Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Author’s Note:
So I know I missed the Merlin boat by about ten years or so, but I recently discovered this series and all I can say is that I’m in love and obsessed and can’t help wanting to play in the sandbox a bit. Not sure there is anyone out there who is still into the fandom enough to want to read this, but I’m having fun writing it anyway.

The story is completely planned out and I know where it’s going, but I’m a slow writer who has to fight real life for fun time, so I can’t promise updates on a certain day like some authors do. That said, I do promise this will be finished.

This is set during the interlude between Seasons 2 and 3, when Morgana is still “missing.” My own personal headcanon has Merlin arriving in Camelot when he’s seventeen, which puts him at nineteen for this story. The same headcanon says Arthur is four years older than Merlin, so he’s twenty-three for this tale.

Now here’s hoping at least someone will enjoy this story. 

1. Stormy Weather and Words

The sharpest sword is a word spoken in wrath.
- Gautama Buddha

*****

The rotten apple hit the wood directly above his head and disintegrated, showering Merlin in a sticky rain of nasty-smelling gunk. He grimaced, but before he could so much as shake out his hair, another over-ripe projectile soared toward him, this one close enough to graze his cheek with a painful sting. He jerked his head to the side as far as the solid frame would allow and glared at the smirking group of youths who were already clutching more ammunition.

In the past, when Merlin had been forced to endure this particular punishment, he’d tried to do so in good humor, laughing and joking and not letting it get to him.

But not this time.

This time Merlin was in a foul mood.

It was cold and windy with the threat of imminent rain hanging heavy in the air – which meant that the usual bunch of harmless kids were tucked warmly away by their mothers and occupied with rainy-day chores. That left only the rowdy, cruel gangs of older boys – the ones who took pleasure in pain and torment – lobbing rotten fruit at him with much stronger force and much better aim than was normal as he stood trapped in the very immobile wooden frame.

A half-decomposed something hit him right in the eye and he gave up, hanging his head in defeat and knowing it was useless to try and avoid the humiliation and pain.

He was cold and hurting, embarrassed and stiff, but more than anything, he was angry. Angry at Arthur.

It had been months since the prat of a prince had restored to his knee-jerk, catch-all punishment for Merlin. The servant had thought maybe their trust and relationship – dare he call it a friendship – had progressed beyond that. Obviously, he’d been wrong.

Two full years of service, devotion, and unwavering loyalty, and the first time something goes missing it’s a fit of temper and a stabbing accusation of thievery.

Merlin didn’t know what hurt more – that Arthur had refused to even listen to his attempts to show his innocence, or that the prince actually thought he would steal from him in the first place!

Either way it was like a knife blade between the ribs, and it hurt so much more than his aching back and numb hands, or the rock-hard potatoes the miscreants had moved on to lobbing at his face.

*****

Arthur was furious, to the point where everyone knew it. He could tell by the way his knights kept a wide berth around him and rode in silence as they completed yet another extra patrol. No one wanted to say the wrong thing and draw the ire of the fuming prince down on themselves next.

Which was fine with him. Silence gave him room to sort through the angry tumult of thoughts battering around inside his head.

He was hurt by the betrayal of broken trust and all that implied. The image of someone he thought he’d known crumbling before his eyes.

Of course the theft bothered him as well. The cloak-pin hadn’t been very valuable, but it was his favorite and Merlin knew that. Knew it and took it anyway. Still, he could almost understand the act on one level. His servant was too skinny and wore clothes that were old and ridiculously threadbare. Maybe there was trouble in Ealdor? His mother was ill? Maybe he desperately needed the money?

But if that were true, why hadn’t Merlin just come to him? Was the boy’s pride such that he’d rather steal than ask his master for a little help? Was he too embarrassed to come to Arthur with his problems?

That’s what stung the most about all of this – knowing that Merlin thought so little of him, believed he wouldn’t care about his servant’s wellbeing, that he felt becoming a thief was his only option.

What made Arthur move from hurt to anger, however, was that when confronted outright Merlin had denied everything. The theft and reasons behind it the prince could forgive, but the denial, when they both knew there was no other answer? No one besides Merlin was allowed unsupervised in Arthur’s chambers. No one else knew where the precious pin was kept. No one else would have known his schedule…

It was damning, and yet his servant had still chosen to lie. Rather than confess and beg forgiveness and then let Arthur offer help, Merlin had become angry and defensive, causing the prince’s blood to boil.

Now Arthur was still fuming and wondering what on earth he was going to do with the boy he’d left shivering in the stocks when he finally returned to Camelot.

Sack him?

Arrest him?

Send him back to Ealdor?

Turn him over to the king?

The heavy clouds above parted for a moment allowing a little sunlight to fight its way through, but rather than raise his mood it just served to darken it further, reminding him that even the weather was conspiring to make him as miserable as possible.

It was going to rain before they could get back, turning the road to churned mud.

Merlin would be drenched and chilled to the bone, condemned to the pillory until Arthur returned. He’d probably take sick…

And it would serve him right, Arthur reminded himself with clenched teeth. The little lying thief should have –

“Sire!”

Arthur jerked out of his thoughts, turning at the sound of Leon’s call as the older knight rode up next to him. He didn’t answer, just cocked an annoyed eyebrow at the man and waited impatiently for him to go on.

“Look,” the knight said, grabbing the back of Arthur’s warm traveling cloak and pulling it around to show him the hem.

Something gold glinted in the weak sunlight, mostly hidden in the cloak’s folds. Arthur grabbed it with his fingers and disentangled it, pulling it away.

His missing cloak-pin lay gleaming on the palm of his gloved hand.

Leon – the only one who’d been with him when the argument with Merlin had erupted, who’d born the angry manservant off to his punishment with obvious displeasure – gave him a meaningful look.

Then Arthur remembered.

Remembered the last time it had rained and he’d worn his warm cloak, months ago. How Merlin had slipped on the stones of his chambers and hit his head just as Arthur was pulling it off. How he’d tossed the cloak without care onto his bed before grabbing his clumsy and unresponsive idiot up and rushing him to Gaius. How he’d returned several hours later to a room that had been tidied and given it no thought, content in the knowledge that Merlin and his incredibly hard head would be fine.

The prince heaved a sigh, a weary, long-suffering sigh that seemed to start at his toes and travel all the way up to his chest.

And just at that moment, the skies opened up and it started to pour.

*****

Merlin didn’t bother to wipe away the water that was running in rivers down his hair and face as Leon released him from the wooden frame and helped him to straighten for the first time in over eight hours. What was the point? He was already wetter than a drowned dog and just as cold.

“Thanks,” he mumbled quietly to the knight, grimacing as abused muscles screamed at him.

Leon took his wrists and quickly removed the manacles, before looking at him with a strange mixture of pity and anger, though it seemed to Merlin the anger was oddly not directed at him.

“Your face is bruised,” the senior knight said with a frown.

“Big kids, good aim. They found the stash of rotten potatoes,” Merlin answered wearily.

Leon’s expression darkened, but to Merlin’s relief he made no further comment on it.

“Go home and get warm,” he said kindly. “The prince has ordered you to meet him in the stables at dawn, ready for a hunt.”

He must want to pass judgment in private, then, Merlin thought bitterly. Heaven forbid the prat suffer a moment of embarrassment.

Out loud he said nothing, however. Just nodded and slogged wearily toward Gaius’ tower, the small logical part of him that remained untouched by hurt and anger grateful that at least he wasn’t also spending the night in the dungeons.

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Author’s Note:
Special thanks goes out in this chapter to M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng and Smuffly for beta help, nagging, support, and encouragement. Thank you, friends! I couldn’t have done it without you!

2. Things Left Unsaid

Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

*****

Arriving at the stables in the tepid light of early dawn, Arthur found himself shocked by several things that he did not expect, the first being that his manservant wasn’t just on time but actually early, waiting for him with horses saddled and bags packed. He would have quipped some flippant comment about time and someone finally learning how to tell it, but the silent, wounded anger he felt practically radiating from the boy stopped the words on his tongue, and then a good look at the servant’s black and blue face killed them altogether.

The tiny voice in the back of his mind that Merlin would have called his conscience and he liked to try and ignore whenever possible pricked at him, reminding him of the real purpose of this outing and that he had much to atone for.

But not here, where the eyes and ears of every noble and servant alike were open and waiting for the next bit of juicy gossip to sweep the kingdom. The Prince of Camelot seen apologizing to his servant was just the sort of scandal they lived and breathed for, and it would take probably an hour at most after catching the rumor-mill for the whole messy affair to make its way back to the King. The King who had been in an increasingly short-tempered and violent mood as every day with no news of Morgana passed. If that were to happen, Arthur would be on the receiving end of another shouting-match and Merlin would probably have more than just a few bruises on his face to worry about.

