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The man’s name is Ruben.
Once Arthur learns this, the rest is easy to figure out. He’s got spies everywhere, after all. His spies tell him Ruben moves camp every few months, as slave traders are wont to do. He’s currently squatting in the Western Isles, where nothing good ever happens.
Arthur leaves at once.
He takes nothing besides his sword, his horse, and a change of clothes. He rides hard—harder than his poor horse usually tolerates, but the stallion must sense Arthur’s urgency; it takes it on as its own and carries him further, faster.
That first night Arthur is furious with the sun for simply doing what it does and setting at the day’s end. He could make the whole trip at once, if only there was uninterrupted light to guide his way. He stops grudgingly, and gets no sleep at all. There is much further yet to go: past the White Mountains, past the Valley of the Fallen Kings, past the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin would kill him for crossing through such dangerous territory on his own, if he knew.
But then again, Merlin is the one who ought to be at his side.
Merlin is the one Arthur is risking his hide to save.
The west is a lawless and decrepit land. No wonder, as Caerleon is a man without morals. Arthur is glad to have the foresight to have left behind anything boasting Camelot’s crest. He changes into his commoner’s clothes and covers his sword with a cloak and goes into the first tavern he sees. There, he learns Ruben’s camp is but a half day’s ride away.
“Though I can’t see what business a man like you has got at a place like that,” the unkempt bar maiden sneers. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Mercia,” Arthur lies. He makes himself sit for the time it takes to choke down a watery pint and a bowl of unidentifiable stew, then he leaves, avoiding the sad-eyed women who offer a tup in the room upstairs on his way out.
He sleeps in the woods that night. When he wakes he takes off his clothing, drops it on the ground and stamps it into the mud. He smears a handful of dirt across his face for good measure. He takes a rag from his pack and ties it over his head, concealing as much of his blonde hair as he can. He tears the sleeves and hems of his tunic, scuffs a rock against his boots. Then he redresses and sets off through the forest; slow, now, alert.
#
The sounds reach him before the sight does. The grunt of men’s voices; the clang of steel. Arthur backtracks half a mile and ties his horse to a tree. He finds a dried up gully nearby and buries his sword and belongings there under the leaves.
And he walks.
He doesn’t realise he’d been expecting something close to Jarl’s fortress—doesn’t realise he’d had any expectations at all, until he breaks through the treeline and sees it laid out before him and realises it’s completely different from what he’d anticipated.
Jarl’s slaves had been contained within four walls; hidden from anyone on the outside. Ruben takes no such measures. His wares are on display for all to see. The camp sits on a sprawling slice of desert surrounded by nothing but vast stretches of sand. There are several tents lined along the back, with large scruffy men sat out front playing cards or hawking spit onto the ground or sleeping with their heads tipped back, cavernous snoring jaws open wide.
But mostly there are cages. Large metal boxes lined with thick bars on all sides, crammed with people.
Arthur keeps his head down; tries to subtly scan the cage front and centre, which is the largest of them all, from under his fringe. He can’t appear as though he’s looking for a specific someone. He can’t acknowledge the sick feeling that roils his stomach upon seeing the way these people are being treated; upon knowing that Merlin is likely one of them. He must be composed and uncaring. He can’t worry about them all right now. (He hadn’t known there’d be so many.) All he can do today is get a lay of the land and find Merlin; he’ll return for the rest as soon as he can, once he knows what he’s dealing with.
A man with little hair and even less teeth sees him coming first. He abandons his game of lazily taunting a woman through the bars and nods to a buddy of his stationed close by; the pair of them saunter over, stopping Arthur before he gets too close.
“Ho there,” says one, running his beady eyes over Arthur. “And just what brings you here today?”
“What do you think?” Arthur returns flatly. He looks pointedly at the cage behind the men. It’s so full of people that most are forced to stand.
The bald man grunts. “Don’t think being cheeky will get you far here, lad.” He pats Arthur down; finds nothing, of course. He and his partner exchange a look and seem to decide that Arthur isn’t a threat. “Saved up enough money to make an investment, then?”
