Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Very well. I shall learn everything there is to know about Merlin once he's…he's well again. Go and tell him that he will call the Druids."

"Sire." Gaius stood slowly, his arthritic knees creaking, and hobbled across the room. His withered hands took Merlin's raised one, and gently persuaded him to flip it over.

"Hello, Gaius. Did you—hm? Call…" Merlin deciphered when his mentor began to write, "the…Dr—Druids? Gaius, are you mad?"

Gaius chuckled and wrote N-O.

Words slightly slurred in his excitement, Merlin said, "I won't call the Druids here, Gaius. They will only get in trouble. I won't endanger them in order to heal me."

Gaius tried to write more on his palm, but Merlin stubbornly retracted his hand and closed it into a fist. "No," he said emphatically. "I won't, Gaius, and nothing will convince me. Besides, everyone would know that magic had healed me."

Throughout the conversation, Arthur had approached. It had hurt that Merlin was so fearful of the king's wrath still, but then again he had given Merlin no reason to relax. For all he knew, Arthur still planned on executing him, or perhaps banishing him or imprisoning him for the rest of his life.

"I'd rather stay like this," Merlin said quietly, "than be banished or burned, or be the cause of another's needless death."

The words broke Arthur's heart, and by the looks of it Gaius' as well. Frustration swiftly overwhelmed the king, and strode forward the last few steps between himself and Merlin. He roughly grasped Merlin's hand and forced it open, and furiously scrawled out his order.

It had all been too fast, too frightening, for Merlin to comprehend. Mouth open in surprise and confusion, Merlin remained stock still, brow furrowed. When Arthur didn't let go of his hand, he shrank back a little, unable to make out what had been said. He said nothing, unable to form words.

Gaius looked at the king warily, eyes flickering between Arthur and Merlin. He desperately wanted to step in, but somehow could not find it in himself to do so.

After a moment, Arthur deflated, shoulders sinking. He loosened his bruising grip, but Merlin did not pull away. The king had the idea that Merlin knew it was him. Much more gently and slowly, Arthur carefully traced out a single word:

S-O-R-R-Y.

He cupped one hand around the back of Merlin's head, fingers caressing the softness of his hair and the linen wrap, and bent forward. He pressed his lips to Merlin's brow, hoping to convey his emotions through the simple, intimate action. Then Arthur took his leave, head bowed with shame and self-loathing.

Merlin sat on his hands and refused to speak with his mentor.

"Gwaine," Merlin said, interrupting him midsentence. "Will you take me outside, please?"

The knight was surprised. Merlin had never asked to leave Gaius' chambers in all the three and half weeks he'd been back. Of course, he was bedridden for the first ten days, and then he still had much strength to recover. Perhaps he was feeling well—and restless.

Gwaine turned inquiringly to Gaius, who merely shrugged his consent. "If you wish to accompany him," Gaius said, returning his attention to the phials he was mixing.

He grinned and stood, pushing Merlin's elbow up to signal that he should get up as well. Merlin smiled graciously and waited as Gwaine retrieved his jacket and helped him shrug into it. Then, with a parting wink to Gaius, the knight led Merlin at a leisurely pace to the door. The stairs they took even slower, with Gwaine leading the way and Merlin following with his hand firmly on his friend's shoulder for direction and support.

Soon enough, they had reached the end of the flight of steps, and Gwaine resumed his place at Merlin's side, draping an arm around his scrawny shoulders. Subtly guiding him in this aloof manner, the knight and his favorite companion made way to the courtyard outside.

Merlin's smile broadened when they stepped out into the open air. He felt the change: the air was warmer but not stifling; a breeze wafted lazily around him; the stone steps turned to cobbling beneath his boots. Gwaine smiled to see his friend smile, observing Merlin's happiness rather than taking in the familiar sight of Camelot square.

But then the warlock's smile faded slightly. "They're staring at me, aren't they," he said, more of a statement than a question.

Gwaine furrowed his brow and looked up, and noticed that there were several people—servants and pages, the blacksmith's wife, a trio of squires—looking in their direction. Or rather, Merlin's direction. They all drank in the sight of Arthur's former manservant, crippled from his abuse at the hands of bandits. The knight scowled, tightening his hold around Merlin.