No, it was best to wait for a while, even if it meant he had to deal with Merlin’s justified anger a little longer.

So Arthur simply nodded to his servant, acknowledging that things were as he’d requested, and spoke a short command for them to go.

“Yes, sire,” Merlin answered quietly, and Arthur’s gut clenched even more.

Quiet, polite, and on time – yes, Merlin was highly upset.

They rode from the citadel and through the lower town in strained silence. Arthur found his thoughts drifting again to the day before and the argument that had started this whole disaster.

Why had he been so quick to assume Merlin had stolen the missing cloak-pin? The boy was loyal to a fault, always thinking of others before his own needs. If Arthur was being completely honest, and it was just in his own head and no one was around to even guess that he might be thinking it, he had to admit that Merlin was the closest thing to a best friend he’d ever had.

So why had he assumed his friend would betray him like that? And assumed it so quickly?

Was it because in the end everyone always did? No one had ever become close to him without having some hidden agenda of personal gain? Was he really so cynical and untrusting?

That made him feel slightly frozen on the inside, and he shivered without realizing.

Or maybe, that was just the residual chill from yesterday’s storm lingering. He should have brought that blasted cloak again.

Which just brought his thoughts full circle once more and etched the frown deeper onto his face as he urged his mount down the last twisting streets of the lower town.

The smell of fresh air and green things growing hit Arthur as they passed through the last city gates and he breathed deeply with relief. He might be a prince, born to privilege and rank, but there was something about the forest that called to his soul. He could always think more clearly when lost in the lush expanse of the woods than he could anywhere else.

Heaven knew he needed it today.

A hurried man dressed in the official livery of a Camelot messenger passed them a few yards out of the gate. The prince didn’t recognize him, but his father had pressed so many new men into service out of desperation to find any lead that would bring Morgana home, he was hardly surprised the man’s face was unfamiliar. The messenger gave him an almost startled look before rushing on, and Arthur frowned.

Perhaps there was news? Perhaps they should turn and go back?

No, he decided after only a moment of hesitation. This pretend hunt was not meant to last more than the good hours of the day. Any news wouldn’t be acted upon until the morrow, anyway, and fixing things with Merlin was the more pressing issue at hand.

He stole a glance to where his servant was for once riding a respectful pace behind him. The boy’s eyes were glued to the mane of his mare, his bruised jaw clenched and his hands holding the reins in a white-knuckle grip.

Arthur sighed and veered his horse off the main path, plunging them into the shade of the rustling trees.

There was a clearing a short distance ahead. It would serve well enough for what he needed to do.

Now he just had to figure out what to say.

Merlin, it was unfair of me to put you in the stocks for most of the day in an awful storm, especially when you really didn’t deserve it, although, if you were better at taking care of my things like you are supposed to then –

Arthur gritted his teeth, discarding that train of thought.

I shouldn’t have blamed you for stealing, Merlin, and I should have listened when you tried to explain. Next time, don’t be so clumsy and slip and hit your head. Then we can avoid –

Again, he threw the words out, growing angry with himself. Was it so hard to swallow his pride, admit he had done wrong, and ask his friend for forgiveness, without somehow throwing a pointless barb of blame back at the boy?

By the time Arthur dragged himself out of his own head the clearing was long in the distance and he still had no idea what to say.

Perhaps by the time they arrived at next one he’d be ready.

*****

The deeper they rode into the forest, the more jumbled and mixed up Merlin’s thoughts became.

He was still angry – a righteous fury that burned just beneath his skin and threatened to boil over every time he looked at the back of the arrogant prat’s head, but it was becoming tempered as another emotion overtook it: fear.

What was Arthur going to do to him? His master was convinced he’d stolen something precious to him, and lied about it afterwards. He could not let that go unpunished.

Merlin had no doubt in his mind that was the real purpose of this trip. They’d been riding for several hours and Arthur hadn’t even looked twice at the game they’d startled from the undergrowth. The prince was going to hand down his sentence, or at least interrogate him to decide which course of action to choose.

He didn’t think Arthur would kill him – not over a cloak-pin. The prince was a better man than that even when he was at his worst.

Stealing from – and lying to – royalty was a serious crime, however…

Even though he knew he wasn’t guilty, Merlin’s stomach churned with fear, the last of his anger leeching away.

Flogging. Thieves were flogged. The more serious the crime the greater the number of lashes.

Arthur was going to have him beaten…and maybe imprisoned for a time. Purposefully hurt, publicly humiliated, and then locked away from those he loved and needed to protect. The prince was bringing him out here to tell him in private what would happen, out of some remaining sense of duty to their shredded friendship.

He’d never thought that Arthur would do that to him. But then, he’d also never thought that his friend would think him a thief, and that belief had been proven spectacularly wrong.

Once the worries took hold in his mind, Merlin found he couldn’t stop them as they swirled and grew, logic and reason slightly blinded by the hurt and panic as his terrors ran away with him.

Thieves also had their hands cut off, as a punishment and a warning.

Merlin remembered stories of King Cenred; had grown up hearing them. He met a beggar once, one-handed and clothed in rags, shunned and alone…

But Camelot was civilized. Arthur would never, ever do that.

Uther might, though.

Merlin’s breath hitched and he squeezed the reins tightly with his two hands, hands he was suddenly very aware of.

Uther burned children alive for having a spark of magic. The thought that he could order Merlin’s hand cut off wasn’t so very far outside the realm of possibility. He’d see an affront to the Crown Prince himself, a lesson that needed to be learned, a personal offence from the servant he himself appointed.

Oh, what if Arthur did turn him over to the king for punishment? He’d rather endure public flogging and imprisonment than lose his hand!

“Merlin.”

He jumped at the sound of the prince’s voice, startling his horse, and it was a good thing she was used to him or she might have bolted. For just a moment, Merlin was convinced there was almost a smile on Arthur’s lips, but when he looked again, the solemn expression that had been etched firmly in place since yesterday was still there and the servant knew he must have imagined it.

“We’ll stop here. I assume you brought some sort of lunch?” Arthur said, dismounting.

“Yes, sire,” Merlin answered quietly, sliding from his own saddle to the ground. It was still wet from yesterday’s storm, and he shivered at the feeling of winter approaching that hung in the air – at least that’s what he told himself was making his flesh prickle in bumps.

Merlin prepared the light traveling meal he’d brought while Arthur paced. Like he did when he was working out a speech. Or had something great on his mind.

He shivered again.

Arthur’s steps took him farther away, near the edge of the clearing they’d stopped in, and Merlin watched sadly for a moment before returning his attention to his tasks. This was hard for Arthur, passing this judgement. If only he could get the man to listen to him, to realize there was no need! Merlin was guilty of plenty of transgressions, some of them even considered crimes, but this time he was actually innocent! But just as Arthur was a good man, he was also a stubborn one. Changing his mind once it was made up was near impossible.

Merlin found himself fighting back tears as his insides twisted. This was it – the last moments of them, Merlin and Arthur, servant and master – friends. Once the meal was spread and Arthur returned from his pacing, everything would change.

Except everything changed even sooner than he expected when a hand suddenly wrapped around his mouth and the tempered steel of a blade was pressed against the soft skin of his neck.

*****
Thank you so much to all who have read this, commented, sent Kudos! I've been utterly amazed at the response this story is receiving!

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3. Cry Havoc

There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others.
- Jane Austen
*****

Arthur was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes as he turned from pacing one direction to go back in the other. A man stood behind Merlin, hand clamped tightly over his mouth and a wicked looking knife pressed against his throat. His servant’s eyes shone with shock and fear.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he cried, drawing his sword and striding closer, all thoughts of apologies dropping from his mind as it instantly entered battle mode.

“Securing your cooperation,” the man answered without fuss.

At that moment, men melted from the trees just outside the clearing, completely surrounding them with swords drawn. There were at least a dozen, perhaps closer to fifteen, though Arthur didn’t take the time to count for sure, and these were not clumsy bandits. These were trained soldiers – apparently well-trained if they had been able to follow and surround him without Arthur even noticing, despite his distracted state of mind.

His heartbeat increased, though he didn’t let it show, and his mind raced through plans and strategies, trying to find the best way out of this mess without either Merlin or himself ending up dead.

“What do you want?” he demanded, projecting a calmness he certainly did not feel.

The man still holding Merlin hostage spoke again.

“You,” he answered simply, tightening his hold on the trembling manservant to the point the prince could tell it was painful. Arthur glared, and his eyes narrowed as he finally studied him closer. He was the messenger, the one they had passed on their way out of the city.

What exactly was going on here?

Merlin was shaking his head at him, eyes frantic, until the man pressed his knife closer, drawing a thin line of blood and the servant stilled again.