Arthur nods. “I hear you have the largest selection in all of the five kingdoms,” he says, which is bollocks, but seems to please both men.
“Is that so? And where is it you’re from?”
“I was born up north, but I’ve lived west of here for quite some time.”
The smaller man laughs. “Can’t take the cold, eh? I’m the same way.”
Arthur grits his teeth in something he hopes resembles a smile. It’s nearly painful to make conversation with these toads, when all he wants to do is survey the cages one by one until he finds Merlin.
“Can I have a look, then?”
His eyes are drawn once more to the people in the cage. Most wear naught but rags to cover their genitals. Their heads droop, gazes fixed submissively to the ground. Arthur looks for the one pair of eyes that will meet his, for surely Merlin is the outlier, here, who will be glaring defiantly out at the person who dares to want to buy him. Surely he’s giving them all trouble, and has been given it back in return.
Both men snigger this time. “Eager, aren’t you? I suppose even these western nights aren’t quite warm enough to your liking.”
Arthur’s eyes snap back to them. Their horrid, unbearable faces.
“What kind of slaves are these?” he asks slowly.
“These are pleasure slaves,” says the bald man. “Don’t tell me you’re thick?” He elbows his companion, who laughs some more.
Arthur manages to recover fast enough to roll his eyes. “Just making sure we’re on the same page. Now if I may…? It’s been charming, but I didn’t exactly come all this way to make conversation, you know.”
They stand down at last, stepping aside to let Arthur step up to the cage. He squints inside, looking for dark hair and pale skin. It’s shameful to feel as though he’s scrutinising the people within, looking for a suitable bedmate. He pushes aside the guilt; channels instead the haughty manner he knows he wears so well.
The two men trail along behind him as he stalks the cage’s perimeter, posing questions as though he’s looking to buy a horse, not a human being.
“What is it you’re looking for? Strength? Beauty?”
“Nothing in particular.” Arthur looks twice at a man with dark messy hair, but he turns out to be too short.
“There must be something.”
“I like seeing all my options before I make a decision.”
“Smart man. Take a look at this new batch we got in last week—look at that skin, eh? Gold as honey.”
Arthur has no choice but to follow them to another cage, which holds women who are all more tan than Merlin could dream of being. He takes his time pretending to assess them.
“None to your liking?” Arthur shrugs. “Well give us some guidance here, come on. Male? Female?”
Arthur peers at the row of cages behind this one. “Perhaps a man.”
“Ah, see? That narrows it down quite a bit.”
They lead him to the next row, and Arthur counts the slave traders as he goes, wondering which one is Ruben. For all Arthur knows he could be one of the two giving him the grand tour.
“Take a look at this lot. Some of our finest, innit?”
“Aye. These are all well broken in, mind. Open,” one of the traders bellows, and all the men inside the cage open their mouths obediently, showing off their teeth, their pink tongues.
Arthur looks away, disgusted. “That won’t be necessary,” he mutters. He skims the cage again, but Merlin’s not in this one, either. He glances around, growing more panicked with each minute that passes. What does it mean, if Merlin’s not in one of these cages? It can only be a good thing. But then, if he’s not being held captive here, where is he?
“You’re hard to please.” The bald man clucks his tongue. “None of this scum will do, will they?” He takes a whip from his belt and lashes it suddenly against the bars of the cage, causing the men inside to jump with terror and crowd toward the middle. He laughs. “Right. Tell me what it is you like, and I’ll hand pick our very best for you. Go on!”
Arthur swallows. “Tall.” How much detail can he give without them realising he’s here on a mission? “Dark hair. I like them… feisty.”
The man snaps his fingers. “I’ve got just the one.”
He leads Arthur across the camp; Arthur follows slowly, assessing each cage he passes. No Merlin. The man strikes his lash against a different cage, and shouts for a man standing near the back to come forward. He’s not Merlin. Arthur rejects him, and the next five men the slave trader calls forward; seven; ten. All have dark hair, and all are decently tall, but none of them are Merlin.
