"Do you feel like a young god?
You know the two of us,
We're just young gods.
And we'll be flying through the streets,
With the people underneath,
And we'll be running, running, running,
Again."

- Young God, Halsey

It never got better.

Not—not really—no matter how many batty old sorcerers bent on revenge—no matter how many soldiers and Saxons—no matter how many speeches spouted off about destiny—no matter how many spells he learned—how many misinformed druids dropped to their knees when they spotted him—how many sleepless nights stood at his back—how many times he'd ended up exactly like this, dragging in breath after agonizing, hard-won breath, trying desperately not to think about the burning pain in his side—

No. It never really got better.

But Merlin was getting a damn sight better at hiding it.

He smothered another hiss of pain, pressing a pale, shaking hand to his ribs—the skin, beneath his torn jacket and tunic, was warm and sticky and slick, fingers squelching wetly upon contact.

Great. Wonderful, really. Just perfect.

That damn assassin really hadn't known when to give up, had he?

Not that it mattered so much anymore—said assassin wasn't a threat to anyone with the way Merlin had left him, lying facedown at the bottom of the ravine some three miles off, with broken neck and glassy, still-open eyes—and, unless Merlin was looking to join him in eternal sleep, he needed to get moving.

He pushed himself up on his knees with one hand—he didn't quite dare take the other one off his ribs yet, didn't even want to think about the burst, bleeding skin beneath his shirt—of course he'd have to get a better look at things when he got back to his own chambers—but he was absolute rubbish with healing spells—might be best to just do it the old-fashioned way—

He shifted, prepared to stand, and another bolt of pain tore through him like a knight's lance—a sharp gasp slipped from between his tightly clenched teeth, hard as he tried to suppress it, and little white stars burst suddenly behind his eyes—for a minute, the whole world tilted, and he thought he might drop right back to the ground—no—no, he was all right—he could handle it—just a bit of pain—gods knew he'd had worse—

Maybe he could call Kilgharrah—save himself the long, painful trek—he'd chased the assassin deep into the Darkling Woods—much deeper than he'd intended, actually—the castle spires were but a distant, dark sillehoutte, standing stark against the bright, full moon—but as long as there was breath in his body, no lowlife sword-for-hire was getting anywhere near his king, no matter how far he had to go to catch them—he drew in a breath, and tipped back his head—the dragonlord summons lay ready on his tongue—no—wait—that wouldn't work, would it? As much as he wanted to, he couldn't risk it—suppose the palace guards actually decided to do their jobs for once, and happened to glimpse a great bloody dragon swooping in the skies over their heads—oh, he didn't even want to think about it—especially if it was the dragon he'd claimed Arthur had slain a good six years ago—

No—no, he'd just have to go it alone this time. Just like he had last time. And the time before last. And the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before—

Merlin pressed his lips together, and got to his feet—everything tilted around him again, going in circles for several minutes, but he could handle it, he could handle it, he'd had worse—it was no use feeling sorry for himself, anyway—it was better this way, when he stopped to think about it—it was better for him to be alone—at least this way, no one else got hurt—not like last time—not like—

No.

No, no, he wasn't thinking about that—he wasn't—he wouldn't—he wouldn't think about it—he wouldn't think about any of it—he wouldn't think about the Callieach, white-haired and withered, her expression unreadable as she stared him down from across that ancient, crumbling stone altar—your time among men is not yet over—and he wouldn't think about Lancelot, or his straight-backed, confident stride into the world beyond the veil—he'd never stopped—never so much as faltered, never thought twice, never hesitated—he'd always been the bravest of them all—the noblest—he didn't deserve to—not like that—not for—not for Merlin—he wasn't worth it—he wasn't worth—Lancelot—he shouldn't have—he shouldn't have—

No.

He wouldn't think about it.

