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Merlin didn't want to think anymore.
Everything was hurting. There wasn't an inch of him that didn't ache in some way, that wasn't tingling with a burn or stinging from a cut, dripping with crimson liquid. He'd bitten down on his lips so many times trying not to scream (it didn't help) that it too was in pain, all fleshy and puffy from the skin being ripped off by his teeth. He'd tried earlier to wipe away all the tears that blurred his vision, but he later decided that not seeing what was happening to him might've been better.
He breathed in, though slight, knowing that if he breathed in too far, another wave of nausea and agony would overtake him. Not that it didn't hurt to breathe on its own, but Merlin would much rather take the lesser of the two. His body was weary and he wanted so desperately to sleep, to fall away into his dreams and pretend that none of this was happening, that he wasn't enduring this sick, sick torture from the one person he'd loved above everyone else. He wanted to go back to pretending that nothing was wrong, that all was well in Albion, that this wasn't happening.
He regretted viciously trying to kill Arthur himself. How had he ever believed that it would've worked? Arthur was a trained knight, the best in all the land. There was no way Merlin would've gotten past his defenses, with or without that atrocious amulet.
Merlin really wanted to know who made it for him, because he certainly didn't, but then he felt the sinking feeling of dread settle into his already uncomfortable stomach, knowing the sorcerer in question was probably already dead. It would be like Arthur—no, he amended quickly. It would be like this vile creature who called himself Arthur to do that.
A hand grabbed him by the wrist, already covered in bruises, and squeezed. Merlin had long given up the game of trying to pretend that he wasn't affected and cried out, knowing that it didn't matter. He'd also long given up trying to fight against him. His magic was practically useless against him and Arthur by far overpowered him in a physical struggle.
“I'm growing tired of your disobedience,” Arthur said lazily, digging his thumb nail into the already sensitive skin. “I know I've enjoyed your stubbornness in the past, but this is just ridiculous.”
Merlin tried to scoff, because he was being ridiculous, not him, but his breath came out as a pained wheeze. He deflated, and instead of answering his king, he took to trying to remain in a conscious state.
Breathe in, he thought to himself, sucking a breath. Breathe out.
“All you have to do,” Arthur growled, the predatory look in his eyes flickering again. He clenched down harder on his wrist and used his free hand to tilt his chin up. “Is give me a name. And all the pain will stop. There's no need to protect them, you know. They wouldn't do it for you.”
They would, Merlin wanted to say, but his mind couldn't form the words. He knew that if he tried to speak his words would come out in slurs, and really, where would that get him?
It was cruel, Merlin thought, as his eyes drifted down to the knife, glittering on the floor where Arthur had placed it, just out of reach. It's not as if he would use it anyway, not after the horrible encounter with the amulet still around his neck, but it still felt like a terrible irony that the very weapon he had meant to kill Arthur with would probably kill him as well.
He laughed, inwardly. Oh, if only Arthur were so merciful. He won't kill him. Merlin knew this. He didn't know why he even entertained the notion otherwise. Arthur was never going to let him go.
So this was his fate.
Destiny, he grimaced, letting his eyelids shut briefly. Yeah, this is some destiny.
Bad move. He should have known it would be a bad idea to close his eyes, daring to tear his gaze from his tormentor. Merlin didn't know when Arthur's hand had moved away from his face, but it did, obviously, because a few seconds later, he felt the knife slice through the tender flesh of his thigh.
He didn't hold back. He screamed, hand instinctively moving to grasp at the affected area. Blood poured through his fingers, and he sucked in a deep breath, sending a shock up his chest. Tears welled in his eyes, brain flooded with the sensory overload. He sobbed quietly to himself, his leg throbbing along with the rest of him.
“It was all me!” Merlin shrieked, as if he hadn't said it a hundred times before. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he blubbered mindlessly, voice cracking on each syllable.
“It wasn't,” Arthur insisted, gritting his teeth. “Your impudence isn't endearing, darling. Now, I ask again, who put you up to this?”
Merlin just cried brokenly, shaking his head. Gods be, trying to kill Arthur was the worst decision he'd ever made. Now he was being punished for it, destiny paying him back for his infraction, for his misstep.
“For the life of me, I can't work out why you're protecting them,” Arthur hummed, before sinking the knife into the opposite leg. Merlin cried out again, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The cuts and stabs appeared haphazard, but to a trained eye, they were deliberate—never hitting anything terribly vital, but enough to cause a hell of a lot of pain.
Merlin vainly wished he could make his entire body numb, could make himself relaxed, and boneless. But his mind was too jumbled with pain and agony and the act of staying awake that he didn't think he could form a coherent spell if he tried.
“Maybe this will help,” Arthur went on, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “Let's picture this. If you don't tell me which of my knights told you to kill me, I'll kill every single one of the them in turn. Don't think I won't, Merlin. Treason is a capital offense, and I cannot allow it to fester within my walls. Because it only takes one, pet. It only takes the seed of an idea before a rebellion is formed. It only takes one, and I could be usurped. We don't want that, do we?”
Merlin whimpered helplessly. Arthur's grin was feral, knowing he'd struck a nerve. “I'll line them all up, shooting them down where they stand, one by one, letting each of them fall, you, helpless to stop me. And if that's not enough, if you won't tell me, the remaining ones will swing from the hangman's noose. Surely you don't want them to die like that, Merlin? Something so dishonorable, a peasant's death? Surely you wouldn't betray them all, just to protect the life of one man?”