At last the slaver looks to his partner and shrugs, at a loss.
Arthur turns to them and sees that they’ve surveyed each and every cage in the encampment. He’s been here at least an hour.
“Don’t you have anything else?” he asks desperately.
The two men stare at him. Arthur stares back, sure he’s about to get told to shove it. But then the bald man swivels.
“Ruben!”
A meaty bearded man sits closeby, watching them from the eave of one of the tents. When Arthur sees him he gives a great nasty yellow smile. He heaves himself up, lopes over and dismisses his lackeys with a wave of his hand. He clamps a ham of a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“I can see you’re a man with standards,” Ruben says, as Arthur is calculating the odds of successfully fighting him off with one of the broken stools lying around. They seem slim. “You’re after something special, aren’t you?”
Arthur studies the man. He doesn’t seem as though he’s about to attack him. He seems somewhat pleased.
So Arthur rolls his shoulders back and says, “I was led to believe my needs would be met here.”
“Oh, they will be, lad, not to worry. Tall and feisty, you say? I’ve got quite a treat for you.”
He slings his arm around Arthur and walks him away from the cages, toward the tents.
“How would you like something no one else has?”
A terrible, cold feeling washes over Arthur. They’ve stopped in front of the last tent. Something tells Arthur there are more cages, more slaves, hidden inside.
Something tells him Merlin is one of them.
“What do you mean?” he asks, staring at the tent flap.
Ruben leans in and says to him, voice low, as if they’re chums,
“How would you like yourself a sorcerer?”
Arthur freezes. He scans Ruben’s face for signs that he’s joking and finds none.
“You’ve got sorcerers?” he asks, shocked.
Ruben smiles his sickening smile. “Just one at the moment. But if you ask me, he’s better than all of these rats combined.”
He gestures to the tent, asking if Arthur would like to step inside, and all Arthur can do is nod. He never could’ve accounted for this turn. Merlin isn’t inside, then; he can’t be who Ruben is referring to. He’s just got to go along with it then tell them he doesn’t want any of their slaves after all.
Arthur believes this. He truly does. Already his mind is jumping ahead to what he’ll do when he gets back to his horse; how to track Merlin from there—how could his spies have gotten it so wrong?
Ruben pulls the tent flap aside.
It’s dark and rank in the tent. Arthur’s eyes need a moment to adjust. He’d guessed this was some sort of barracks for the men, but it appears to be a personal space, judging by the mussed bedroll and table for one with scraps of food left on it—Ruben’s own tent, it would seem. There are no other slave traders roaming within.
Just one single cage, tucked away at the back.
Arthur walks toward it, pulled by some invisible force. The cage is tall and narrow, much smaller than any of the communal ones outside—just enough space for one person alone, though barely at that. There’s hardly room for the man inside to sit, let alone lay down.
Arthur stands in front of the cage for a long time.
“This is the sorcerer?” he asks at last.
“Aye,” says Ruben, coming to stand next to him.
Merlin stands with his eyes down—no, they’re shut—swaying slightly in his cage. He could be asleep, for how calm he looks. In a trance. His wrists are bound in front of him with thick chains that no other slave is subjected to. He’s naked but for his tattered smalls.
Arthur stares at him, waits for him to open his eyes and realise Arthur is there to save him. But he doesn’t.
“Exquisite, isn’t he?” says Ruben softly. “That hair with that skin. His eyes are blue as the ocean—blue as yours.” He glances at Arthur, who tries to make sense of anything the man is saying—why he’s describing Merlin as one would a lover, as though he reveres him.
Why he says Merlin’s a sorcerer.
Ruben goes on, for Arthur’s voice has abandoned him. “Took some time to teach him his place, but I managed.” He smirks. “All you’ve got to do is threaten his precious king, and he listens. He’ll do whatever you say.” His grin widens. “Trust me.”