Merlin drew a shaky, shuddering breath, and wiped a hand across his eyes—maybe that would banish the burn behind them. He just needed to get back to his chambers—maybe he'd actually be able to fall asleep tonight—

So he went, on foot and in silence, head bent against the brisk, bitter winds that stirred the leaves and tossed his hair—until his legs trembled, and throbbed with exhaustion—until every step had his ribs screaming—until his hands were numb with cold, and he'd drawn his thin jacket tight about him, shivering violently—whether from frost or fever, he didn't know, and didn't particularly care—until he stood at last in Gaius' warm, darkened chambers, easing the door closed behind himself.

The fire burned low in the hearth, and what he wouldn't give to just—just collapse into the seat by the grate—just sit, and not do anything, and not think—but his palms were stained, the skin stiff and crusty with drying blood—and his head felt like he'd just gone a few hundred rounds with several dozen sorcerers, and he knew if he didn't take care of it now, he'd probably regret it come sunrise.

Perhaps he could wake Gaius—oh, he knew the old man would likely be furious with him, likely fret and fuss over him, likely scold him for going after the assassin without telling his mentor where he'd gone—oh, yes, that was a conversation that would go perfectly—by the way, Gaius, I'll be in the Darkling Woods saving Arthur's ungrateful backside for the fourth time this week—don't wait up—but at least then, he could get the wound seen to—besides, after the night he'd just had, he felt, childishly, that he'd quite like a bit of fussing, just this once—a sympathetic ear, at least, would be nice, he couldn't deny that—

But then he saw Gaius, deep in slumber and snoring softly in his shabby, rickety cot—pale eyes shut tight, wrinkled face smooth and untroubled in sleep—Merlin felt his lips twitch up into a small, fond smile at the sight, a great rush of affection for the old man swelling suddenly in his chest—no, he couldn't bring himself to wake Gaius, not when he looked like that—so peaceful, so relaxed, so far removed from the concerns and anxieties plaguing his waking hours—the poor man had been so worried about Merlin for so long now—ever since they'd come back from the Isle of the Blessed—ever since Lancelot—

No. He wouldn't think about it.

Merlin walked past the sleeping Gaius—forced himself on, really—his body had turned leaden and sluggish with exhaustion and pain sometime in the last few minutes—he dropped gratefully into the seat by the fire—just for a minute, he promised himself, just for a minute—he let his eyes fall closed, welcoming the blissful darkness awaiting him behind them—if he shifted just slightly to the right, the brunt of the pressure eased off his bleeding ribs, and it wasn't nearly so hard to breathe—and he knew he needed to sit up and get his shirt off and get a better look at the wound, but God, he didn't want to move—he never wanted to move again—if he could just sit here, and just—just not think—not about the Isle or the veil or the Callieach or Lancelot or any of it—but it wouldn't do any good—he could stop thinking about it—if he really tried—it burned, bright and raw, at the back of his mind, always, a steady and eternal fire, but he could—he could douse it—for a while—if he really tried—he knew he could—but it didn't matter, it didn't do any good, because gods knew if he wasn't thinking about Lancelot, he'd just start thinking about everything that had happened after—Gwen's tear-streaked face, and the smoke from the funeral pyre in the courtyard filling his lungs, or the bowed heads of the knights, or—or everything that had happened after that—Uther's gloved hands clasped loosely over his motionless chest, his face still and pale and uncharacteristically peaceful as he breathed his last—and Arthur, eyes rimmed in red and narrowed in rage—pure evil, pure evil, pure evil, he'd called magic pure evil—and no matter how many times Merlin told himself he wouldn't think about it, he knew he'd never be able to forget those words, even if he lived for a thousand years.

Arthur had called magic pure evil.

And it was all because of him.

He'd been blind, so blind—so stupid, so painfully arrogant—believing he, and he alone, could bring about the predestined change in Arthur—play fate like a game, pushing everyone about the board like pawns, and all for—all for what? To fulfill his destiny? To save the man who would have gladly rent it apart, had he only known of its existence?

Blind. Stupid. Arrogant.

Selfish.

