Author's Note: Hi! Thank you all so much for reading, tagging and/or reviewing this story! I appreciate all of you lovely people! :D *hugs* Please don't hesitate to try to kill me with your awesomely supportive reviews. LOL! Seriously 10 reviews and new tags in the previous chapter? I freaking love you.

Isn't this awesome? I actually updated a story within a three months' time, quite a feat, if you ask me. :D Here's the last chapter! 4000 words. I hope you liked and enjoyed IFFY. Ooh, that sounds like a nickname! Iffy... hi Iffy. How are you, iffy?

*audience rolls eyes* Okay, I'll stop. :P

So, I hope it's not too OOC. Keeping them in character is probably one of my weakest points, next to updating on time, of course. *sighs, rolls eyes at self* There's bromance galore, sort-of-a-cuddle somewhere in there. Blame Laree England for that, seriously. She's like, the Queen of Bromance Galore Stories or something, and she's my writing role model. Because if I feel like my writing is going awful and rusty, I rush over to her stories and observe how to write awesomely. LOL! Hence a little copy-catting of a scene, and also a bit of a Supernatural one. *sheepish* If any of you watch the show, you'll know which one. :D

Is it me or is my writing a bit like a mad, nonsensical babbling? I don't know why I feel that way with my stories.

I hope you readers enjoy this! No flamers allowed. Constructive advice is welcome though! :)

Chapter Three

"Today's the day when my mother died," he began quietly, his heart pounding in his throat. He immediately sensed Merlin's gaze on him, listening with all his unwavering and undivided attention.

Because he always listened to him, no matter what... though his commands and orders were another matter entirely.

"Every year on this day, ever since her loss... this is what became of him," he continued softly. "He'd be irritable throughout the whole day, snapping at everyone and anyone he could. Mostly the servants though. It's why they'd be keeping one eye to their surroundings, making sure to get out of his sight before he laid his own on them when he enters. Or to get out of his way whenever he passes through, or else they'd be in for nothing good...

And who could blame them? If he's too furious, he just might send them off for a few floggings. I try to stop those as much as I could, but even I could only do so much. He's a stubborn man, you know? Once he sets his mind to something, he will never back away from it... no matter how wrong. It's why they make sure to stay away, because they know that once they get into trouble with him, there's no hope of getting out of it.

After all, how can they even expect to when, sometimes, he wouldn't even spare his own son from his rage?"

"Wait... did... did he ever hit you?" Merlin inquired suddenly at that, back straightening and muscles tensing subconsciously, one eyebrow pulled down while the other raised in question and curiosity.

"That's not the point," Arthur answered dismissively, and Merlin had probably gotten his answer because he looked horrified and disgusted, but he ignored it and then went on once again, "he's just grievous, sorrowful. But he is known to convert those kinds of emotions into fury and hate... it's just much easier that way, I guess. Far easier to show.

He'd be drinking away his sorrows in his chambers from the evening until nightfall, missing dinner. He had never really invited me and Morgana for dinner before on this day. He'd just pass out in his rooms. I don't know why he did that, probably just an excuse, looking for someone else to take out his emotions on..." Arthur trailed off at that, his nostrils flared and his lower lip jutting out slightly and his chin crinkling like it did whenever he was upset and angry, and his contrite voice became quiet with guilt, "I guess that someone turned out to be you...

And I'm... I'm really sorry for that, Merlin."

And Merlin was shocked into silence at the apology. Arthur never said the word 'sorry', even when he was supposed to, he didn't. It was always sarcastic, never a genuine and sincere one that, he won't deny, he had often yearned to hear from him, for every instance he didn't believe him, for all the times he had treated him so harshly, made him feel like he was nothing but an idiotic servant to him whom he barely cared about. But now that he did, despite that it was for nothing of his own doing...

Merlin had no idea what to say, or how to react. He was speechless. Stupefied and uncertain of what to say.

When he finally found his voice, his tone and his eyes softening and filling with fondness for the prince, he replied lowly, his voice and slight smile affectionate with brotherly love, "It... it's not your fault."