“Why should I comply with your demands and cooperate?” Arthur said. “What makes you think threatening the life of the boy would hold any sway with me? He’s just a servant.” The words were painful to say, but he couldn’t think about Merlin’s feelings right now. He had to play the part of prince, not friend, if they were going to get out of this alive.

“Because your reputation as a just and fair man proceeds you, Prince Arthur. He may be just a servant, but even the life of a servant has meaning in your eyes, does it not?”

Frustration filled Arthur as he saw his options sliding away. As a prince, he could not show the weakness of appearing to care for one man, but he also knew in his heart that he couldn’t let anything happen to Merlin, to his friend. He was stuck, and everyone there knew it.

Until Merlin chose that moment to chomp his teeth down on the hand that covered his mouth. His captor jerked it off in surprise and the boy twisted away without hesitation, even though it left a trail of blood etched from his cheek to the top of his neckerchief. Without stopping, Merlin scooped up the knife he’d been using to prepare food and planted himself at Arthur’s back, his eyes frightened but firm.

Despite the seriousness of their situation, Arthur was slightly impressed. Apparently, not everything in two years of forced training sessions has slipped through his servant’s grasp.

“Don’t do this,” the man said, shaking his head. “It will just make things harder in the end.”

Arthur’s only response was to grip his sword more firmly and swing it round a few times, to loosen up his muscles and prepare.

“Make a dash for it as soon as there’s a clear path,” he whispered over his shoulder to Merlin, trying to keep his eyes on all the men circling them at once. “Get back to Camelot. Send help.”

He never had the chance to hear Merlin’s answer because just at that moment some sort of signal must have been given and the soldiers closed in from all sides.

And then he forgot everything except the battle skills that had been drilled into him since the time he could barely walk.

Block, thrust, parry, whirl…

Punch here, shove there, swing around…

It only took him a few minutes to realize the men were holding back slightly, fighting without trying to deliver any mortal blows. Arthur held no such compulsion. He fought like one possessed, desperately trying to win this battle against such staggering odds.

Suddenly, a struggling figure was dragged into Arthur’s line of sight and forced to his knees. It was Merlin, battered and bleeding, arms wrenched and held behind his back. Someone’s gloved hand was fisted into his hair, yanking his head back painfully and a bloody sword was pushed against his throat.

“Surrender!” the fake messenger ordered Arthur, signaling for his men to stop fighting. “Or the boy’s head comes off his shoulders right now. It’s your choice, Prince Arthur.”

Arthur knew what he’d been trained to do in this situation, what he should do. Knew without a doubt what his father would do. And he also knew with just as much certainty that he couldn’t do it.

With an angry growl, he threw his sword to the ground and backed up, holding his empty hands out to his sides.

“Now let him go!” he spat, jerking his head toward his servant.

They didn’t exactly follow his order, but the fist left Merlin’s hair as the sword was lowered.

“Arthur! No!” the boy shouted, trying to struggle to his feet against the hands that still held him. “Don’t do this!”

“Shut up, Merlin,” he muttered, breath still ragged from exertion. He didn’t resist as he felt someone come up and pull his arms behind his back, fastening them tightly with strong rope.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just comply in the first place?” the leader asked, anger in his voice as he checked on his wounded men.

“Maybe,” Arthur shot back, just as angry. “But I feel a lot better anyway.”

The man glared at him and gestured suddenly to someone he couldn’t see. Before he even had a chance to turn a heavy weight crashed into the back of his head. For just a moment, pain exploded like sparks of a wildfire behind his eyes and then he crumpled as everything went dark and his consciousness fled.

*****

“NOOO!”

The shout tore from Merlin’s lips as he watched Arthur fall limply to the ground. A sudden surge of pure power, hot and alive and uncontrollable, welled up inside of the warlock. Without real, conscious thought it burst out and suddenly the men surrounding Arthur were thrown away. Another push and the ones holding Merlin went down.

He was on his feet and racing to his friend’s side before the men had even finished hitting the ground. He didn’t think of the injuries that littered his body and sent stinging pain through him as he moved. He didn’t think of how he would explain to his master that he won the fight against fifteen men while Arthur was unconscious. He didn’t think about anything other than the need to make sure the prince was all right.

And he surely didn’t think of the fact that the men around Arthur and the ones that had been restraining him weren’t the only ones present, which was why he never had time to defend against the blow to the head that came out of nowhere and sent him to the muddy ground.

He rolled to his back, groggy and in pain, as his vision blurred in and out. Still, he stretched out a trembling hand, knowing he should do something to stop the man he saw standing over him, but the magic that just a moment before had been so powerful seemed to slip and twist just out of reach in his now muddled mind.

“Oh, lad,” the non-messenger said, almost a little sadly, “you should not have done that.”

And then he raised his sword hilt first and Merlin’s spinning world went black.

Author's Note: Thank you once again to Missy and Smuffly, for help and support and making this chapter happen! And to all the rest of you - I have to admit I've been rather blown away by the response to this story! Thank you so much!

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4. Dark Answers

Sadly enough, the most painful goodbyes are the ones that are left unsaid and never explained.
- Jonathan Harnisch

*****

Arthur woke to a pounding headache and the instinctive knowledge that something was drastically wrong.

That feeling, deep in his gut, was enough to keep him still, force him to breathe evenly as he waited for consciousness to fully return.

He was a prisoner – he knew by the blindfold around his eyes and the ropes that bound his hands behind his back even before the memories of what had happened managed to trickle into place in his sore brain.

Focusing on his other senses, he sifted through the information he could ascertain.

He was still in the forest, that much he could tell. There was a tree at his back, ropes around his body lashing him tightly to it, and the scents of earth and leaves hung in the air. Air that was also laced with the strong odor of wood smoke.

His ears picked up the sounds of rustling cloth, restless horses, clanking armor and weapons and cookware.

The soldiers had made camp, though it was impossible for him to tell if it was morning or evening, or if they were anywhere near the vicinity of where he’d been captured. Probably not. Any half-decent soldier would know not to remain where they captured a prisoner, and Arthur had to grudgingly admit that these were half-decent soldiers.

Merlin!

The thought crashed into him as he finally came completely awake.

What had they done with, Merlin?

For only a second he hoped that they might have let the boy go, but the thought was gone as soon as it came. They would never have released a witness, to scurry home and bring back aid.

So the boy must also be somewhere in this camp, probably bound and restrained as well. Unless of course they had –

Arthur stomped on that thought, refusing to follow it any further.

Merlin was there. He had to be.

Concentrating through the headache, Arthur strained his ears to listen for soft breathing near him – shifting – fidgeting. Anything that would alert him to his servant’s location.

He was so focused he almost missed the sound of footsteps approaching. Someone crouched before him and there was the sudden jab of a dull point in his side.

“Sit up, Your Royal Highness. I know you’re awake.”

The voice was deep, mocking, and unfamiliar.

Arthur sighed and straightened; there was no point in the subterfuge now.

“Do you always awaken your guests by poking them in the ribs with a stick?” Arthur asked.

“Only the ones I really don’t like,” the man snapped.

“And that feeling is mutual,” Arthur spat back.

“I could find something sharper…” The man let the threat linger there in the dark void between them.

Arthur sighed and decided not to rise to the bait. He wished they would remove the blindfold; it was hard to negotiate when he was literally in the dark. “Does your leader realize that simply riding into Camelot’s lands with a show of force is enough to be an act of war, let alone kidnapping the Crown Prince? Surely no amount of ransom money is worth that?”

The man annoyingly gave no answer, just rose and moved slightly to the side, rustling around with something he had nearby.

“Is that what this is about? Ransom money?” Arthur was desperate for answers, because all of this made so little sense in his mind. Bandits kidnapped for money, but these men were soldiers – some other king’s men. Did someone actually want to start a war and they were using Arthur to accomplish it? The leader had been dressed as a Camelot messenger, had been in Camelot before ambushing them. Was Camelot under attack even now? Was his father all right?

“Why was your leader impersonating a messenger of Camelot? How did you know where to find us?” he demanded, his voice growing with each sentence.

Us. The word pushed Merlin’s bloody, bruised and frightened face back to the forefront of Arthur’s thoughts. “What have you done with my servant? Where is he?” he asked, his voice cold as ice now.

“I was sent over here to feed you, not to chat,” the stranger growled with obvious contempt.

Suddenly, there were hands close to his face, shoving what felt like a piece of bread into his mouth. Arthur jerked his face away and spat – furious.

“I can feed myself!”

“Not with your hands tied to a tree. Eat the food!”

“Where is Merlin?”

Again no answer, just the bread being pushed at his mouth once more, and Arthur’s frustration and wounded pride boiled over. Taking a leaf out of his servant’s book, he bit down on the grubby fingers – hard.