He'd been selfish.

He could have saved Lancelot. If he'd really wanted to, he could have stopped the whole thing—could have thrown him back from the veil, and gone charging through himself—could have tried to bring him back, could have offered himself in his friend's place, as he'd been intending to do with Arthur—a thousand and one roads he could have taken, and instead, he'd waited there where the path divided until it was too late to do anything at all, because he'd been scared, and selfish, and he'd wanted to live—

Selfish. He'd been selfish.

He could have saved Uther. If he'd tried hard enough. He'd sensed the dark magic surrounding the old king—a noxious black cloud, so thick it'd nearly suffocated him, and he—he hadn't realized. He'd been so selfish—so blinded by his hope and his fear, by his faith that this would set him free—

Free. Merlin could have laughed at the thought, if only it didn't hurt so much. Free. All those dreams he'd cherished of a world where the druids and sorcerers, the witches and warlocks, the spellbinders and the mages, walked the same streets as ordinary folk, those secret and beautiful hopes held so close to his traitorous, bleeding heart for so long, the wonderful, world-changing destiny he'd actually believed to be his—

He had been selfish, and he had been a fool.

His kind would never be free. He would never be free. He knew that now.

And Arthur—Arthur must never know the truth. Merlin must never tell him what had really been happening all these years. The secrets between them must never come to light. Albion must never be united.

Destiny must never be fulfilled.

Merlin's ribs gave another throb, so sudden and sharp, it pulled him at once back to the present. He leaned forward—suppressing a wince at the pain—and slowly shed his jacket, careful to avoid aggravating the wound any further. He untied his neckerchief, and—here came the hard part—reached for the hem of his tunic. Every movement, every breath, had his side putting up a fierce protest, but at last, he'd pulled the rough, scratchy cloth up over his head, and tossed it to the floor.

He'd have to pick it up, he realized belatedly, before he went up to bed—gods forbid Gaius wake up before him and see the bloodstained fabric strewn on the ground—it'd likely give the poor man a near heart attack—and he already had more than enough to be getting on with—he didn't need to know Merlin had gotten hurt again, especially not since Merlin could take care of it himself.

He sat up a little straighter in the chair—another wave of pain washing over him like water, but he was good at pressing his lips together and counting the seconds until it died down enough for him to think again—and looked down, gingerly probing the bloody gash with eyes and hands alike.

No poison—would have sensed it if there had been—and, from the looks of it, nothing important had been severed, either—that assassin may have known what he was doing with the knife, but he definitely hadn't been counting on facing a sorcerer—right, this wasn't too bad then. He'd be more than a little tender for the next few weeks, but it wasn't anything that he hadn't felt before—a damn sight better than those Serkets, that was for sure.

"Forbærning," he murmured, and the edges of the wound crawled, like two large, bizarre insects, closer and closer together, skin slowly but steadily sewing itself back up. There—that should do it—now he just needed to drag himself up the stairs and into bed, but he was just so tired—the warmth of the flames in the hearth, their soft crackles and pops, soothed and settled him—he slumped down a little farther in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed—just for a moment—just a moment—

The door flew open.

Thick wood crashed against solid stone, tearing through the silence like a sword, shattering it like glass—the world exploded with sound, a deafening burst so loud Merlin could scarcely fathom how Gaius didn't wake—he shot to his feet, one hand going up and out, magic thrumming and thrashing inside his veins—for barely half a moment, he could just make out a figure, tall and dark and indistinct—in the low light of the dying fire, it was impossible to see much more—and then the figure turned around, and they ran.

And Merlin ran after them.

He didn't stop to think about it—he didn't have to—he bolted across the room and through the door, out into the wide, airy stone corridor—blood pounding loudly in his ears and heart battering violently at his ribs and the thin soles of his worn-out boots slapping against the stones, and his magic burning and buzzing inside of him—for a second, he saw no one, and he stopped, but—there—just there—around the corner—the mud-spattered hem of a rich purple traveling cloak whipped just out of sight—recognition twitched, briefly, in the back of his mind—he knew that cloak—he quickened his pace—coming up on the corner now—just a few more moments and he'd be—

"Merlin?"