"But it is, in a way. I... I should have protected you. I should have kept you safe and... I should have looked out for you. I should have stopped - "

"Wait a minute..." Merlin cut into his rambling, shaking his head as his eyebrows furrowed. "What are you on about, Arthur? It's not your responsibility to do any of that. And besides, your job is to protect your people, not your servant."

"I... I just... I don't know!" Arthur exclaimed, his tone exasperated and frustrated. "I just thought that... that I'm... " The older brother here, though he thankfully managed to hold that back. "I'm the prince here and if I can't protect my own servant, how can I ever even hope to protect an entire nation?"

"That's just ridiculous, Arthur! You know you've always done a great job in protecting your people! It's why they trust you so much! It's why they look over to you for safety and protection, not Uther, not your knights, but you, you stupid dollophead!" Merlin bellowed, his voice passionate and loud and clear despite the exhaustion seeping into his very bones.

For a moment, Arthur's fingers stilled as he stared up at him in wonder, his gaze awed and bewildered and puzzled as his eyebrows furrowed. He shook his head slightly in amazement because . . . because how can this boy, this stupid, clumsy, foolish boy who could barely stand on his own two feet for two whole minutes, be able to say such things . . . things that seemed so . . . so bloody wise and sincere?

The trust and faith that no doubt came all the way from within his hopeful, innocent and huge heart and shone into those blue eyes and those strong words and that confident voice made Arthur's heart swell with warmth and fondness for the young boy, whom he had only known for two years and had already considered him the truest friend he ever had, though he would never admit to that fact aloud.

"Wonders never cease, Merlin," he said softly, a slight and awed smile playing on his lips.

.

.

.

"How... how did she..." Merlin ran off, unsure how to ask. The tone of his voice was gentle and hesitant, and a bit sad for the prince who lost his mother before ever getting a chance to even see her with his own eyes. He himself had lost his own father, and it hurt like hell to know that he had never got to see him, or talk to him, or touch him. To not even know what he looked like. To not know him as a person.

To not even know whether he was dead or alive.

Arthur's hands froze, unmoving, and Merlin knew in that moment that he didn't really have to finish his question, because he already understood what he meant.

"I'm sorry... I... I really shouldn't have... I just..." he trailed off again, suddenly feeling ashamed for causing such reaction in him. He just wanted to know as nobody ever really told him, not even Gaius. It just never came up, and he knew nobody else would like to talk about that awful, horrific time of The Great Purge.

"She died giving birth to me."

Merlin could hear all the emotions in those six words, in that quiet, sad tone. Could hear everything Arthur felt about the matter. He could hear the guilt and the remorse, the sorrow and the grief, the anguish and the heartache, the loss and the longing. The desire to get to know her, to feel her motherly love and touch, to have her right by him, alive and okay. It hurt Merlin's heart, felt as if sorrow and empathy's hands just reached through his sternum and clenched its crude fingers around it painfully.

"Your wrist," Arthur ordered, unknowingly interrupting his servant's thoughts. He stared at the brutally swollen and grotesquely bent wrist cradled closely to the boy's thin chest, and felt another flash of hot anger directed at his father flare up within him at the sight of the vicious wound, but he immediately pushed it down.

He looked up to descry the boy's slightly horrified eyes, blue and large with childlike fear at the agony that was to come. He had probably never gone through this before, so therefore, he wasn't used to it in the slightest. Arthur felt a pang of pity for him, knowing the first time always felt the worst when it came to these kinds of things. Though he himself wished he didn't have to, but he knew it was vital and necessary.

"I'm going to have to set it straight, Merlin," Arthur said lightly, his voice genuinely regretful.

"B-but... but... you're not a physician! What if you make it worse?!" Merlin spluttered apprehensively, his voice shaking slightly, and Arthur couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him. He knew Merlin was just trying to prolong the time before he'd have to feel the extreme pain of having the dislocated wrist settled back.

"No, I'm not. But I've had my fair share of experiences with it, Merlin. I learned from when I was sometimes forced to do this in case of any emergencies during patrols, often when we got into a battle with bandits while the search and one of us got hurt, and there wasn't anyone else there who could help."