Arthur drags his gaze from Merlin to gawp at Ruben, wide-eyed.
“That’s right,” Ruben purrs. “This here is a sorcerer from Camelot. How’s that for irony?” He shakes his head. “Poor sod doesn’t know what’s good for him. Can’t imagine why he worships a king who despises his kind.”
Merlin gives no indication that he’s aware of their presence. Arthur stares at him helplessly.
“You’ve seen him use magic?” he asks, and his voice comes out small.
“Oh yes,” Ruben murmurs. “Let me be the first to tell you: you don’t know power until you’ve had a man as powerful as that beneath you.”
Fury rushes Arthur’s head so strong it makes his vision spotty. He blinks several times to clear it; clenches his fists until he feels his nails biting crescent cuts into his palms.
“How much?” he grits through his teeth.
Ruben nudges his arm, unaware of the fact that he’s a dead man walking. “Ah. I’ve intrigued you.”
“How much?”
Ruben considers him, thinking it over. “This is a rare find, see. You understand he’s dangerous? He needs a firm hand.”
He smacks his hand against the bars, rattling the cage. Both Arthur and Merlin jolt. Merlin’s eyes drift open. He stares at his feet through slitted eyes, slumping against the back of the cage.
“I can handle him,” says Arthur.
And this is the moment Merlin ought to register his voice, look up and gape in surprise. But he doesn’t. He does nothing at all.
Ruben slaps the bars again. “Knees.”
There’s so little room Merlin needs to brace his bound hands against the bars in front of him to get to his knees. He does it slowly, stiffly, head bowed.
“Open,” Ruben barks.
Merlin’s mouth falls open, and Arthur’s eyes shut. When he looks again Ruben has a hand stretched through the bar. He cups Merlin’s cheek, drags his thumb over his bottom lip and releases so it makes a wet popping sound. He presses his filthy thumb to Merlin’s tongue, making him open wider.
“Lovely,” says Ruben quietly. He turns back to Arthur, whose vision is swimming once again. “See? Well trained. I’m loath to let this one go, truth be told. Doubt you can afford him.”
“Give me a number,” Arthur says. He begs, begs Merlin in his mind to just look at him, to snap out of it. He’s not seen that ocean blue of his eyes once. Just the white lids of his eyes, the black curve of his eyelashes against his cheek.
Ruben says a number that he clearly expects Arthur to balk at. Arthur’s got no reference; no sense of how high or low it is—how much is any person worth? He reaches into his boot and pulls out some coins. Ruben looks at them hungrily.
“How much gold have you got in them boots?” he says, narrowing his eyes.
Arthur takes off one boot and holds it upside down to show that’s all there is. He does the same with his other boot. The rest of his gold is in his socks, of course.
“I believe we have a deal.”
Ruben accepts the coins, sorcerer forgotten. Apparently this is exactly how much Merlin’s life is worth. He unlocks the cage, reaches in and grabs Merlin’s neck and pulls him out.
Arthur fights every instinct screaming at him to intervene. He watches Ruben loop a rope around Merlin’s neck, tug at it until Merlin stumbles forward.
“He’s limping,” Arthur notes.
Ruben shrugs. “He was asking for a beating when he got here, so he got one. He’s well fit for your purposes, don’t you worry.”
Arthur takes a measured breath. “And the shackles? I assume there’s a key?”
Ruben produces it. Arthur tucks it safely in his pocket.
“Do they bind his—magic?”
“If only,” Ruben snorts. “Make sure he’s tame before you unchain him. I’d give it a few weeks at the very least.”
Arthur gives a tight nod. Ruben passes him the end of the rope, the one Merlin is tethered to.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” says Ruben, holding out his hand.
Arthur swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his hand. “And you.”
He wipes his palm against his thigh when Ruben turns his attention back to his gold.
“Come,” he murmurs to Merlin. He brings his hand to the small of Merlin’s back until he moves forward with him out the tent.