The sound that left his throat was somewhere, he was sure, between a cry and a curse—his heart gave a great bound in his chest, and he whirled round in an instant, hand rising on instinct, power already surging to life inside him—

"You all right there, Merlin?" Sir Leon stared back at him, brows pinched up in a tight, anxious line.

"I—" Merlin flushed, and dropped his hand. Right, okay, excuse—he needed an excuse—something to say, some way to explain—something that would help him get away—he realized, then, too late, that he still didn't have his shirt on. Oh, this was just getting better and better. "I—I was—" He floundered.

Leon raised his eyebrows, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he, obviously unsuccessfully, fought back a smile.

"—sleepwalking. I—I must have been sleepwalking. I do that. Sometimes." All right, so it wasn't perfect, but it was plausible, at least, and gods knew he'd fed Arthur much worse. Just last week, he'd mumbled something to do with scrub brushes and leech tanks, and the king-to-be hadn't bothered to press him.

"I see." Leon's brows rose, if possible, even farther—he could take over for Gaius if he kept this up—and he must have lost the battle against his lips, because a grin settled on his face. He didn't look as though he believed a word. "Sleepwalking. Come on, then, I'll take you back to your chambers." Then, before Merlin could protest, or even think of a way to protest that wouldn't immediately arouse his friend's suspicion, the knight clapped a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, and steered him straight back the way he'd come.

"I—you don't have to do this, Leon, this really isn't necessary," Merlin tried to shrug off the strong fingers, without much success.

Leon just laughed. "It's all right. It's on the way to my own chambers anyway."

Before Merlin could say anything else, they stopped in front of Gaius' door, still open—the physician himself stood in the center of the room, in nothing but his nightshirt, his cot abandoned, the sheets rumpled, the blankets thrown back—the instant he spotted his ward, he arched his infamous brow.

Merlin flushed again—nearly six years since he'd come to Camelot, and with one glance, Gaius could make him feel like a child all over again.

"Sorry to disturb you, Gaius," Leon pushed his hair back from his face, and smiled at the older man, "just helping Merlin here get back to his room. Merlin," the knight added, lightly squeezing his shoulder, "get some rest, yeah?" He finally released his hold.

With a little nod to Gaius, and one last smile, Leon left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Merlin." It wasn't a question. Not really.

Merlin couldn't keep back a wince—if Gaius would just—just give him a moment—just a moment to gather his thoughts—just a moment to calm his whirling mind—the assassin in the woods and the figure in the doorway and how much had they seen and where had they gone and where were they now and what did they know and who were they going to tell and was there any way he could convince them to keep quiet and how was he even going to find them again and how was he going to figure out who they were and what, was he just supposed to keep an eye out for anyone wearing a purple cloak, and no, that was stupid, and what would Gaius say when he heard about all this and what would Gaius think when he heard about all this and—

No.

Merlin swallowed.

No, nothing had really—nothing had really happened, had it? And there was no sense in going around giving Gaius more things to worry about—he'd borne the burden of his ward's secrets far too long now—it wasn't fair for Merlin to try and add yet another weight to those aging, weary shoulders—

"Sleepwalking." Merlin stepped past his guardian, and started up the narrow stairway. The knot in his stomach tightened every single step of the way. "I was sleepwalking."

Sir Leon didn't wear a purple cloak.

Sir Leon didn't even like the color purple, and anyway, he'd shown up only seconds after the figure had disappeared down the next corridor—even with all his stealth and skill, he couldn't possibly have doubled back behind Merlin in the span of moments—and he wouldn't have done, anyway—Leon was, above all, a straightforward man. Had he seen Merlin, or anyone, using magic within the walls of Camelot, he would have confronted them straight-out—none of this sneaking around, and certainly no pretense.