Merlin swallowed shakily and closed his eyes, and after a few minutes of self-reassuring and comforting, he open them again and breathed out a defeated sigh. He then schooled his features into a determined one, his lips pursed tightly as he slowly led his dislocated hand towards the prince's waiting hand, trying to be as careful as possible, but he still emitted a light hiss of pain from the inevitable jostling movement.

He squeezed his eyes shut again in preparation of the incoming pain that was doubtlessly coming, and he could feel his magic flow through his veins along with the cold fear, instinctively trying to protect him from whatever threat was enthralling him in its apprehension. But he restrained it, pushed it down.

The complete silence and stillness was filled with guilt and remorse, Arthur's calloused hand readied to snap the bone back into place as it cradled the boy's small and bent wrist.

Merlin sucked in a deep, shaky breath and released it slowly, which was heard all the more clearly and loudly in the silent room, and then he said firmly, "just do it. Get it over with."

A few seconds of reluctance after, there was a snap, and a short scream, followed by gasps of pain torn out forcefully, and a few smalls sob that were barely audible, but there.

And soft whispers of constant reassurances and comfort (It's alright, Merlin. It's over now).

.

.

.

The cool ointment applied to his wrist felt a bit nice, which he took as a reward after the horrible pain of setting his bone back to it's original position. Now, Arthur was wrapping the bandages over it. Though the bandages on his ankle were done a bit clumsily, but it'll still do.

It was a few minutes after that disaster that Merlin suddenly remembered their previous conversation. The new information about his prince left him a bit baffled and incredulous. Because here he was, assuming that he knew quite enough about Arthur, but apparently, he was wrong. It left him a bit doubtful of his cognizance about the future king of Camelot that he was to help him become, his destiny that he was supposed to protect from all danger, his master that he was supposed to serve.

His best friend that he was supposed to know.

He knew he was being a bit hypocritical when he felt the slight bit of frustration at that, as he had his own fair share of secrets and hidden aspects about him, but still.

Perhaps there were still a few things he didn't know about Arthur, which did leave him with a slightly nagging and burning sense of curiosity (his mother did always tell him he was a bit nosy). What else could he not know about his friend?

But even then, he had observed and learned and realized and discovered a lot about his master in the past two years, piece by piece. Every sign, every look in his eyes, every tone of his voice. And he knew Arthur well enough to read his expressions perfectly; knew him well enough to ferret out every one of his desperately veiled emotion and carefully hidden thought with only one, mere look at his deep blue eyes and his handsome face. Root out every feeling from his firm, confident voice and every little gesture and movement of his body.

He knew he'd grit his teeth and clench his fists and his nostrils would flare and his eyes and face and burn red and his lips would curl inwards when he's angry. He'd growl a lot and roll his eyes and throw things when he's irritable and cranky. His voice and eyes would grow soft and light and he'd smile a bit when he was fond and affectionate. He'd swallow a lot and he'd look away and take deep breaths and his nose would twitch and lower lip would jut out, causing his chin to crinke when he knew he was about to cry. He'd stare at the ground, his hands clasped in front of him and his elbows on his thighs, or he'd gaze out of the window, his arms crossed when he's worried and tense. He'd pace a lot, back and forth, one arm folded and the other's hand resting on his chin when he was anxious and thinking or bounce his knees and tap his feet when he's impatient, never able to sit still. His blue eyes would twinkle and his laugh would be deep and loud from the belly and he'd smile and grin more than he usually did when he's happy. The muscles of his cheek would twitch and he'd struggle to keep his lips stretched into a smile because it would keep slipping off every few seconds whenever he had to fake one while talking to a noble he disliked. He always knew when he was merely being sarcastic or just pretending, or genuine and sincere. Knew when he was sad or jovial, or when he was doubtful of his decisions or himself, or when he was scared but trying to hide it.

And he knew when Arthur blamed himself for whatever went wrong in his life.