The slave traders all goggle as they pass by, so Arthur clutches the rope and guides Merlin with it, walking slow so he can keep up. No one says a word to them. Arthur keeps his gaze ahead, counting each and every staggered step Merlin takes with his bare feet until they reach the cover of the woods.
He waits until there’s a solid line of trees blocking them from view of the camp. Then he drops the rope like it’s burning his hand. He whips around and loosens the knot around Merlin’s neck, lifts the rope off of him. He drops it to the ground, takes Merlin’s shoulders, dips down to get him to meet his eyes.
“Merlin.”
Merlin won’t look at him. He maintains that distanced look, as though he’s somewhere else entirely.
Arthur swears, hand shaking as he pulls the key for his chains from his pocket. He fumbles it twice before fitting it into the lock. The manacles thud to the dirt. Arthur removes his cloak, wraps Merlin in it; he squats to yank off his boots and help Merlin step into them, one at a time.
Merlin doesn’t react to any of it.
Arthur slings the rope around his own shoulders, clicks the cuffs to hang from his belt.
“The horse,” he says, and points. “We need to—keep moving. Are you—can you walk?”
Silence. Arthur pulls a hand through his hair, whooshes out a breath.
“Come on, Merlin, just a bit further.”
He takes a few steps; looks back and sees Merlin hasn’t moved. He backtracks and puts his hand once more to his waist, urging him forward. He reaches his other hand to hold the cloak shut at Merlin’s collar.
Llamrei waits right where Arthur left him, thank the gods. Arthur digs up his bag and sword and unties the horse in a hurry.
Merlin’s stood with his eyes closed again, hugging himself. Arthur goes to his side, nervous of startling him.
“Hey,” he says gently. “I’m gonna—let’s get you on the horse.”
The last thing Arthur wants to do right now is handle Merlin’s body without his permission. But Merlin is despondent and they’ve got to get out of here, so Arthur picks him up and, with some effort—he’s heavier than he looks—drapes him over the saddle.
The picture it makes is frighteningly close to the time Merlin was frozen by the dorocha. Arthur watches him for a minute, jaw tense, before taking Llamrei’s reins and leading them away.
#
By nightfall they’ve crossed the border back into Camelot. Arthur knows of an inn not far from here. He secures Llamrei to the hitching post outside and slides Merlin down. He’d slept for most of the time; his eyes flutter open now as Arthur steadies him on his feet.
“What do you say?” Arthur gestures to the inn. “Not a bad job, eh?”
He doesn’t know why he’s speaking to Merlin as though he’s a child. Merlin doesn’t answer anyway. Arthur sighs and walks him inside, sets him down on a stool at the bartop. He waves over the first barmaid he sees.
The gal flicks a look from Arthur to Merlin and back.
“What’s wrong with your friend?”
“He’s drunk.” Arthur steps in front of Merlin, blocking him from view. “Listen. I’ll give you a gold coin for a room, a hot meal, and a bath.” The girl’s eyebrows fly up. “And your discretion.”
She examines the coin Arthur hands her for long seconds, determining its authenticity. Then she whistles. A young boy topples out from a door behind her and skids to her side.
“Thomas, show these men to a room. Bring them supper, hot water, the works.”
Thomas nods, eager to be of help, and waves them over to the staircase. He looks back curiously as Arthur helps Merlin up the steps; glances at Arthur’s socked feet, but says nothing. The room he brings them to has a small bed and table and chair.
“Thank you,” says Arthur. “A bath first, I think. Have you got a tub?”
Thomas bobs his head.
“There’s a lad. Knock when you bring it up, you hear? Supper in an hour or so should do.”
“Yes sir,” Thomas squeaks, and spirits away.
Strange to be called sir, not sire.
Arthur locks the door behind him. He presses his forehead to the cool wood there. Thinks he could fall asleep just like this. Maybe Merlin’s got a spell to wipe this whole day from his memory.
He hears a scuff behind him and turns. Merin is reaching down, taking his boots off. Arthur watches as he shrugs off the cloak, folds it over the back of the chair. Merlin shuffles over to the foot of the bed, head bent forward like his neck is broken, and there he thumps to his knees, resting his hands atop his thighs.