Gwaine liked the color purple.

But—but he didn't wear a purple cloak, and the figure in the doorway was, by Merlin's split-second estimate at least, a few inches taller than the knight—and anyway, he was no less direct than Leon. He wouldn't have just run away from the situation—Gwaine never ran away from anything.

Couldn't have been Elyan, either—if the figure was taller than Gwaine, they were definitely taller than Elyan, the shortest of the group. Shorter than Percival, though, by at least a head, and nowhere near as broad—so Percival was out, too.

And it wasn't Arthur—there wasn't a doubt in Merlin's mind about that—three days it had been since he'd first seen the figure in the doorway, and Arthur hadn't acted any different—hadn't called for Merlin's execution—hadn't ordered a pyre to be built—hadn't locked him down in the dungeons or accused him of treason or betrayal—no, Arthur was absolutely out of the question.

That was the real problem here—Merlin could list absolutely everyone he knew it wasn't in the space of a single breath, but he hadn't the slightest clue as to who it was. And his stupid, overactive, hyper-vigilant, sleep-deprived mind was positively glorying in that—everywhere he looked, he could swear he saw the hem of a purple cloak flashing just out of sight or a dark, indistinct figure lurking down every hall—a faceless, terrifying sillehoutte, just waiting for the right moment to jump out and reveal his secret to anyone who would listen. The few times he'd slipped into sleep since that night, his slumber proved short-lived and easily broken, filled with further visions of the figure in the doorway—visions which usually ended with the scent of his own flesh burning in his nose, as he writhed and twisted helplessly on the pyre or, in the absolute worst version, with Arthur's devastated face as he suffered the pain of betrayal for the second time in as many years.

And it was easier to stay awake, anyway—easier than fighting a mind that wouldn't just shut up or shut down—easier than lying in bed, watching as the moonlight made narrow silver bars along his ceiling and wondering who had it had really been in the doorway that night, and what they were going to do with his secret now that they held it in their hands.

It could be anyone.

Merlin gazed again out over the long wooden tables, heart sinking rapidly at the thought—nearly half the kingdom had turned out for Arthur's coronation, and most had stuck around for the celebratory feast afterward—the dining hall stood packed wall-to-wall with nobles of every rank—Lord Rodney over at the far left table, already deep into his third goblet of wine, his cheeks turned ruddy from the drink—no, not him—too stocky—there was Gaius, a few seats down, caught up in conversation with Geoffrey—too rotund, and far too loyal to Camelot to keep silent on a matter like this—Sir Gaheris, and next to him, Sir Galahad—only recently knighted, and both far too short—and too zealously devoted to the pursuit against sorcery to let it alone had they seen him, besides—Sir Rowan, at the next table over, who seemed more interested in his plate than the present company—about the same height, but quite a bit thinner—across from him sat Lord Josef—much too old—

"Merlin?"

Merlin jumped, so badly he nearly dropped the pitcher in his hands—as it was, the wine within sloshed alarmingly—he felt a bit of it splash up over his fingers, but only distantly—when he wiped them dry on the front of his jacket, it was more instinctive than anything—he was a little busy at the moment, considering the man in front of him was—

"Lord Agravaine?"

"Ah—yes," Agravaine licked his lips—he didn't seem to know what he was doing. "Splendid feast, isn't it?"

"I—I suppose?" Merlin tried to keep the confusion out of his voice—tried not to let his feelings show on his face. "Did you—did you need something, Lord Agravaine?" He wrinkled his brow. "More wine?" He held the pitcher aloft—he didn't much like Agravaine—there was just something off about him—but Arthur had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he was to treat the lord with the greatest possible respect—and loathe as he always was to listen to Arthur, Merlin couldn't bring himself to make things any harder on his friend. Not now.

"Oh—oh, no," Agravaine seemed almost startled by the offer—likely not looking for any favors, then, but it wasn't like he ever took notice of a servant otherwise. "Er, no. Thank you, Merlin." He swallowed, and plucked a piece of lint off one luxurious velvet sleeve.

