A/N:

So, after months of lurking around here, reading all your great fics, and submitting reviews, I've finally gathered the courage to publish one of my own. It's probably not very good, or original, but the guilt at getting so much pleasure from reading everyone else's work, but not reciprocating, has been eating away at me, so here goes!

Please don't feel you have to review, and if you do, you don't need to spare me your criticism, just to be nice, because it's my first time...I'm a big girl, and I can take it :O)

Anyone who's had a review from me will probably know that I'm a huge fan of whump, angst and bromance (or 'whangmance', as one such recipient suggested, LOL). So expect plenty of that here.

Spoilers: This takes place during season 4 - some time after 'The Secret Sharer', but before 'Lancelot du Lac'.

Warning: Suicide, self-harm, gorey injuries and swearing (hope I got the rating right - if not, please give me a nudge).

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Merlin. If I did, I would buy Colin Morgan, and keep him in my wardrobe...

The Shadows I Live with are Numberless

Chapter 1

Arthur looked up, as he heard the door to his chambers creak open slowly. Before he saw who it was (though he could have easily hazarded a guess; only one person was due to pay a visit to his chambers at that time of the evening, and that same person also never followed the common courtesy of knocking) he heard the crash of something metal and heavy as it hit the floor. It was followed, a second later, by another metallic crash and then another. Arthur rolled his eyes and was about to get up, to prevent any further clanging from drawing unwanted, guard-type attention, when a bony rear end backed hastily into his room, followed by a bent back and untidy mop of black hair. The blue tunic on the young man's back was stretched taut; his arms wrapped around and chin resting on the peak of a small mountain of what Arthur surmised to be his recently-polished armour. Each fine-boned, pale-skinned hand held one of the pieces that had fallen to the floor, in the servant's failed attempt to cart the shining metal plates all the way from the armoury in one go (in all likelihood, because he had left it too late to do so in more than one trip).

Without looking up, or even trying to work out where the table was – he had done this chore enough times to be able to follow a mental map of where he was going - the young man unceremoniously dumped the pile of armour on it, with a resounding clatter. One of the poleyns rolled onto the floor, followed by a pauldron. The dark-haired man stooped immediately, and with a heavy sigh, to pick them up and replace them on the wooden surface. He mumbled something that sounded like "sorry, sire", but still did not raise his eyes to meet those of his master.

Arthur frowned. Anyone witnessing the scene would have wrongly assumed that he did this as a result of his manservant's tardiness and clumsiness. In actual fact, the King hardly paid these traits any attention, after six years of enduring the other man's incurable incompetence, except when he felt the need to verbally spar with him for amusement. What had come to his notice, however, with an increasing - and therefore worrying - frequency over the past month, were the marked changes to the servant's appearance and behaviour. The strangely pleasant ribaldry they once partook of, had become first more forced, then less frequent, and now even one-sided (on Arthur's part), as each day passed. His manservant rarely gave any retorts to the King's jibes anymore and - as was the case again this evening - seemed to be making an effort to not meet his eye.

Something's not right. Something is VERY not right. Something has been not right for some time, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. I mean, he's only a servant, isn't he? I can't be seen to care about the wellbeing of a mere servant, can I? And anyway, he'll only deny there's anything wrong again, won't he?

"Merlin, is everything...alright?"

"M'fine, sire."

See! Told you. Does he think I'm stupid or something? It's pretty bloody obvious he's anything BUT fine.

Arthur pondered for a moment on how his frien- servant's demeanour had so drastically altered. The irritating smile had lingered for a while, though it became more and more detached from his eyes. Then it had just disappeared altogether, along with any hint of laughter. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time he had heard anything more than a bare mumble or grunt uttered from the other man's lips. When their eyes did meet – if only for a couple of seconds, before the servant's gaze was once more down-turned – his eyes were dull; the stormy-blue faded to dead fish grey, surrounded by circles of flesh that darkened further, daily. His cheeks – always on the too-thin side anyway – were now ridiculously hollowed; his skin sallow, almost grey. His shoulders had become so hunched and his back slumped, he could almost be sprouting a small hump. In short, the man looked ill.