He watched Arthur's rough hands bind the gauze around his wrist for a short while, the motions almost mesmerizing.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Merlin then said softly, the volume of his voice just slightly above a whisper. He felt a dull ache settle itself stubbornly over his chest, weighing down heavily on his tightening heart in empathy and sorrow for his friend.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, as if that conversation about his mother never happened before, as if he completely was certain that Merlin never detected any of those intense, hurtful emotions in his voice as he said those six words. He didn't even glance up from what he was doing this time, not even stilling a muscle in his body.

"I... I know you think that it was your fault... what happened to your mother, I mean. And - "

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed heavily in false indifference, but Merlin saw the slight twitch in his features. "Look, it happened years ago, alright? I barely even knew her, and it doesn't hurt as much as you think it does. Therefore, I'm absolutely fine. So can we please end this conversation now?"

And Merlin felt anger and frustration bubble up within him, slowly building and beginning to heat up like lava. He knew the stoic nonchalance was all a mere pretend, a mask, a lie. Dear gods, why can't the clotpole just tell him how he felt for once? "No, Arthur. You're not fine, and I know you're not telling the truth," he bit out.

"Oh, and just how would you know that?" Arthur asked as he stopped wrapping the bandage, looking up at him as his eyes hardened and narrowed at him, his gaze and the tone of his voice almost challenging.

Merlin felt his hands curl and tighten into a fist, even as doing so sent jolts of pain up his right arm due to his hurt wrist. But the adrenaline and fury and frustration running through him was far more powerful, so he barely paid much heed to it.

"Merlin..." Arthur's voice suddenly changed as he saw Merlin's wounded hand clenching, sounding almost worried. "Merlin, I..."

"Damn it, you prat!" he screamed as the bubbling lava-hot anger in his chest suddenly erupted like a volcano, his voice rising decibels. "It's because I know you, I'm your friend, you stupid dollophead! I've been there with you almost every minute of your life ever since I became your servant!"

"Okay, Merlin... just... just calm down, alright?" Arthur soothed softly, a hint of plea in his tone and in the way his hand laid upon the boy's damaged one, almost frantically. "Just... don't hurt yourself..."

"Why can't you just talk to me, Arthur?" he said, his voice changing soft and pleading.

Arthur chalked the furious outburst down into moodiness from the exhaustion and let it go (he just hoped Merlin would do the same). Merlin did look a bit fatigued, with the slight tinge of shadows colouring underneath his eyes that stood out from the pallor of his skin. "Alright, I will..." he reassured softly, biting his lip as he tried to slowly pry the tightened fist open.

It seemed that the adrenaline was beginning to wear off as the pain of his own abuse finally caught up to the idiot, his face twisting in hurt as he grasped his arm with his good hand. "Ow..."

Arthur just rolled his eyes, and then continued dressing the wound as carefully as he could with the now ruined gauze.

.

.

.

By the time Arthur was finished, Merlin was already nodding off into sleep due to exhaustion and painkiller potion effects, eyes drooping low and his body slumped and arms limp. But then suddenly jerking awake every once in a while as his eyes snapped open and he straightened his back. Arthur thought he looked like a sleepy toddler, trying not to fall into the traps of slumber during dinner.

It was — and dare he even bloody think these girly thoughts — slightly adorable. Looking confused for a few seconds whenever he awoke, but then recognition would dawn and he'd sit there, eyes pulled wide open to avoid sleeping.

He rolled his eyes slightly, the small uplift of the corners of his mouth fond and affectionate. And then he stood up on his feet, his knees cramping as he did so for remaining in the same position for too long.

"Alright, come on," Arthur murmured as he took his chin and raised it up from the uncomfortable angle it was, causing the boy's head to fall on his shirt as his features twisted subtly in pain, but he didn't open his eyes. Arthur sighed heavily, wondering what it could possibly be that had him so exhausted. What was so hard about polishing armors and washing floors? He rolled his eyes again at the thought, and then wriggled an arm under his knees and grasped his narrow shoulders with the other, Merlin's head still buried into the prince's chest. Arthur slowly lifted his slightly shaking arms, muscles tired from all the bandaging work, and picked up the sleeping boy along the way.

.

.

.