Thank you?

No, that wasn't right—Agravaine never bothered to thank anyone so far beneath him—and he hadn't kept his disdain for Merlin a secret, not by any means—spent every council meeting staring at him with the strangest expression on his face—always stepped a little closer when they passed in the corridors, just enough to ensure their shoulders brushed—Arthur always seemed conveniently blind to it—

"I—er—" Agravaine licked his lips again and, in the light of a thousand candles, burning on every table, Merlin could see sweat glistening brightly on his pale forehead. "—Merlin, I should like a word with you, if you please."

"A—" Merlin shifted his pitcher from one hand to the other and took a small step back. "—a word?" Unease pricked at him, and he tightened his grip on the pitcher in his hands—what would Lord Agravaine want with him?

"Not here," Agravaine added—he threw a glance over his shoulder, and he didn't seem to like what he saw. "Perhaps we could take this somewhere more private?"

"I—" Another jolt of unease, stronger this time, melting to a thick, sour pool in the pit of his stomach—but—but Lord Agravaine looked—desperate— "—I have to attend to Arthur." Yes—Arthur—he seized gratefully upon the excuse—Agravaine wouldn't dare get in the way of his new king—

"Wait." Oh. Well, apparently he would, considering he'd just stepped in front of Merlin, and planted himself there like he didn't plan on moving anytime soon. "You must hear this—Merlin, you must—it—" Agravaine seemed to hesitate, then come to a split-second decision—he leaned forward very suddenly, and so close, his lips brushed Merlin's ear. "—It has to do with Arthur."

Arthur.

An awful chill swept over Merlin, insides flooding with something like ice—his blood froze in his veins, throat choked with frost.

It had to be something to do with Morgana—or maybe it was a new threat entirely—maybe the Saxons to the north—he'd been hearing things about them—or maybe it was something to do with Mordred—

Merlin clenched his jaw. "Lead the way."

Without another word, Agravaine turned and strode from the hall—Merlin kept pace easily, barely half a step behind, his mind a thousand miles ahead of the rest of him—it could be just another run-of-the-mill rogue sorcerer, out for revenge—it could be another king, seeking to seize Arthur's lands while he was still untested and inexperienced—or maybe that assassin in the Darkling Woods had an accomplice—maybe Morgana had a mole in the kingdom, and Agravaine had found out who it was—or maybe—

Agravaine drew to a stop before a massive, polished oak door—he slowly twisted the gleaming brass handle set in the shining wood, and threw it open, motioning for Merlin to follow him inside. He'd really meant it then, when he'd said somewhere more private—couldn't get much more private than his bedchamber.

Merlin stepped, a little warily, over the threshold, eyes sweeping every corner of the room—he'd been in here before, of course—one of the perks of being a servant—he could generally wander where he wished with little suspicion—but he hadn't gotten a good look before Elyan had passed by and spotted him—told him if he didn't get down to the training field, Arthur was likely to make him be the target—

The thought of Arthur dragged him from his musings, and he turned to face Agravaine—the lord had, without his notice, somehow, come up behind him and closed the door.

Merlin felt the back of his neck prickle, but he didn't protest—he had to know what the other man knew about Arthur, and he wouldn't get anywhere if he dragged things out.

"Oh, please, sit," Agravaine turned away from the door to face him, fingers still wrapped round the knob—he gestured to the flawless ebony desk in the center of the room, and the handsome, cushioned chairs pushed up on either side of it. "Make yourself comfortable."

Merlin followed his gaze and—

—he froze.

Agravaine was still standing between him and the door.

And draped over the back of the nearest chair was a rich purple traveling cloak.

Notes: HUZZAH this idea has been on my mind for literally EVER and I only just now got around to writing it because I'm a lazy bastard. Oh, God, it's been so long since I actually wrote a multi-chapter fic. am I vibrating.