“No,” says Arthur, strangled. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. Don’t do that.” He sweeps over, kneels beside him. “You’ve never knelt for me before; please don’t start now.” He grips Merlin’s forearm, trying to tug him up. “Come on, Merlin, it’s done. You’re safe. It’s me.”
Merlin’s eyes focus on Arthur’s hand on his arm.
“It’s just me,” Arthur pleads.
A wrinkle appears on Merlin’s brow.
“Arthur,” he says suddenly, as if he’s just placing him. His voice is hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in days.
“Yeah,” says Arthur, relieved, “it’s just me. Here, look at me.”
Merlin’s eyes crawl up to his torso and stop there.
“Arthur,” he says again, and frowns. “Why are you here?”
Arthur shakes his head; uses his free hand to swipe roughly at a stray tear, angry at himself for crying. “I came to get you, Merlin. I came to bring you home.”
Merlin looks away again, off into the distance.
“You’re too late,” he says, so soft Arthur has to lean in to hear.
“No,” says Arthur gruffly. He lets go of Merlin to smear his hands over his face. “No, I’m not.”
Merlin kneels there frowning while Arthur cries. Then he looks again to Arthur’s midriff. A look of profound confusion comes over him.
“...What on earth are you wearing?”
Arthur laughs, an ugly sound through his tears. “It doesn’t matter.” He takes a deep breath, shoving his anguish away to deal with at a later time. “How about a bath? You can clean up, yeah, then eat, then this bed is all yours.”
Merlin works his mouth for a moment. “I’m tired,” he says at last.
A sharp knock at the door. Merlin jumps and stares at it in alarm.
“Don’t worry,” says Arthur, “they’re just bringing in the tub.” He reaches for the cloak to wrap back around him. “Besides, I’ve got Excalibur right here if anyone tries anything.”
Merlin watches warily as Thomas and another boy lug in a basin and fill it with water. Arthur slips them each a penny for their work and for minding their business. Then he bars the door after them once more and turns back to Merlin.
“All yours,” he says, motioning to the tub. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” agrees Merlin, “alright.”
He winces as he stands. Arthur frowns, running his eyes over the bits of his skin peeking out from the robe. His knees are red. There’s a faded bruise on one leg; another on his chest.
“Are you hurt? Your limp,” he points out when Merlin looks at him blankly.
Merlin’s gaze slides away. He thinks about it for a moment.
“He—he put something inside me,” he mumbles.
Arthur reels. “What?” He takes a full step back. “What do you—?”
“In my—” Merlin’s hand rises and hovers uselessly in the air, clarifying nothing, but Arthur knows what he means.
“...Can you take it out?” Arthur finally chokes. He feels as though he’s been walloped.
“I don’t know,” Merlin whispers, pulling the cloak tighter around himself.
Arthur opens and closes his mouth. He looks away. Digs his hand into his hair.
“Do you need—help?”
Merlin hesitates, then shakes his head, ashamed. “I don’t want you to see.”
Arthur doesn’t want to see, either. He doesn’t want any of this to have happened in the first place.
But whatever it is that wretched man put inside Merlin, it needs to come out.
Merlin sneaks a look at the bath. He wants to get in. Arthur would deny it if asked, but he smells.
“I don’t know,” Merlin repeats. He shifts and winces again, clearly uncomfortable.
“How about this,” Arthur proposes. “I’ll help but I won’t look.”
Merlin wrinkles his nose, knowing there’s no way that’s possible.
“Promise,” says Arthur softly.
Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and nods once. “Okay.”
They stand avoiding each others’ eyes for an endless minute. Then Merlin reaches to remove his cloak and Arthur turns away.
There’s some rustling from the bed. “Okay,” comes Merlin’s muffled voice.
Arthur peeks over his shoulder. Merlin is folded over the side of the bed, facedown. Thankfully he’s left his smalls on. He fists the bedclothes hard, presses his face into the mattress. The back of his neck burns red.