When did he last sleep, or eat? He looks like he's a stone's throw away from passing out. Surely he would have said something, if he wasn't able to keep up with the chores I give him? It's not like Merlin to refrain from complaining about every task he was given, no matter that it was his job to do whatever his master asked him to. Come to think of it, he hadn't done that in a while. The most reaction he got these days was a sigh or a pursed lip and then the man just got on with it...albeit slowly. Okay, I agreed with the others that I would try and get him to talk. But how to start the conversation? I've tried the 'concerned employer' approach, and all he does is lie, most likely so he can end the conversation. What usually gets more of a reaction from him? Maybe...

"Merlin, you're late. And where's my dinner?" Yeah, great - that ought to do it...idiot!

"I.I...sorry, sire," came the stuttered reply and rolled shoulder shrug; eyes glued to the floor. Arthur couldn't fail to miss the slight wince that flashed across the younger man's features, before he schooled his expression into the blank mask he had taken to wearing, when being issued with his master's demands, over the last few weeks.

Before Arthur could stop him or soften his, in hindsight, not very conversation-inducing words, the pale-faced man was heading out the door. The King thought he caught a "Be right back" slung over his servant's shoulder, before he was alone and gawping at the empty doorway.

Stupid! Stupid idiot! How was insulting him, and giving him more work going to make him talk? You really are the proud prat he used to accuse you of being! I am so not good at doing this sort of thing.

Arthur sighed and sat back down at his table. His mind was still churning with admonishments and dark thoughts a quarter of an hour later, when Merlin returned; a good deal quieter this time. The knock at the door drew Arthur back to the present, for its alien feel. Since when had he started knocking? How could I have been so blind to these changes in him? Aren't I his frie...master?

"Enter," he said calmly, though his thoughts were far from being so.

Holding the heaving tray against his slight frame, the manservant shoved the door open with his free hand, before shuffling across to the table, and quietly placing it before the King. Though Arthur had pointedly stared at him the entire distance across the room, Merlin had not looked up once, his head hanging like a beaten dog. Relieved of his burden, he immediately began moving around the untidy room, picking up discarded clothing and righting knocked-over items, with a dragging non-committedness that only served to irritate the King further with each passing minute.

Arthur started picking at the food on the tray unenthusiastically, all the while stealing glances at the younger man's face, trying to fathom what could possibly be driving his servant's dour mood. Eventually, he threw the seemingly sour-tasting drumstick back down on the plate, with a dull thud and a heavy sigh; his appetite had evaporated.

"Alright, Merlin, this has gone far enough," he said, glaring at the dark-haired man, as if by doing so he could forcibly draw the shadowed eyes to his own. "I am ordering you to tell me what's wrong. And don't you dare tell me you're fine - again - as you and I both know this couldn't be further from the truth!"

Merlin hesitated by the bed, where he had been smoothing the covers flat, with uncharacteristic fastidiousness. After a few seconds, his hands resumed their unnecessary sheet taming. No part of his body betrayed the fact that he was even aware there was someone else in the room, watching him.

"Did you hear what I said?" Arthur could feel the ire rising in his veins, like a well-stoked furnace, and had to take a deep breath and then another, to prevent his voice and face from displaying his anger.

Merlin picked up a half-eaten apple from the bedside table, and placed it in the bucket he had left by the cupboard earlier. He paused. "I'm f...there's nothing wrong, sire." He picked up the bucket, and began to move towards the door, his eyes dull and staring resolutely straight ahead.

"Damn it, Merlin," Arthur stood up and exploded, his fist hitting the table so that the knife and fork clanged resoundly. Merlin stopped mid-step, and gasped lightly. "What kind of a clotpole do you take me for?" He waited a couple of seconds, hoping his bait would be picked up by his serv...friend, damn it, friend, and lead to the resumption of their erstwhile witty banter. He frowned as the silence continued, and decided to plough on ahead. "You don't talk to or look at me anymore. You're getting thinner by the day, and you weren't exactly fat to start with, and even a prat of a King can see that you're not sleeping." He sighed, and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. Merlin had placed his foot back on the floor, but otherwise stood statue-like on the same spot, half-way across the chamber to the door.