"I can feel their eyes on me," Merlin said, voice surprisingly low. "Some pitying, I expect, others just morbidly fascinated. I'll be the gossip of the town tonight." He laughed bitterly.

The knight was dumbstruck, unsure what to do. The protective part of him wanted to guide Merlin back to the tower, away from prying eyes; his angry side wanted to bark at the gawkers, demand that they be on their way and leave innocent people be. But both of those pieces of himself knew that neither of those would be what Merlin wanted.

"Gwaine, can you take me out of the city?" he pleaded. "Only for a little while…There's a particular place out in the forest where no one goes."

Still the man hesitated, considering it. He mentally inventoried himself, feeling the weight of his sword at his hip, the muscle memory of fighting. Gwaine was well-prepared to protect Merlin. But still, it perhaps wasn't wise to bend to Merlin's will here.

"Please?" Merlin held up his palm for an answer. "Please."

Gwaine placed his finger on the platform, looking conflicted. Then he tapped twice for yes.

Merlin grinned.

The pair left the city, arms linked together. They were given curious looks as they passed, some more discreet than others, and some openly staring. Gwaine did his best to ignore those, eager to get Merlin to the destination which he described. His directions had been very specific, so the knight knew that he had often visited the place.

It was a slower pace than they would walk under normal circumstances, but considering that it was anything but normal, the friends made good progress.

In no time they had made it to the lower town, and weaved their way through the milling crowd. Most respectfully moved out of the way when they saw the two coming, and Gwaine nodded courteously to those people. He was unsure whether it was more due to his presence than Merlin's, who was well-liked in these parts.

Then they exited the city gates, unquestioned by the guards posted.

From there Gwaine was forced to recall Merlin's directions: "Follow the road from the gate a little ways, and then turn left once you see the tree with a knotted branch."

He started forward with hardly a pause, and Merlin followed. The warlock's grip on his sleeve had tightened almost imperceptibly as his nose registered the scent of the forest. They were on their way.

Up ahead and to the left, Gwaine spotted the tree Merlin had described. It was a tall and mighty, no different from the other trees around it but for the twisted branch that hung over the road. This branch produced no leaves, and had a deadened appearance—crippled by a lightning strike some years back. He turned left.

"Keep going this way, as straight as possible. You should come across the clearing soon. It's surrounded by scarred trees."

"Scarred trees," he muttered under his breath. Gwaine wondered if this meadow for which they were heading was the alleged place Arthur had defeated the Great Dragon. If that were so, Gwaine could think of no reason why Merlin would visit it—unless he so revered his king that he returned to his battlefields, or that no one else ever came there. Perhaps it was just a place to be alone for a bit.

Merlin spoke, voice almost startling. "We're getting close."

The knight gave his arm a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement.

"Will you make sure no one else is here?"

Gwaine indicated that he would. He probably would have done it without prompting. It was a private affair, their being here, and there was enough rumor and gossip to go around since everyone gawked at him as he passed through town. Sure, most of it was pity for his condition, but he knew Merlin hated to be pitied.

The trees thinned a bit, and they arrived almost suddenly at the clearing. Some trees bore black scorch marks, and some trunks were even naked of branches and bark on one side. A bare patch of ground was visible, but the rest of the grass was unaffected, dancing in the breeze.

"We're here," Merlin breathed, lifting his covered face to the sun. "You check around. I can take myself from here."

Gwaine grinned, patted his shoulder, and went off with his hand on his hilt. He didn't discover anyone, at any rate, and cast constant glances back to ensure that Merlin was all right. The warlock was, indeed, simply shuffling towards the center of the clearing. He knew where he was going.

The knight returned to his side, reaching down to take his hand.

C-L-E-A-R.

Merlin smiled swiftly, but just as suddenly he sobered. "Gwaine," he said urgently, "please don't be frightened—or angry. Okay?"

He frowned, confused, but quickly wrote, N-E-V-E-R.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Merlin's mouth, but Gwaine knew he was nervous. "Okay."

