"I shall live forever and ever and ever!" he cried grandly. "I shall find out thousands and thousands of things. I shall find out about people and creatures and everything that grows – like Dickon – and I shall never stop making Magic!"

Frances Hodgson Burnett, "The Secret Garden"

Shadows quivered on the wall as the candle's flame flickered wildly, and then abruptly diminished to nothing. The court physician startled in the sudden darkness and, feeling silly, he had to take a moment to recover before he began reaching around in the darkness to find another. He tried to ignore the niggling voice in the back of his head that was telling him it was time to go to bed, time to give up, time to salvage what little of his sanity remained, but he fought against his heavy eyes regardless and continued on.

Gaius was a very tolerant man. He had to deal with many things almost every day which tested his patience: people playing down their injuries to appear impressive, people exaggerating their illnesses to draw the attention of those around them, and sometimes, people for whom he could do nothing but carry out tests and hope for the best by hitting at blind spots, simply because there was no other explanation. Admittedly those times were extremely rare – he was a talented man and he didn't deny it because after all, he was the court physician.

Tonight, however, was one of those instances where there was no explanation for anything, and Gaius would be damned before he let himself fall asleep on his weary feet.

He watched the fresh candle burn for a few moments and idly wondered how long it would be until he would have to light a new one, before he pushed himself back to his desk. He resumed crushing herbs and the bad end of a toad in the clay bowl in a very particular manner, all with a fixed frown on his face. The mixture was slowly turning into a thick, sickly green paste, and Gaius chastised himself for having to pause and contemplate how much water he needed to add. He couldn't use water from the pale he had collected from the well – it had too many other things in there that would disrupt the balance... He needed... he needed...

He needed a bloody miracle. That was what he needed.

Gaius fell backwards onto the edge of his seat and dropped his head into his hands with a sigh.

Arthur Pendragon's only hope of survival was slipping out of his grasp. The young prince was inches from death, and he was absolutely helpless.

He couldn't find anything specifically wrong with the boy. The Prince was only displaying symptoms, and each of them were killing him. It was as if he had a part of every child disease known to Camelot and to Gaius himself – Gaius, who had seen and done so much, who had saved sorcerers and Dragonlords and who had smuggled babies out of Camelot's walls right under his sovereign's nose!

The old man felt sick. He could not cure Arthur, and Uther, who had lost so much in gaining him, would lose his only heir. Gaius feared that in the end it would be deemed his fault when his friend began holding it against him.

He looked across to his work. The thick, green paste had already lost its vivid colour and was now a murky yellow. Gaius had hesitated for too long. He sighed again. The only thing he could do was to make a cordial to ease the child's passing, and he didn't want to do it.

But before he could even consider standing up to clear the table and begin his work, Sir Baethan burst into his quarters like a whirlwind, disturbing the quiet of the night.

"The King has requested your presence," the tall knight said, taking in the haggard appearance of the physician before him, and Gaius swore he saw pity in the man's eyes.

He knew that it wasn't a matter of requesting – more ordering – and he rose slowly from his chair and inclined for Baethan to unnecessarily lead the way.

It was a slow, quiet walk. Gaius had walked the castle corridor's many times in the dead of night, but none of them had been such a dark and sombre march as this one, so filled with dread and despair.

When they climbed the stairs and came to Arthur's closed doors, Baethan paused for only a second to open one side for the old man, and then he walked away again to resume his position far end of the hall. No other was permitted to pass.

Gaius seemed to steady himself before entering.

"Gaius, he's worse," Uther murmured brokenly before Gaius had a chance to open his mouth. The King was clasping one of his son's tiny hands in his, gazing down with haunted eyes. "Have you found anything?"

Gaius chose his words carefully, but opted to check Arthur's vitals before answering. It was a futile attempt to prove the King wrong as he peered under the prince's eyelids and let a hand hover above his forehead for a few seconds. The boy was still running a fever, worse than only an hour ago, even with Uther doing as Gaius had ordered by mopping his brow frequently, because Gaius knew that the King needed to do something in a desperate bid to feel useful.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do, my Lord," Gaius said softly, preparing to brace himself for the expected reaction.

It came, right on cue. "What do you mean, nothing?" Uther demanded, staring vehemently up at the old man from his son's beside with a newborn energy.

"Arthur... Sire, it's just... symptoms."

"Don't be so ridiculous, Gaius. He can't just have symptoms. What are causing them?"

Gaius grimaced as he placed Arthur's other hand down by his lifeless side after checking for the strength of his pulse. The boy's eyes were flickering restlessly and unseeingly under his eyelids, and it was almost unnerving.

"I have tried everything."

"You haven't done enough!" Uther roared, rising from his place. "Your incompetence will cost him his life!"

Gaius could only stare back at the King and hold his ground. He was one of the few who could take Uther's rage and not take it as personal insult, even if it was intended as such. "I can only ease his passing."

"You mean to kill him quicker?"

"No, sire, but Arthur is suffering," Gaius explained patiently, yet again. And then he said something only a brave man would in front of Uther Pendragon, pulling on the reserves of his dwindling energy. "The magic is beyond me."

There was a lengthy pause, only filled with the sound of young Arthur's laboured breathing before Uther resumed his seat by his son and begun trembling quietly.

"I've considered it," he said finally, and Gaius had to fight to hide the surprised which had momentarily taken control of his face.

The two had never spoken openly of their fears. Gaius, because he feared the reaction and what would be asked of him, knowing it would be out of his control, and Uther, because he didn't want to admit that magic had yet again infiltrated the city walls and attacked what he held so dear.

"You have... researched?" Uther asked, his voice suddenly carefully quiet and hesitant.

"I can promise you that it was the very first thing I did, sire."

The King cradled his only son's tiny hand in his for a while longer, his touch hesitant like he feared it would shatter Arthur's bones, and he found he could do nothing but nod.

Gaius excused himself and headed back to his quarters, barely realising that his pace was much, much slower than before. He didn't want to go back and muster the strength to make the cordial, even if it were to help the only heir to Camelot die peacefully as he so deserved, but the man found himself there anyway.

Disclaimer: Merlin is (was, I say with a sob as I begin editing) produced by Shine Television for the BBC, and belongs to creators Julian Jones, Jake Michie, Julian Murphy and Johnny Capps.

A/N: Despite edits which should have been cracked on with before writing a sequel, Children of Camelot is very much the same and I hope that it remains as enjoyable as I dreamed it to be when starting in 2011.