In a hypothetical situation, or even a state of war, Arthur was being kind. The notion seemed absurd, but Arthur was offering him a choice. Choose one, and save everyone else. Pick one to die, and let everyone else live. For however long that would be, they would live a little longer if Merlin incriminated one.
But how was Merlin to choose? How was Merlin to decide who would die? All of the knights had families, had lives, had loves and dreams, and how could Merlin decide who to take all of that away from? It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair to any of them. They shouldn't be punished for his own transgressions.
He choked out another sob, shaking his head. He couldn't do it. He would find a way to save everyone, but he couldn't, he couldn't be responsible for choosing who would die.
“Merlin, you are making me angry,” Arthur said lowly, and he was too close, too close to him, and Merlin just wanted to die right then and there. He just wanted to snap his own neck and be done with it. Maybe he'd seen Gwaine along the way.
Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh, before he took one of Merlin's hands, his gripping it, though not too tightly. It was just tight enough, to where if Merlin tried to pull away, he wouldn't be able to, but it was loose enough to not be uncomfortable. Arthur took his pointer finger carefully, and Merlin, confused, didn't quite know what to make of it. Though, warning bells were ringing in his mind that this couldn't be good, Arthur met his gaze, and without tearing his eyes away, he thrust the appendage backwards.
There may not have been a snap audible in the quiet room, but by all the Gods, Merlin felt the snap. He howled in agony, yanking his hand away on reflex, but Arthur held firm, pressing his thumb roughly against his now broken finger. The pain seared through hand, fresh tears dripping over and down his cheeks. He let out a broken whimper.
“Who?” he snarled, and Merlin couldn't take it anymore.
“Kay!” he wailed, using the first name he could think of. “It was Kay! He was good friends with Gwaine, they used to drink together all the time. He came to me and asked me to do it, because Gwaine was my friend too. He told me that Gwaine didn't deserve it. He played on my loyalty to my friends--!”
Merlin was breathing hard now, the words slipping out quicker than he could catch them. His whole body was shaking with tremors, his cheeks wet and tear stained, eyes red. Everything was hurting him and he just wanted to sleep.
He hoped Arthur would kill him, now. He prayed to every God he could think of that Arthur would just be merciful to him, that he would let him go. Anything would be better than this.
But Arthur surprised him. He relinquished the pressure on his broken finger, allowing Merlin to sigh in temporary relief before the pains of the rest of his body reclaimed him. He kept crying pitiful little moans, not even caring how pathetic he must look anymore. He slowly registered the fact that Arthur was moving away from him, taking the knife with him.
Part of him was grateful for that, but the other part was terrified of what was to come next. Did Arthur not believe him? Did he want another answer? He closed his eyes, letting his head swim, not caring, beyond the will to even pay attention.
He was vaguely aware of Arthur coming back a beat later, the sound of his boots returning to his side. Merlin opened his eyes and Arthur knelt down in front of him, and through his bleary gaze, Merlin noticed him popping the cork on a bottle. The smell of it hit him seconds after, and for all the years of living with Gaius, he recognized the sharp odor of it as the salve often used for sword injuries.
Carefully, Arthur tore away the already sliced parts of his trousers, before dumping a bit of the salve onto his fingers. He coated the fingers before reaching out, and rubbing it to the many cuts and stabs adoring his thigh. It stung, and Merlin hissed, self-preservation kicking into overdrive. He tried to scoot away, shoving weakly at him, knowing that Arthur could very well cause him even more pain, but the king surprised him by hushing him gently, stilling him with a hand on his shoulder.
“It's okay, love,” he whispered, continuing to rub the paste on his leg. “We don't want these to get infected, now do we?”
Merlin just stared, gaze flickering back and forth between his face and his wound.
Arthur drew away for a moment, before picking up the bandages he must've brought with him. He eased Merlin's leg up gently, tying the bandage around his leg tightly. Merlin winced, and Arthur hushed him again. He repeated this on all of Merlin's injuries, throughout his body, while Merlin just gawked at him, completely confused by the turn of events.
As if finally recognizing Merlin's bewilderment, Arthur explained, “Oh, pet. Do you think I wanted to hurt you? Of course not. Hurting you like that pained me almost as much as it pained you. But sometimes, as a king, I must do what it takes to keep my kingdom safe. And that includes keeping it away from those who seek to remove me from my throne. And from those who would try to turn you against me.”
His eyes softened, and for a second, Merlin saw the Arthur he knew and loved. “But don't worry. The threat will be done away with just as soon as I finish up with you.”
Merlin's heart seized with panic, thinking that Arthur was going to get rid of him now, after luring him into a false sense of security by patching him up, but instead, Arthur shifted, easily undoing the strings on his boots. He tugged them carefully off his feet, making sure that he didn't jerk on his leg too roughly. Wrapping an arm around his back, he hooked the other underneath his legs, and cradled Merlin to his chest gently as if he were something fragile, something precious that he needed to keep safe. Hoisting him up, he walked the length of the room, before easing the warlock down onto the bed, brushing a bit of the hair from his face as he did so.
Needless to say, he was very confused. But Arthur pressed a finger to his lips, silencing any questions.
“Rest now, darling,” Arthur smiled, and it was so warm and loving, that Merlin couldn't help but feel comforted by it. “It's going to be alright.”
He had a feeling it was going to be the farthest thing from alright. But his body, weary and worn-out from the torment Merlin had just put it through, his eyelids felt heavy. The soft blankets enveloping him, and under the strain and stress of the night, he succumbed to sleep.
Merlin fell into darkness, but dreamed of smoke and hollow eyes as fire flickered inside them.