The warlock took a deep breath, turning forward and tucking his chin towards his chest. Then, in a deep, powerful voice that rose in volume, Merlin began to speak, raising his face as foreign words rolled off his tongue. Gwaine almost staggered back, surprised by the sheer force. He stared at his younger friend, looking a mixture of curious, wary, and alarmed. He half wondered whether Merlin had lost his mind.

Merlin finished, lowered his head again as though it were some sacred part of a ritual. The woods were silent. It was as though Merlin had frozen time—the winds had stilled, the birds had quieted, and even Gwaine hardly dared to breathe.

His attuned ears picked up a small sound, like a flag flapping in the wind. But there was no wind, and certainly no flag. Gwaine, senses buzzing, moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, eyes roaming the tree line. Someone was coming: The sound grew louder with each passing beat.

And then he realized that it did not come from the trees, but from above. Accommodating this, he raised his gaze—He promptly fell back in shock, gaping. A huge golden dragon was headed straight for them, maw stretching wide as it bulleted closer. It was four—no, five!—times the size of any wyvern he'd come across.

Merlin!

He moved to tackle his unawares friend to the ground, to protect him, but had no more than gotten his feet underneath him than the dragon had landed with a mighty jolt of the earth. Gwaine was knocked to the grass again, and Merlin wobbled once—twice, and then regained his footing.

"Kilgharrah," he greeted warmly.

Please don't be frightened, Merlin had asked, or angry.

Now Gwaine understood.

The dragon sat, wrapping his thick tail around himself as though to claim the spot as his own. Huge muscles rippled beneath its scaly golden hide, and dangerous talons dug into the soft grass. His intelligent—and wiser than any the knight had ever seen—eyes locked first onto Merlin, apparently studying him. Then they shifted to Gwaine, who remained where he was. There was no need to offer the creature a reason to attack him.

Finding Gwaine to be no threat, the dragon returned his attention to Merlin.

Neither of them spoke, but Gwaine was certain that they were having a conversation all of their own. Merlin had shaken his head or nodded in the same manner he did when speaking aloud, and Kilgharrah, if that was its name, blinked and cocked its head as well. Gwaine had heard that Druids could speak within each other's minds, so it made sense if other magic users could do so as well. That must have been what was happening.

Gwaine stood slowly, and Kilgharrah's eyes flicked to him but did not linger. Rather, the dragon drew himself up a bit, chest puffing as though saying something important. The knight saw a genuine compassion in the dragon's eyes. It was obvious that the magical creature was not so evil. No more evil than people, anyway.

This unsettling silent-speak lasted only a moment more before Merlin finally addressed the knight: "Gwaine. You'll need to stand back."

"Kilgharrah," Merlin greeted warmly once the ground had settled.

Young warlock, Kilgharrah returned, voice laced with concern. It has been long. Too long, perhaps. I knew that something had happened, yet I was not sure what. Now I see it is worse than I imagined…Who is your friend?

Merlin was glad to see the flash of Gwaine that Kilgharrah sent to him, sprawled on the ground and looking more shocked than terrified. It was the first he'd actually seen of his friend since before he left on that god-forsaken hunt with Arthur. His name is Sir Gwaine. If he didn't know of my magic before, he does now.

You trust him?

Explicitly, Merlin answered. Kilgharrah, I come seeking your advice—your help.

You wish me to restore your sight and hearing, the dragon mused. Would not someone notice such a miracle?

Yes. But Gaius asked me to heal myself with magic. It was Arthur who had suggested it. He even told me to himself.

For a moment the Great Dragon did not respond, apparently digesting this new information. I see. Then you, young warlock, and your king will cross that particular bridge when you come to it.

Merlin smiled. It would seem so. Will you help me?

I shall, Kilgharrah said. But we must do this quickly, young warlock. Time is short. Tell Sir Gwaine to step back. It will take a lot of magic for this, and I do not wish him to be caught in the crosshairs.

"Gwaine," Merlin said, turning slightly. "You'll need to stand back."

The dragon watched with some amusement as Gwaine blustered, looking first incredulously at Merlin and then at the dragon. "Now hold on!" he cried. Then he grasped Merlin's hand, shaking his head with a furrowed brow, and attempted to write.