His reward was a slight howl and then a backhand across the face that was strong enough to snap his head to the side, especially since he couldn’t see it coming to prepare. Trying not to openly wince, he moved his jaw for a moment to work through the pain, then turned to face where he believed the man to be once more.

“You going hungry tonight is no skin off my back!” his captor said, obviously angry.

“Tell me where my servant is!” Arthur spat again, every word clipped and every ounce of princely fury he had shoved into the demand.

“Fine,” the other man said coldly. Arthur heard a rustling again and figured the food was being put away. “The brat is dead.”

The world stopped.

Sound, air, even the sense of feeling his own skin dissolved to nothingness as Arthur’s aching brain fought to understand the words that couldn’t possibly have just been said.

He was frozen, shoved out of time and sense and reality.

And then, just as suddenly, everything around him and inside of him shattered. The heart that had just that morning acknowledged that Merlin was his closest friend splintered as a silent, anguished cry ripped through him, shredding everything.

NOOOOOOO!

Rage like he’d never felt before filled the void and he strained hard against his bonds for the first time.

“I surrendered!” he roared. “I surrendered to keep him safe! You should not have harmed him!”

“And you should not have killed my brother! You should have surrendered the first time Sir Einar asked instead of fighting!” the stranger hissed back. “There are consequences for your actions, Prince Arthur! A life for a life! Welcome to the real world.”

*****

I know this chapter is very short, but sometimes chapters are just like that. Also, please don’t get too used to this update pace – this is something of an anomaly for me. But I’m loving it, and not going to fight it while it lasts.

As always, thanks to Missy for her invaluable help, and to Smuffly and Lizzie for giving me eyes on it before I posted to ease my anxiety.

To all my readers and reviewers – I’m utterly blown away. THANK YOU!

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This chapter is dedicated to M1ssUnd3erst4nd1ng, who gave me the ultimate fanfic compliment when she said, "You're awful! I love you!" Thanks, my friend!

5. A Hollow Silence and an Aching Heart

The quiet sense of something lost.
- Alfred Tennyson

*****

Arthur didn’t sleep.

Gradually, darkness swallowed the camp but it made no difference to him, blindfolded as he was. The sounds of the soldiers stilled as men retired to blankets for rest, someone even going so far as to throw one carelessly over him, and the noises of a forest at night crept in to fill the void.

Two soldiers remained on guard, however, one to patrol the perimeter and one just to watch Arthur. He heard them moving, shifting softly, and occasionally he caught the sound of clinking metal – armor or chainmail he supposed.

These men were definitely not the overconfident, drunken, and foolish bandits he was used to encountering. No, they were well-trained and sufficiently paranoid – not willing to take any chances with their captive.

He sat there shivering on the cold, damp ground that sucked all warmth from his skin for hours, his hands and legs gone numb ages before, but that was nothing compared to the numbness inside his heart.

Merlin was dead.

His clumsy, idiotic, loyal and brave ser – no friend – with the gargantuan ears and dopey smile was dead.

Around him leaves rustled. An owl hooted peacefully while a small stream trickled quietly nearby and his own heart beat steadily in his chest. He heard all these things, but couldn’t understand them anymore than he could process those words that kept running through his head. How could life go on, so normal and calm about him, while Merlin was dead?

It was wrong.

And it wasn’t fair.

Of course, it was possible the solider had been lying to him, taking advantage of his blocked sight and helpless state. In the first hour he’d clung to that hope, that Merlin might not really be dead, but it hadn’t taken him long to discard it. Merlin was loud, stubborn, and horrible at following orders. Like a bull amongst the china. There was no way Arthur wouldn’t have heard him getting himself into at least a little trouble by now if he were being held in the camp.

The smart, strategic course of action for the men to have followed would have been to keep the boy alive – insurance of Arthur’s continued cooperation. Why would they tell him he was dead and lose that bargaining chip in their arsenal if it weren’t true?

Besides, he had heard real sorrow lurking just below the anger in the stranger’s words. The man was not inventing the loss of a brother.

The horrible, soul-ripping pain of losing a brother - Arthur now knew with awful clarity how he felt.

Merlin should not have died.

But he certainly should not have died like that.

He’d died believing Arthur thought him a thief.

He’d died quiet and respectful, afraid of a punishment he did not deserve!

He’d died thinking he had lost his friend.

And Arthur could have prevented all of it – the worry, the fear, the death! Pride made him wait to apologize and make things right. Pride pushed him to fight rather than surrender even though he knew it was hopeless. Pride even led him to assume his word as a prince was enough to protect his friend’s life.

That same pride had crumbled now, in the face of his aching grief, leaving him hollow and cold. It was a fair-weather friend that was gone at the first shattering blow.

And yet, it was also all he had left, that pride, all that kept him sitting upright and the tears at bay. He would wrap it tightly around him like a cloak, use it as a buffer and a shield, be the prince he needed to be in order to survive, for the sake of his kingdom.

But Merlin was still gone – dead – a young life so uselessly taken – and no amount of projected pride could ever fill the hollow emptiness that now sat in his heart.

*****

Arthur must have dozed off at some point during the night because he was roused in the morning from a sleep he didn’t remember falling into by a different stranger.

“What do you want with me?” he tried to ask again, his voice rough. “What is your goal?”

The soldier didn’t answer, just tried to feed him food and drink once more. Arthur’s stomach rumbled with hunger, but again he turned his face to the side and clamped his lips shut.

If they wouldn’t answer his simple questions, he wasn’t going to eat their wretched food.

The man gave up after a few more tries, and the food disappeared. Arthur then felt the ropes that held him back against the tree loosen, and a few seconds later he was dragged to his feet.

It was all he could do to stay upright and not collapse back to his knees, his legs frozen and dead after all night sitting on the cold ground. He locked his knees and gritted his teeth against the pins and needles as the blood flowed back, grateful that the man holding his elbow in a tight grip allowed him a moment before forcing him to move forward.

He was led only a few steps to the side then stopped again, and his instincts told him there was something large and warm and alive right beside him. A horse, he was sure of it.

“Your Highness,” a voice greeted him casually. Arthur instantly placed it as belonging to the leader of this group, the one who had been impersonating the messenger yesterday.

“Sir Einar,” he replied coolly as he recalled the name the stranger had dropped last night, proving he was still very much on his guard and aware of his surroundings, despite his current handicaps.

“You’re going to lift your foot and let it be guided to a stirrup, then help get yourself into the saddle, where you will be tied for the rest of the day.”

“Where are we going?” he demanded.

No answer, even when he let the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke again. “I will not climb onto the back of any horse until you at least tell me where we are going.”

“Get on the horse,” the man said, ignoring his commands and urging him forward with a slight shove.

Throwing his shoulders back as best as he could with his hands still bound painfully behind him, Arthur dug in his heels and refused.

The man sighed. “Get on the horse of your own accord, or I’ll knock you unconscious again and drape you over it. And I’ll do it every day until our journey ends if I have to. I won’t enjoy it, but I am a knight, Prince Arthur. I swore an oath to my lord that I would follow his commands and I will not break it. I’m sure that’s something you understand.”

He paused for just a moment while Arthur still stood there stubbornly, weighing his options.

“We will be traveling for many days, Your Majesty,” the man continued. “How many hits round the head do you think it will take before the damage is permanent? An addlepated prince won’t make a bit of difference to our king – might even make things easier.”

Arthur let his shoulders sag. His pride and rebellion wasn’t worth ending up a simpleton or a fool. If he were being forced to defend and keep Camelot’s secrets – perhaps – but for the sake of not getting on the back of a horse?

“Fine,” he ground out between clenched teeth and let himself be pushed and shoved up into the saddle.

They lashed his legs to the stirrups and wrapped a rope several times around his torso that was fixed to the saddle horn. Someone else had control of the reins. He was immobile and going nowhere of his own volition.

The impotence of it all stung greatly.

They set a brisk pace and Arthur hated it. Hated the feeling of being strapped to a powerful animal with no freedom of movement or control. Hated the feeling of flying through nothingness, a great rushing, dark void. Hated that he couldn’t even allow himself the comfort of escaping inside his own head to endure, because the moment he did one thought swam forward – Merlin – and the soul-crushing emptiness of that one word was a million times worse than the black reality around him.

*****

Hours passed.

Eventually, the pain of his swollen wrists and hungry belly, plus the growing ache in his head, grounded Arthur back in the present. He reluctantly set aside his grief as a friend and forced himself to slip back into his training as a knight.

What did he know?

What could he assume?

What could he do?

The last question was easy – nothing. At least, very little other than be as stubborn, annoying and rebellious as possible without getting himself horribly damaged.

A pang of hurt shot through him as he realized that was a very “Merlin” sort of plan. Sighing sadly, he pushed that thought gently away.

What he knew was a bit more complicated. He knew he was greatly confused and angry, but he forced himself to search below that, really turn over and examine every sliver of information he’d been given.