"And I'm not the only one to notice, you know," Arthur continued. At this, Merlin did raise his head, and look at him for the briefest of moments, before lowering his gaze again to the floor, as if his neck couldn't take the weight any longer. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, so Arthur persisted with his line of attack. "Gwen, Percival, Gwaine...hell, even one of the stable boys mentioned it the other day...they've all noticed the change in you. And they're all worried. What is going on? Is someone hurting you or threatening to?" A small head shake - barely perceptible, and would have been missed if he hadn't been glaring so intently at the dark haired head. "Then what? Is it girl trouble?"

He expected a smirk, maybe or a derisive snort at this, but all he got was a whispered "No." Arthur sat down again, and folded his hands on the table, to stop himself from clenching his fists with frustration at Merlin's lack of co-operation, when he was doing his damnedest to be so sympathetic. Didn't he realise how difficult this was for him? He'd always been terrible at emotional stuff - that was a girl thing, wasn't it? If he was bothered about anything, an hour with one of the practice dummies soon took care of it. And if it didn't, then he certainly didn't dwell on it as long as Merlin was doing, on whatever was bothering him. But then he had always been a bit of a moody wimp.

Taking a calming breath, he decided to take another line of pursuit. "It's me, isn't it?"

Merlin looked over his shoulder at this, and held his gaze for the first time in he couldn't remember how long. "Sire?" His voice was hoarse, as if he was on the verge of tears, and desperately trying to stop them from flowing.

"I knew it! You think I'm being too tough on you, giving you too much to do, don't you?" No reply. "Look, I know I can be a bit of a task master sometimes, but honestly, you only had to say something. You know I could give you the afternoon off here or there or perhaps get someone to help out. I'd even put up with George's brass fixations for half a day, if it would get you to stop moping," he paused, holding the hopeful smile on his face for a moment, but on seeing it had failed to draw a matching one on his companion's features, the sullen frown quickly fell back into place.

Arthur released a heavy sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache coming on. He looked up at the still-stationary form. "Please, Merlin, I..that is we just want to help. Can't you talk to me about it, whatever the problem is? I promise I won't laugh."

He watched his manservant intently for what seemed like an age. Saw the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his fists, the way he held his breath for just that second longer than normal, before forcing it out his nose like a bull about to charge. For a minute, Arthur thought Merlin was about to open up to him, even if it was to rant and rage...he didn't care - anything was a vast improvement on clammed-up nothingness. But then Merlin grimaced and closed his eyes slowly, shaking his head.

"What about if you talk to someone else - Gwen, Gaius, Gwaine...anyone?" he threw his hands in the air in frustration, feeling horribly like wrapping them around the scrawny man's neck and squeezing some sense into his stupid, stubborn head. He should have known he'd be the wrong choice as the one to confront Merlin. He had been the least of various evils. Gwen had been too nervous about making things worse; Elyan was of the opinion that Merlin just needed time and he would snap out of it; while Gwaine's only offer had been to take Merlin to the nearest tavern and get him blindingly drunk for an evening.

Merlin took a deep breath, and then took on a stiff, servile stance, his hands clenching on the sides of the bucket, "Will that be all, Sire?" he intoned, monotonously.

Arthur gave a huge sigh of defeat and flicked the fingers of his right hand in a subconscious gesture of dismissal, looking down at the barely touched food on his plate. "Yes," he grunted in reply. Merlin scooted forwards, not bothering to hide his desperation to escape the icy atmosphere in the room, and his master's unwanted grilling. The door closed quietly in his wake, and Arthur slumped into the back of his chair, his fingers laced together in his lap, a heavy crease marring his forehead.

"Bugger it!" he cursed under his breath.