Merlin took his hand back, pushing Gwaine lightly back. "No, trust me!" he said reassuringly. "Stand back a bit. It will be fine, Gwaine. I promise."

Praying that Merlin knew precisely what he was doing, Gwaine reluctantly took one step back. Then another. And another, haltingly. Under Kilgharrah's watchful gaze, he moved back about three and a half feet before stubbornly stopping.

"That's far enough, young knight," said a voice—unmistakably from the dragon.

Gwaine jolted in surprise, jaw dropping, but before he had a chance to recollect himself and demand answers, Merlin stepped directly before the dragon.

Kilgharrah's maw opened, revealing rows of jagged teeth and a long, slimy red tongue. A golden plume of fire—of magic—gushed forth from the orifice, engulfing Merlin's lanky figure. On pure reflex, Gwaine danced forward as though to rush in and save him, but a tug somewhere in his mind convinced him to stay.

The golden cloud began to disperse immediately once Kilgharrah reared his head, looking decidedly pleased. Merlin still stood amidst the smoke, as like a statue.

"Farewell," he said abruptly, spreading his wings. "Goodbye, young warlock. Young knight."

With a few powerful thrusts of his wings, the dragon was in the air. He propelled himself forward, and Gwaine couldn't help but to watch him go until he was but a speck in the distance. Then he shook himself, and looked at Merlin.

He had moved his hands to the sides of his head, pressing his palms against it—as though he were in pain.

"Merlin!" Gwaine gasped, rushing to him.

He stopped short again when Merlin turned, lowering his hands a bit. A grin broke out on the young man's face. "I heard you," he said. Then, more giddily, "I heard you!"

Gwaine stared, blinking owlishly.

Merlin pushed his eye covering up, causing his hair to stick up in an even more ridiculous fashion. His eyes slammed shut at the bright light, which he hadn't seen for half a month. Despite having his eyes closed, it did little to deter the warlock from exclaiming, "I can see! I can see!" He ripped the rest of the bandana from his head and cast it aside.

The knight had still not moved from his spot.

Merlin's bottle blue eyes, clear of their scars, fluttered open, dazzling in the sunlight. His exuberant smile made them light up all the more. "I can see! I can hear!" he gasped out, pressing his hands to his ears again.

Gwaine pinched himself hard.

Then he grinned. "Well, bugger me, mate!"

Arthur, arms folded over his chest, stared moodily down at the courtyard from his window. The dark bags under his eyes were deeper than ever, and his bottom lip was chapped and scabbed from the constant worrying of his teeth.

He hadn't visited Merlin since he had frightfully announced his presence, had commanded Merlin to find the Druids to heal him. That had been three days previous. The king had afterwards forbidden anyone to even mention Merlin to him, and though he could tell there was something they desperately wanted to say to him he cut them off each time.

Even Gwen had had enough of his outrageous behavior, and had taken residence in one of the guest chambers nearer to her brother's rooms. Probably for the best, he'd thought at the time, but now he really missed her comforting arms around him, her sweet whispered words in his ear.

But all that only served to remind him of his mistakes. Each time he was reminded of his mistakes, he grew angry with himself, and those around him bore the brunt of those frustrations. It was a quality he hated in himself, but one Arthur did not know how to fix.

He sighed and closed his eyes, dropping his aching head forward onto the cool glass pane.

Something was dropped at his feet.

The king opened his eyes and glanced down to see a leather hunting pack, filled to the brim with gear, food, and a bedroll. Anger seized him.

Arthur wheeled around, a snarl on his lips.

He stopped short when his gaze met a pair of familiar blue eyes. They were set in a familiar, high-cheekboned face, one that was often full of kindness, of exasperation and sarcasm, of forgiveness. Atop these features was an unruly mop of black hair, the ends flicking up in every direction in the beginnings of curls. On either side, looking marginally less large on account of the hair that partially obscured them, were stuck-out ears.

There was no mistaking it.

"…Merlin…?" Arthur breathed, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

"You look terrible, Sire," Merlin quipped, struggling to quash a cheeky grin. "Let's go hunting. There's something I've always wanted to tell you."

END.