He was being taken somewhere, apparently far away, on the orders of another king.

He’d heard no talk of a ransom, so this was not about wealth or money, at least not in the most obvious way.

The leader of the soldiers – Sir Einar – had donned a disguise and come straight to the heart of Camelot for some reason, but had left after seeing Arthur ride out.

Sir Einar knew of Arthur, of his personality, of his reputation as a knight and warrior. They were taking no chances with him, not letting their guard down. That meant that this whole kidnapping had been carefully planned, and probably for a long time.

They’d tried to feed him and offer him drink, given him a blanket for the night. Threats of violence were only in retaliation for things he did, not because he was helpless and at their mercy.

This meant he was to be delivered to wherever they were going alive and relatively unharmed.

All of these clues he’d been able to piece together led him to make a few assumptions.

Someone was plotting against Camelot, and he was somehow central to that plan, but it was not a hasty plan. His fears of leaving behind a city under attack or siege were probably false, at least for now. He was sure that would happen eventually, but it gave his mind and heart a small measure of relief to think his kingdom and his people were safe for the moment. A slow plan would at least allow him time to do everything he could to thwart it.

What this would do to his father, though…

Arthur was loath to admit it, even silently in his own head, but the king was teetering close to the edge. Morgana’s disappearance had broken something inside of his father – every once in a while Arthur would see a flash of something almost like insanity gleaming in his eyes. It frightened him.

What would he do when he realized his son and heir was missing as well? Would it be enough to push him over the precipice he was dangling on into full madness?

He could only hope that the strength and determination - the fortitude that he’d always admired in his father – would be able to keep the darkness at bay. Pray that the force that made him a great king would let him hold onto his sanity.

*****

The second night as a prisoner was much worse than the first. He was stiff and sore from an awful day in the saddle and that was before they pushed him to the hard, cold ground and tied him to a tree. He’d long ago lost any sense of feeling in his bound hands, and he was so sick of the blindfold and never ending darkness it took all of his determination not to scream.

There was more than a little fear swirling around in his gut, though he hoped it wasn’t showing on the outside. Fear for where he was being taken and what would be done to him there. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to withstand whatever was coming and would fail his kingdom and his father. Fear that it would hurt, oh so very much.

Trying to ignore the growing unease, he once again asked and shouted questions, commanding answers and information, anything! But he was soundly ignored. He couldn’t even goad someone into snapping and shouting back at him. Arthur cursed the soldiers’ excellent training.

His stomach gnawed with hunger, but he again refused to be fed. It was a plan he knew he’d have to abandon eventually, but for now his shredded dignity demanded he at least try.

The camp fell into the silence of night and Arthur huddled miserably in the blanket they’d wrapped around him, grief filling his heart. The night before it had been tempered with shock, his mind not yet quite ready to accept reality, but tonight the shock was gone, leaving behind a gaping hole in his heart that filled and overflowed with anguish.

The truth was very simple: he missed Merlin.

He missed his endless, pointless babbling. He missed his stupid jokes and insults. He missed his stubborn loyalty and refusal to obey orders.

He missed his friend.

Sorrow and guilt clawed at him like a hungry beast, tearing up his insides and pushing moisture to the corners of his covered eyes.

Arthur had lost men before. Brothers-in-arms that he’d trained, fought beside, and held as they died. Soldiers he’d ordered to their deaths with carefully masked anguish in his heart. But nothing had ever made him hurt as he did now, grieving over a simple serving boy who had wormed his way beneath a prince’s pride and stubbornly became his closest friend.

He remembered telling Merlin not too long ago that no man was worth his tears.

He knew now that statement was horribly wrong. His friend was worth his grief and sorrow and tears, and so much more that Arthur would never be able to give him.

Leaning his head back against the tree, Arthur let his tears fall, his blindfold growing damp before he finally dropped into a haunted sleep.

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: Thank you to Missy for beta and consistency help! I don’t think you know how much it means.

Also, this chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Sally, for years of friendship, support, and just for being a wonderful person.

6. Food for Thought

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you.”
- A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

*****

Arthur found his thoughts slightly scattered the next day as he once again rode through the darkness lashed to his horse.

It was getting colder. Was that just the weather? Were they riding north? Was it both?

Angry Soldier had tried to feed him again that morning, which Arthur again refused, making him Angrier Soldier. Angry Soldier was a stupid name though – Arthur decided he would call him Claudius after his least favorite dog. Claudius the Clotpole.

He hoped the patrols that would be sent out to search for him would find Merlin’s body, and he prayed it would be Leon. The older knight had liked the boy; he would make sure Merlin was brought home to Gaius and given a proper burial.

Poor Gaius. Merlin was like his own child. This would break the old man’s heart.

Would it break his own father’s heart, if he never came home? Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure if his father loved him, or just loved having an heir. If he never came back, he wondered who his father would name to the throne. Would he perhaps remarry? Sire more children?

The prince shook his head, drawing his wandering brain back to the present. He had been kidnapped – an unfocused mind could get him killed.

*****

It seemed to take an excruciatingly long time for the soldiers to halt that night. They rode for hours, at the same fast pace as before, and Arthur was sure they pressed on far longer than they had just yesterday. He wondered if they were close to their destination and pushing to complete the journey. The young prince searched his head for which kingdoms they could have reached with three days of hard traveling…

When they did stop, however, it was just to make camp again. So, obviously not the end of this dratted trip, Arthur thought with a sigh as he was led stumbling from his horse to the royal comfort of a hard tree trunk, just like before.

Once he was bound in place and left alone, Arthur forced himself to listen. It didn’t take him long to realize that he hadn’t been completely wrong – there was something different about this camp. It was noisy, in a way the last two hadn’t been. He heard new voices, people shouting orders and commands, the sound of pots banging and several fires crackling, even the crunch of dirt and sticks under wagon wheels.

The company of soldiers had met up with another group, apparently comprised of more soldiers, servants – even a few slaves, he thought darkly, if he wasn’t imagining the clink of chains that pricked his ears – and wagons full of supplies. It once again spoke of the preparation that had gone into this whole endeavor, as well as told Arthur this was indeed likely to be a lengthy trip.

He frowned.

The blindfold he could live with, though he detested it with every fiber of his soul, but if they kept the ropes around his wrists for the entire time, it might do permanent harm.

It was one more worry to add to the large list he already had.

Arthur soon caught the scent of delicious things cooking. Of course, they were in the middle of some unknown woods, so the food could hardly be on par with a feast from the royal kitchens, but to his gnawing stomach it smelled just as tempting. Soon enough, his own dinner was brought over, this time born by both the incredibly antagonistic “Claudius the Clotpole” and his friend “Faceless Soldier Number Two,” hereafter to be known in the prince’s own head as Bernard.

The attempt to feed him ended about the same as all the others had, with cursing and spitting and a few bitten fingers.

Claudius swore strongly. “Why won’t you just eat it?” the man shouted, kicking him hard in the leg.

That spurred Arthur’s own fury and he yelled back, “Because I am a Prince of Camelot and I don’t eat food from the hands of murderers like you!”

A second, harder kick followed and Claudius dissolved into the type of language that made even the prince blush. Bernard pulled his companion away, and Arthur fought a satisfied smirk as he strained to catch bits of their conversation. He knew he’d have to abandon this rebellion, probably in the morning, if he wanted to keep his strength up and be fighting fit if the need should arise, but it was worth one more night of hunger just to have won this small battle.

“ – been almost three days! He has to eat!”

Arthur strained to hear the whispered words as the two men argued.

“ – can starve to death for all I care!”

“ – will be our heads if Sir Einar –”

They bickered for a while more, but their voices dropped below what Arthur could make out until eventually Claudius shouted, “Fine!” and stomped off.

It didn’t sound like someone who had given up, but rather a person who had decided to change tactics. Warily, Arthur waited and listened carefully.

It was only a few minutes later he heard the man returning and it sounded like he was dragging something with him.

A weapon? Arthur wondered. Some means to force him to eat, whether he wanted to or not?

And then the soldier lobbed the object at Arthur’s feet and he realized it was actually another human being. Arms and legs – and what felt suspiciously like chains, confirming his earlier thoughts – tangled against him for a moment before the person was able to right themselves and move away.

Behind the blindfold, Arthur’s eyes narrowed and his heart quickened. Long, gangly limbs had reminded him too forcefully of what he’d just lost, sending a burst of hope he couldn’t allow shooting through him. He squashed it quickly, replacing it with anger. This was just some other unfortunate soul – probably a slave – whose life had been ruined by these men.

“Get this idiot of a prince to eat or I will take it out on your own hide!” Claudius ordered the poor stranger. Arthur felt several more, smaller objects hit him, heard what sounded like dishes being slapped on the ground, and then the enraged soldier stormed off.