He plopped down, his knees weakening with exhaustion on top of the weight in his weary arms, on the small, hard bed, and he grimaced at the slight pain shooting up his ankle. Bloody gods, how does Merlin sleep on this uncomfortable rock?

The boy's head remained laid against his shoulders, his smaller hands clutched into his tunic. He closed his eyes and took a while to just breathe and rest, wishing badly that he could get to his own bed soon (he could almost feel himself stretching out on the soft mattress, under the warm covers. The complete opposite of Merlin's bed) and forget everything; today's events, his father's rage, his mother's tragic death because of him and the burden of that guilt and shame and sorrow and anguish and self-hatred pressing heavily, almost painfully, on his heart and shoulders.

"Wasn' yo'r faul, Arth...Arthu'.."

Arthur's heart jumped slightly with surprise at the small, slurring croak from below. And he looked down to find Merlin shifting his head slightly, eyes still closed but his mouth still mumbling.

"Sh' l'ved 'ou... wouldn'... wouldn' hav' wan'ed y'u t'bl'me yo'rse'f..." he went on murmuring softly, voice weak and slurry and drowsy, but the words honest and genuine and strong.

"How would you know that?" Arthur couldn't help but ask, soft and hopeless and desperate for reassurance and comfort. He didn't know what she thought of him if she's watching him right now. What if she hated him? What if she blamed him for her death like he did and wished him to be in her place instead?

A short pause, then some gentle rustling as Merlin sat up facing him, head lolling slightly on his neck, eyes still half-closed, but somehow still managing a weak glare at him.

But then his face softened, and he lazily flapped a hand on top of Arthur's, and smiled. "'Cause I kno'... kno' wha' sss'like... t'...t' live wi'h a moth'r."

Arthur felt a slight sense of envy burn in him at that, wishing he could know the experience too. But still, the truth of the statement cannot be denied.

"An' I kno' yo'r moth'r l'ves you ... will alw'ys lo'es 'ou n'... n'matt'r wha'..." he slurred, then paused again as he began to topple forward, as if he couldn't hold his body up. And he grasped Arthur's shoulders to keep himself upright.

He breathed softly, and raised his head, staring deeply through his dazed eyes and straight into Arthur's, almost as if into the prince's very soul.

"An' I kno' tha'... tha' giv-givin' bir'h t'you an' ssseeing 'ou, was the bes' mo...mo...momen' f'her li'e."

The low mumbles of his slurred, croaky voice did not dull the powerful, passionate sincerity in his erythraen, bruised and weary eyes. Sincerity so strong that Arthur began to, somewhat, believe his words, even if just a little bit.

Maybe it was because that's just what he wanted to believe, or maybe it was because he truly did begin to understand after the wise idiot's words.

He didn't exactly know why... but he did.

It was then Merlin probably decided to give up on staying awake any longer, and let his arms fall to his sides and his light body forward and into Arthur's, his nose crushed against the prince's shoulder as he snored softly into the fabric of his shirt.

And the only thing Arthur could do was smile.

Merlin was the clumsiest, most foolish, insolent and self-sacrificing idiot he'll ever have the misfortune to know and meet, but he was a friend. A true friend. Kind and loyal and caring and the best friend and little brother he never had.

One corner of his lips turned up into an airy, fond smirk as he gave a small, affectionate rub to the back of his head, the arm around his waist tightening briefly. He'd be lying if he said he didn't love this idiot, though he'd never admit to that out loud.

The hand on his head then moved to his jacket, carefully tugging it off his shoulders and back, and then flinging it into the already existent mess on the floor, to which he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. And then gently, he placed the lanky form down, then reached for the thin, ragged blanket at the end of his feet and pulled it over to his neck. He leaned over him, smiling as he ruffled his hair.

He slowly pried off the fingers twisted into his shirt and laid it over his stomach, trying to settle him into a comfortable position, or as comfortable as it can be in this bed made of bloody stone.

Then stepped away and onto his feet, one knee no longer pressed into the thick mattress of the bed, he turned away and quietly left the room with a heart much more lighter and free, something that happened for the very first time on this day.

Maybe as long as he had that idiot by his side...

He closed the door behind him.

I'll be okay.