Arthur stares, caught off guard by all that bare skin. He wipes his palms nervously against his trousers and stumbles forward.
“Alright,” he says to announce his presence, too loudly. “Er. I’ve got to—” He hovers his hands over Merlin’s hips. “I’m going to—pull these down first.”
Merlin grunts. Arthur hooks his fingers into his pants and yanks them down before he loses his nerve.
The fabric pools at Merlin’s feet. He steps out of them, kicks them from his foot. Arthur very much wishes that he could keep his promise and do this without looking, but there’s something—some sort of protuberance right between Merlin’s cheeks. Arthur blinks, not sure what it is.
“Er—can you? Spread your…”
Merlin quickly widens his stance, not wanting Arthur to have to finish his sentence.
Arthur leans in, eyes widening. It’s almost like a stopper. Shoved not just between his arse cheeks, but in his hole.
He heaves out a deep, wobbly breath. Merlin whines, and Arthur is reminded that this is far worse for him. He pushes his sleeves up his forearms and makes his voice firm, like he knows what he’s doing. Like this isn’t shaking him to his very core.
“Right. I’m going to put my hands on you.” He pauses, then adds, “You should probably relax.”
Merlin shudders. He tries to listen; his back muscles flex, though, and he grows even tenser. The flush has spread to the tips of his ears.
Arthur brings his trembling hands to Merlin’s arse. He rests one on each cheek; feels Merlin clench beneath his touch. It’s not going to make this any easier, but Arthur can hardly blame him.
Without thinking, he moves his thumbs in a stroking motion, petting gently until Merlin relaxes the slightest bit. Then he digs his thumbs in and peels his arse cheeks apart.
He’s astounded at the stark sight of it—this foreign object protruding from Merlin’s arse. What he can see of it is black and rounded. He leaves one hand where it is, moves the other to brush his fingertips along the edge of the object, where it meets Merlin’s wrinkled skin. Merlin makes a stifled sound.
“Can you take it out?” he asks in a rush, voice high.
Arthur grips it with his pointer finger and thumb and pulls. It doesn’t come out like he expected; it meets some sort of resistance, and Merlin groans.
“Please,” he gasps.
“Alright, just hang on.” Arthur is panicking and sure Merlin can hear it in his voice. He looks around as though he’ll find something to help him; there’s nothing. He’s got to figure this out and he’s got to do it now. In an act of desperation, he leans forward and spits, hoping the wetness will loosen it.
Instead of pulling this time, he grips and twists it slowly, slowly, and Merlin starts to shake as it starts to come out.
Arthur is surprised at the shape of it as it slides out—like an arrowhead, and he supposes the idea is the same. For it to catch in the skin and hold. The plug tapers to a blunted point then it pops out completely, and Merlin’s hole clamps shut in its absence.
Arthur swears and drops it to the ground, snatches his hands off Merlin. Before his very eyes liquid drips out from between Merlin’s arse cheeks, sliding down his leg.
Merlin keels forward onto the bed, gathers the sheets against his face and cries. Arthur has enough mind to pull the blanket over him before sinking to the ground, mind empty but for one thought.
“I’ll kill him,” he says, again and again. “I’ll kill him.”
He pulls his legs in and sits with his back against the bed, repeating it like a mantra, like a lifeline. “I’ll kill him.”
“No.”
Merlin twists to look at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. His face is red and shiny, lit with something Arthur’s never seen on him before. Something that makes Arthur scared for anyone in his path.
“I will.”
#
This time, Arthur takes his men.
He takes a score of them and five caravans, each pulled by a pair of horses. They’ll need to return with more, he’s sure, but it’s the best he can do for now.
This time, Merlin comes with him.
He rides up front beside Arthur where he belongs, fit with chainmail and a cape, armed with a sword. He’s not technically a knight, no, but as far as Arthur is concerned he deserves to wear Camelot’s crest just as much as any one of them, if not more.