Silence descended, filled only by a faint rustling as the other person gathered up the food. And yes, he wasn’t imagining it, there was also the light jangling of chains.

Arthur sighed, knowing this changed everything. He was willing to endure a great deal for the sake of his pride, but he wasn’t willing to put some other innocent and helpless person in the line of fire, especially after the painful lessons he’d learned in the last few days.

Pride wasn’t worth another man’s life.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly, but there was no answer. Instead, he felt a water skin touch his lips, wobbling ever so slightly. He gave a little nod and allowed the water to be tipped down his throat.

The pace was slow and careful, even after his body reacted to the thirst he finally acknowledged and tried to gulp it madly. Too soon it was drawn away and he licked his parched lips. A moment later, a spoon replaced it, held close to his mouth by the same trembling but gentle hands, as if asking for permission.

“Don’t worry, I’ll eat,” he said quietly. “I won’t let them beat you because of me.”

The stew was warm, good, and filling – and absolute heaven to his empty belly, though he would never admit that out loud. Forcing himself not to cringe at the indignity of his situation, he held his head high and let the other feed him not only the stew, but several pieces of semi-soft bread as well. Metal links clanked together softly each time the silent man moved his hands, reminding Arthur that he was not the only one bearing injustices.

“Thank you,” he said when the food was gone and the water skin had been raised once more. He wet his lips and then swallowed, feeling the tension between his eyes ease just a little for the first time in days.

The empty skin was put aside for the last time, and Arthur expected the stranger to rise and leave. Surprise jolted him, however, when he felt thin, calloused fingers ghost across his face, brushing the two-day-old bruise on his cheek.

He froze. There was something almost…

Hope gave a little limp flutter inside his heart and he stopped breathing.

The hands traveled down, pausing at his neck and giving an efficient and oh-so-familiar tug to his collar, smoothing it one way and patting it down. At the same time his nose, made hyper-sensitive after almost three days of being blinded, caught a whiff of a scent he’d know anywhere – leather mixed with herbs and the faint odor of polish that always clung to a certain servant’s ragged jacket.

Arthur gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and he felt his eyes fill with moisture once more. “Merlin?” he breathed incredulously, not even bothering to hide how the word cracked with a sob.

There was still no verbal answer, but the youth sat down beside him, bumping his shoulder up against the prince’s in a gesture only his friend would do, and then rested a hand for just a moment on top of his knee.

Merlin! It was Merlin! The boy was alive! His friend wasn’t dead!

Arthur gulped in air, fighting the urge to hyperventilate. “I thought…! They said…they told me you were dead, Merlin! I thought I had lost you! I thought I got you killed!”

Merlin bumped against his shoulder once more, and then just sat there, letting their arms touch as Arthur worked through the total mess that was his emotions. He felt thin and stretched, yanked back and forth from one extreme to the other with no time to adjust in between. Anger, astonishment, sorrow, shock, amazing relief, numbing grief and unbridled joy… They were all jostling around inside of him and he had no clue which he should be feeling at that moment, which should win the day.

“Ha!” he finally laughed, a real smile tugging up the corners of his mouth for the first time in ages. “I knew you were too stubborn to be offed by a bunch of stupid soldiers!” he cried happily, but then almost instantly his smile faltered.

Something was wrong. He remembered the sound of chains as Merlin moved, the tremble in his friend’s hands. And then there was this all-encompassing silence that did not belong anywhere near the boy Arthur knew.

Why wasn’t Merlin talking? Complaining? Yammering on until Arthur told him to shut up?

“What have they done to you?” he demanded. “Why won’t you speak to me? Have they hurt you?”

Again silence – awful silence, though Merlin did at least pat his leg one more time. Arthur had no idea what answer to which question it was supposed to imply.

The prince sighed, something he was doing far too often lately, and let his head fall back against the rough bark of the tree as the boy pulled away from him, severing physical contact. Arthur heard the sound of items being gathered up off the ground and knew his friend was preparing to leave. Urgency and a little fear suddenly gripped him again. Who knew when they would next be allowed to sit together?

“Merlin, wait?” Arthur called. It was time he rectified something he should have fixed ages ago. “I need to tell you something, something I’ve waited far too long to say.”

He swallowed, and then plunged on. “I found the cloak-pin, stuck in the hem of the wool. You didn’t steal it, of course you didn’t! I should have believed you and listened to you, but more importantly, I should have simply known that you would never steal from me. I dragged you out on that blasted hunt so I could make things right with you, but I’m an arrogant prat, as you like to say, and kept tripping over the words in my head. I should have told you the moment we were a league outside of the city instead of letting you stew while I fought with my pride.”

He paused for just a moment, wishing desperately he could see his friend, see if his words were being accepted. It unnerved him to be speaking to Merlin and have it perfectly still and quite around him as though he was speaking to nothing but cold air. Still, he felt the top of Merlin’s knee press gently up against his calve, and that was all he needed to steel his nerves and finish.

“I’ve spent the last two days believing you were dead,” – his voice wobbled slightly on that last word and he hurried on – “believing you had died and I’d never made things right between us! Merlin, I’m sorry, for everything. More sorry than you can know. I behaved abominably and I hope you can forgive me.”

Arthur didn’t know what reaction he expected, but it certainly wasn’t to have a mess of bony manservant fling himself at him and attempt an embrace despite chains and ropes and tree trunks.

“Ooof!” Arthur grunted with surprise before breaking into an amused grin.

“What are you doing?” a shout suddenly rang out through the camp and boots stomped in their direction. “Get away from him, you brat!” a voice Arthur didn’t know ordered. Merlin was jerked back and Arthur’s rage flared again.

“Leave him alone!” he shouted. “Tell me what you’ve done to him, and I demand you harm him no further!”

“Poor, foolish prince, thinking your orders still hold power,” the man scoffed derisively and then he marched away, the smallest noise of jingling metal Arthur’s only clue that Merlin had been dragged along with him.

*****

Thank you so much for all the support this story is receiving! I’m still flabbergasted. The number of views this has gotten in just three weeks? My jaw is on the floor. And the comments and reviews have made my whole face light up.

If you are reading, I would love to hear from you to know what you think. I love making new friends and promise to respond.

Thanks again, so very much!

Chapter Text

Thank you to everyone for the amazing response to the last chapter! I am humbled and completely blown away! I never in a million years expected such a staggering response and so many lovely reviews! I thank you from the bottom of my heart!

I hope this chapter is everything that you were all hoping it would be.

And as always, thank you Smuffly and Missy for being my extra eyes and sounding boards.

7. Muted Magic

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
- William Shakespeare

*****

(Two days previous.)

Merlin came to with a jerk when he was carelessly dumped onto the ground. Groggy, hurting, and with the wind knocked out of him, all he was able to do was lie there blinking owlishly as someone fumbled with his ankle for a moment and then walked away.

Digging through his pounding brain, the warlock fought to remember what had happened, but it was all a jumbled up mess. There was a piece of jewelry and Sir Leon… King Uther cutting his hand off in the stocks for losing the rotten potatoes while people laughed… A bad hunting trip and a bad person pretending to be someone else… A blast of magic and the prince falling…falling…

OH!

Merlin sat up with a jolt, shouting Arthur’s name with all his might –

-- except no sound left his lips at all!

Instead, excruciating pain ripped up his neck and through his head, stabbing the tender spot just behind his eyes, and Merlin found himself unconscious once more within moments of waking up the first time.

*****

His second waking was slower, though no less filled with pain. The aching of before had been doubled and even opening his eyes was an exercise in agony. He couldn’t move, just stayed there – a tangled pile of trembling limbs – and stared out through glassy eyes that didn’t really see anything.

After a while, a figure loomed over him, and some distant part of his brain that was still trying to process reality screamed danger! With a massive effort, he forced his vision to focus and looked at the vaguely familiar man who had now crouched down in front of him.

“You don’t do anything halfway, do you, lad?” the man said in a gruff voice, shaking his greying head slightly. “Most at least hear the bad news before they try and test it out, and not usually with as much force as they can muster.”

Merlin heard him speaking, but he was struggling to understand. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to croak out a question, but the other man held up a warning hand.

“Hush. You don’t want to do that.”

He let his mouth drift shut, eyes narrowing in complete confusion.

“You were captured with your prince,” the man spoke in a no-nonsense tone. “Our orders are to bring him back to our king, and any extras back to join the autumn collection of slaves.” He gestured with a dip of his head and Merlin slowly gazed down, noticing for the first time that his wrists were bound in a pair of rusty manacles.