(Only once have they broached the subject, when they’d been an hour shy of the castle upon returning.
“He told you, didn’t he?” Merlin had asked.
“He did,” Arthur confirmed.
A pause. Merlin was sat in front of Arthur on the horse at that point, so Arthur couldn’t read his expression.
“And?” Merlin prompted.
Arthur had nudged him, amused. “And…?”
Merlin had laughed in response, a bright open sound, and Arthur had known he’d said the right thing.)
They station the caravans on a hidden trail in the forest, and Arthur briefs his men from the cover of the trees, where they crouch and watch.
“The leader is Merlin’s,” he instructs. He squints and points to two figures, the slavers who’d shown him around. “Those two are mine. Two each for the rest of you.”
The slavers scatter like roaches as they gallop from the woods, but Camelot’s horses are faster, and her knights are stronger. Arthur dispatches his targets easily, then follows Merlin to Ruben’s tent. The man is just emerging, bleary and alarmed. He’s slept through the massacre of nearly all of his men.
Arthur stands back as Merlin advances, cape swishing behind him, red as his rage. Ruben lunges for an axe by the stool outside his tent, but Merlin gets there first; he kicks it out of reach and whips out his sword, holds it to Ruben’s neck.
All around them, metal clangs and men shout. The enslaved people are whooping and rocking their cages.
But all Arthur hears is the ragged pull of Ruben’s breaths. His last ones.
“Do you remember me?” asks Merlin, dangerously calm.
Ruben’s eyes skitter over him. He gives no sign of recognition.
“You captured me,” says Merlin.
He takes a step forward. Ruben takes a step back.
“Restrained me.”
Another step. Ruben falls to his backside.
“Drugged me. Beat me.”
Merlin advances with every word, and Ruben crawls backward to avoid his sword.
“Raped me.”
He digs the tip of his sword into Ruben’s chest with these last words. Ruben lets out a pathetic noise.
Merlin cocks his head. “Ah. But you do that to everyone, don’t you?”
Ruben squeezes his eyes shut—the true sign of a coward; one afraid to face his own death.
But Merlin turns to address Arthur.
“How much did you pay him for me?”
Arthur tells him.
Merlin turns back to Ruben. “You heard him. You owe him money.”
Ruben plucks a small satchel from his belt, tosses it to Merlin’s feet.
“Here, take it all, take everything, just please—please don’t—”
“I didn’t ask for everything,” says Merlin, interrupting Ruben’s snivelling. “I asked for what you owe him.” He kicks the pouch back over to him. “Go on. Count it out.”
Ruben does. He drops the coins into Merlin’s outstretched hand, and Merlin passes them back to Arthur.
Then he tosses his sword to the dirt.
Both Ruben and Arthur blink at him in surprise.
“I’m the sorcerer,” Merlin says. “Camelot’s sorcerer.”
Ruben’s mouth drops open.
“Yes,” says Merlin softly as realisation hits.
He raises his hand, stretching his arm out in front of him, fingers spread wide. Arthur can’t breathe for the suspense of it. The fear on Ruben’s face is enough to sustain him for weeks, months, years.
Merlin closes his fingers slowly, curling them into a fist. Ruben gasps as he does, then he chokes, then he can’t breathe at all, face beet red, fingers scrabbling at his throat.
Merlin pauses there with his fist clenching the air, letting Ruben suffer. Then he twists his wrist suddenly, a sharp, violent movement, and Ruben’s neck snaps. His body crumples.
Arthur looks on with fierce pride as Merlin turns. His eyes burn gold. Not like a fire; like gold itself, smouldering over a flame, melted and pure.
All of Ruben’s men have fallen, brought down by Arthur’s. He glances round, looking for Leon to send for the caravans. The cries of the caged people pierce the air.
“Search the bodies for keys,” Arthur calls.
Merlin steps forward. “Leave it to me,” he says, for of course he needs no key; and he sets about freeing all the people who were never slaves to begin with.