“Tharennor is a small and isolated country – we survive the best we can and we need workers, willing or not. It is standard practice for our patrols to carry slave collars, of two varieties.” The man sighed, so slightly that Merlin almost missed it, before he continued. “I am sorry, boy, but if you hadn’t given us that rather impressive display we never would have known to use the one for sorcerers. Still, what’s done is done, and it’s best if you accept it quickly. Life is usually a cruel mistress, lad, and fighting your new lot will only lead to more misery for you.”

Some of the man’s words finally started to filter through Merlin’s sluggish brain, stirring up a measure of worry. Enough to make him crawl his fingers up to his neck and be alarmed when they touched cold metal. His eyes opened wide.

“It contains your magic – as well as your tongue.”

That he understood! Raw panic shot through him, his mind urging his body to respond accordingly, but it just couldn’t. All he could do was remain in a heap while terror cut up his insides. Still, habit brought a desperate protest to the tip of his tongue –

“Trying to speak causes great pain,” the man cut him off before the words could fully form. “Trying to shout causes…anguish.” He gestured again to Merlin’s aching body.

The man reached over and placed two items next to his shaking hands – a tin cup and a small crust of bread.

“Eat when you are able, then rest. You’re in for a long and unpleasant journey tomorrow.” With those words he stood and walked away, leaving Merlin staring after him in shock and distress.

*****

Through a haze of pain, Merlin watched the camp, unable to do anything else, and a part of his mind stored the things he observed away for later, when he could think properly about them.

His eyes instinctively sought out Arthur first. He found him blindfolded and tied to a tree, still slumped in unconsciousness, though to his relief the prince was soon roused. As he lay there in misery, he observed the stubborn prince arguing, refusing to be fed, growing highly upset… Distantly, he wondered what could make his master so angry, and also sad. Arthur looked very sad.

Letting his eyes rove without moving his head, Merlin also watched the enemy men – watched them laugh and talk, cook and share food, sit in silence. A few of them looked sad and angry as well, but in his agony clouded stupor he couldn’t think why that might be.

Finally, when it had been dark for hours and everyone except for the two men on watch had gone to sleep, the throbbing in Merlin’s head subsided. He lay there a little longer, gathering his strength, before sucking in a ragged breath and pushing himself shakily up to a sitting position. He felt bruised and beaten and thoroughly wrung out, but at least he was thinking clearly and moving again.

Chains clanked quietly as he shifted and he glanced down, seeing again the manacles around his own wrists. He turned them over slowly, feeling the cold bands for the first time, still a little stunned they were there.

A slave.

The words drifted through his head, and he knew he should be completely panicking inside because of them, but there were so many horrible revelations about his current situation washing over him, and he was oh-so-very tired and still hurting and… Which did he react to first? Which atrocity claimed his focus more?

The cup and piece of bread caught his attention, still waiting there, and he realized that he was very hungry. It was barely a morsel, but perhaps it would help in clearing the rest of the fog from his mind. With shaky hands, he forced himself to swallow the stale crust, then washed it down with the few mouthfuls of water from the cup.

And yes – he found that it did help. Just the act of eating, of doing something so normal and every-day, grounded him slightly. Not everything in his world had gone completely berserk.

With a shuddering sigh, he set the cup down and made himself think – made his mind process everything he’d been avoiding.

He’d been captured with Arthur. The prince, though a hostage, seemed mostly okay. Himself – not so much.

He was to be sent…somewhere – he couldn’t remember the name – as a slave. They’d stuck chains on his wrists and a collar around his neck. A collar that…that stopped his magic, he remembered with a tremor. And his voice.

Tears filled his tired eyes and he reached up, fingering the metal band he couldn’t see. It felt like ice, and as far as he could tell seamless, with no opening or keyhole he could discern.

A magical item – designed for a magical purpose – so most likely sealed by magic as well.

Looping his fingers between it and his neck, he could feel a set of markings etched into the underside of the metal, but it was impossible to make out what they were.

With resignation, he let his hands drop back into his lap, and for a while he just sat there, allowing more of the residual discomfort to leech out of his body.

He was agonizingly aware of the fact that the collar’s containment of his voice worked perfectly well. He would test it again, probe it carefully to see if there were loop-holes or cracks, but not right then. He was still too sore to attempt anything more that night.

He could certainly see the logic, however. See how locking away a magic user’s voice would be in a slaver’s best interest. How it would thwart a normal sorcerer.

But Merlin was far from normal when it came to magic, and as he sat there, breathing in and breathing out and trying to regain control over his own body, he realized that for having his magic taken, he didn’t feel any different from usual.

Well, that was a lie, he thought with a mocking scoff. He had two rather large, throbbing gashes – one on his torso and one on his right leg – that he’d received in the battle, smaller cuts and scratches on his face and arms, and the two spectacular lumps on his head that weren’t helping his headache at all.

So no, he wasn’t feeling just like normal. But his magic? That seemed just fine. He could feel it, pulsing and flowing, just below his skin like it always had.

He frowned, thinking carefully.

He was different. Not a sorcerer, but rather a warlock, and even in that narrowed down category he was still unique. Maybe…maybe the collar, while it had managed to steal his voice, didn’t work on his magic?

Good job he’d never needed words to use his powers, then…

Drawing a deep breath, he clenched his hands and tried to prepare himself for what could be his next round with pure agony, then he stared at the little, tin cup and let his eyes flash.

Nothing happened.

At least none of the things he’d been expecting. The cup didn’t float up into the air, wrapped in the magic he’d sent its way, but neither did pain drive through his head like spikes. He’d felt the magic respond to his call, felt the glow come into his eyes, and then it was just gone.

Confused, he quickly tried half a dozen more times, calling on more and more power as his frustration grew, and only stopping when he became aware of a strange sensation of heat growing around his neck. With a start, he snapped his hands up to the collar and discovered that it was no longer cold but almost uncomfortably warm, and as his fingers brushed it, he felt something else – something that he hadn’t noticed before.

He sensed power – magic – flowing through and entwining with the metal. Magic that felt very familiar. And there was more there, some foreign spell that had been too weak to feel before – a lock and a trap. It sat just beyond his reach, but if he only pushed a little harder…

Angry now, he shoved more magic at the horrid thing, ignoring the heat that rose to near burning levels against his tender skin. He felt the power pour into it, felt it hum and vibrate slightly, felt the locking spell…grow stronger and just a little farther beyond his reach!

He froze, his stomach dropping to his cold toes, and suddenly the words of the man from earlier came back to him.

“It contains your magic – as well as your tongue.”

Contains. Not tears out or rips away. Not stops or removes. Just contains.

Someone, somewhere had designed the perfect magical restraint. Separating a person from their magic caused great discomfort, even pain, and sometimes could lead to death. None of those were highly desired outcomes in a slave who was meant to be fit for hard work. But containing it, where it could stay in the body, unable to escape…

Merlin fought the abrupt urge to be sick as he realized with shocking clarity that he’d just activated and reinforced his own prison!

The collar fed off of magic – his own magic. Anything he threw at it would simply make it stronger and stronger. It was a bond that could contain the most powerful of magical creatures, because the power holding them would always be equal in strength, while the locking spell would always get farther and farther from reach the stronger it grew.

With a barely suppressed sob, Merlin’s head sank forward as hot tears crested his eyes and ran down his face. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly trapped and absolutely helpless.

**Author’s Note: Just a note about the Kingdom of Tharennor. Don’t go looking for it on a map, or trying to dredge it up from Arthurian legend or even our beloved TV show. Because, I made it up. Its name, its geography, its everything. But that’s the great beauty of fanfiction, isn’t it? (happy grin)

Chapter Text

8. The Silent Language of Grief

Laugh, and the world laughs with you: Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own...
- Ella Wheeler Wilcox

*****

It didn’t take long for Merlin’s exhausted, shocked, and dehydrated body to run out of tears. He sniffed and scrubbed a grubby sleeve across his face and nose, trying to calm his breathing once more. After a moment, he stiffly shuffled around and discovered there was another cuff on his left ankle, a chain running off from it. A glance behind showed he was tethered to a tree, the same tree to which several of the horses were attached.

Keeping all their “possessions” likely to wander off in one place, he thought bitterly. With a silent sigh, he crawled slowly over to lean weakly back against the trunk.

He should sleep – he knew that. The man had told him the next day wouldn’t be pleasant and nothing he’d said had been wrong yet, but Merlin found he couldn’t. Not because he wasn’t tired enough, but because…it was all just too much. His whole soul was filled with pain and loss and grief as he staggered from the triple blow. In one night he’d lost his magic, his voice, and his freedom, not to mention his home and his best friend. With all of that gone, Merlin wasn’t even sure what was left – who he was anymore.

He was numb – on the inside and the out – and so he just sat there, staring with fuzzy eyes out across the camp to the far side where Arthur sat, tied to a tree of his own.

Why hadn’t he just used magic to save them when he had the chance instead of waiting for the prince to be unconscious out of fear? He’d already been expecting punishment for a crime he did not commit…what was adding sorcery to the list going to hurt? At least Arthur would have been free, and Merlin thought he’d almost rather face the pyre than a life as a voiceless slave.

He’d been stupid – so stupid – just like always. Fear and uncertainty ruling his decisions and now he’d failed everyone.

He wondered if Arthur would miss him.

Probably not. The prince had been mulling over that punishment after all, for a servant he thought had turned out to be a thief. He would probably just be relieved that he no longer had to deal with the problem.

Merlin knew without a doubt that he would miss Arthur, though, and not just because the prince was supposed to be his destiny (a destiny that Merlin realized with another crushing blow he had now failed.) No, he would miss the man who had become his greatest friend, even if they could never admit it out loud or even to each other.

His thoughts swirled for a long time as he shivered against the tree. Vaguely, he noticed that Arthur didn’t sleep either, and a small part of him wondered what kept the prince awake on this night. Arthur was trained to rest whenever he could in hostile situations. For a while, Merlin kept himself busy wondering what might be going through his friend’s brain. Eventually, though, the cold, his injuries, and the sheer exhaustion of the whole ordeal became too much for Merlin to fight. He curled in a tight ball at the foot of the tree and allowed oblivion to take him away from it all for a few short hours.

*****

Merlin was awakened with a hard kick to the ribs, followed by someone yanking him to his feet by the chain connecting his wrists.

“Hey –!” he started to cry before his wits all returned and then he clutched at his head as daggers burst in his brain, though no sound came from his mouth.

The soldier who had roused him simply laughed as he released his ankle from its chain. “Fix breakfast,” he ordered uncaringly, and shoved him toward the banked fire.

With watering eyes, Merlin did as he was told and prepared a simple breakfast from the supplies someone handed him, though none was offered to him to ease his own hunger. As he scurried around the enemy camp cleaning dishes, packing bedrolls, and trying to accomplish all of the commands that were thrown at him without earning a beating, he couldn’t help watching Arthur again.

The prince was once more refusing to eat, and though it worried Merlin, he was also secretly quite proud. Whatever had made him so sad the night before hadn’t broken his spirit. His master was nowhere near cowed if he was willing to be this stubborn and annoying, and Merlin was happy at least one of them could pester their captors with volleys of questions and chatter.

With wary self-preservation, Merlin also observed the enemy men. There were thirteen of them, though he could have sworn there were more that had surrounded them in that clearing before the skirmish. He soon discerned that the man who had spoken to him the night before, who he now recognized as the one who had dressed as the messenger and held a knife to his throat, was named Sir Einar. He was in charge. For the most part, duties and watches seemed to be shared equally among the other men, but four appeared to have been tasked to keep special watch over their prisoners – two for Arthur, and two for himself.

Merlin’s guards didn’t exactly introduce themselves, and he had no way to ask, so he gave them his own monikers until he could figure out their real names. His second guard, who seemed to act mostly as back-up for the first, was a squat fellow with dark hair and tanned skin. He walked with the gait of a man who had spent too many hours in the saddle so Merlin dubbed him “Bow-Legs.”

His main guard, the overly kind and gentle chap who had awakened him with a kick and laughed at his pain, was harder to name. He didn’t have moles or boils, his teeth were all there and alarmingly straight, and his skin was smooth with no convenient scars. In fact he was tall and dark and handsome. Outside fair, inside ugly and rotten. Merlin wracked his brain, but he was tired and hungry and his head still hurt, so in the end, the best name he could come up with for his favorite new friend was “Stupidly-Handsome.”

Once he had the horses tacked and saddled – a job made infinitely more difficult with his hands connected by a chain, even if it was a little more than a foot in length – he was dragged over to his own mare by Stupidly-Handsome. There was drama going on with Arthur and Sir Einar and he tried to watch, but was soon distracted by his guard stooping to lash his feet together with a strand of rope. He grabbed for the saddle horn to keep his balance and opened his eyes wide in surprise.

“Slaves usually walk,” the man said brusquely as he stood back up. He jerked Merlin’s hands away from the saddle and pulled them down to his sides, beginning to wrap another length of rope around his waist without bothering to remove the set of chains. “But we need to cover ground today. Can’t afford to be slowed down by you, and Sir Einar won’t see you dragged, which is a pity.”

The soldier tied off the rope and Merlin wobbled slightly, trussed up like a sausage. Then the man produced a vial of something and before Merlin could even blink, Stupidly-Handsome had grabbed his nose, forced his head back, and dumped it down his throat. The boy choked and sputtered on the foul liquid but had no choice but to swallow.

“You’ll thank me for that before a few hours are up, boy,” his captor laughed, then heaved Merlin up onto the horse and draped him across it on his stomach, not unlike a sack of grain.

The world was already starting to weave and shift as he felt himself secured to the horse with even more rope. By the time the man stepped away, his whole body had gone limp and boneless – he couldn’t even twitch his toes.

It was the longest day of his life – to be fully aware of everything as the ground sped by below his dangling head but to be utterly helpless and unable to move or react.

The potion and horrible, out-of-control feeling had mostly worn off by the time the soldiers halted for the night. Still, that didn’t stop him from stumbling over to the nearest bush as soon as someone cut him loose and vomiting harshly. Bow-Legs waited with impatience for him to finish, then ushered him without sympathy to the main camp.

His list of ordered chores was long that evening: dinner, dishes, tending to the horses, fetching water – under guard, of course… The potion had made him shaky, and that coupled with his utter exhaustion and natural clumsiness left him weaving and tripping like a drunken fool. Most of the men just found it entertaining, but a few took personal exception to his ungainliness – one of Arthur’s guards, a very angry looking fellow, was the worst – and there were multiple bruises added to his other injuries before he was discarded with the horses for the night, his ankle once again secured to a tree.

Someone brought him food – more dry bread, water, and a little of the leftover stew he’d made himself, watered down. He ate gratefully, though slowly, afraid his unsettled stomach might rebel again. Hunger over-rode discomfort, though, and the food stayed down. He set the dishes aside and then drew his knees up to his chest, holding them close with chained hands while he hunched back against his tree.

Once again, his eyes sought out Arthur. The prince was oddly quiet that night, his complaints and ignored questions missing. On what Merlin could see of his face, the sorrow of the night before was written even more plainly. The shivering boy wondered why, and he wished he could call out to his master, ask him what was making him so sad. It wasn’t like Arthur to show emotions, and certainly not while in a dangerous situation where he’d know projected strength could mean the difference between life or death.

He was grateful the soldiers seemed to be treating his friend well. They tried to feed him, didn’t beat or hurt him, gave him a blanket against the cold. The warlock was rather jealous of that blanket, actually. The night was freezing, much colder than the one before, and he couldn’t stop shivering in just his thin jacket.

As the camp grew quiet, a black cloak of hopelessness seemed to fall over Merlin as he sat there, cold and alone. He was so trapped. He was weak and defenseless and completely stuck. A single, metal chain that he would have laughed at before now had the power to keep him there at the mercy of enemy soldiers and unable to help his prince.

His thoughts turned to home and the two other people he loved more than anything: Gaius and his mother. Tears he had no power to stop again filled his red-rimmed eyes and gently trickled down his checks as he pictured their faces. He had the horrible, certain feeling that he would never see them again, never again be embraced in his mother’s arms or hear Gaius call him ‘his boy.’

Arthur would be saved – he had to believe that. He knew Uther would stop at nothing to retrieve his son. But no one would waste any efforts to find a servant carried off as a slave, especially one accused of being a thief. Until a few days ago, Arthur might have spent a little time searching for him but not now.

No, Merlin knew he would never see his home or family again.

He fought to keep his sobs silent, having no desire to experience the splitting pain of the collar that night, but he was just about to lose the war and give in to the blackness when he felt a gentle nudge on the top of his head. Surprised, he glanced up through watery vision, right into the soft, brown eyes of his mare. She nudged him again with the velvety skin of her nose, her eyes concerned, and Merlin lost it. With a shudder that shook his whole frame, he reached up and sank his hands into her mane, pulling her head across his shoulder and burying his face in her neck.

He cried and cried, until there was nothing left, while his horse stood still with unusual patience and let him hold her, rubbing her muzzle against his hair every once in a while or twisting to nibble on his ear. Finally, he was sucked dry and he pulled back, swiping a hand over his blotchy face and then reaching back to rub it gently across her neck and cheek. The rattle of his chains made her eyes large but she didn’t shy away, allowing him to return the favor in gentle pats and scratches of her ears. After a few more minutes, she let out a whinny that ruffled his hair and then stepped aside, back to the company of her fellow horses.

Merlin let his hands drop down on top of his pulled up knees, lost in thought. The impenetrable walls of dark hopelessness still felt like they were closing their trap tighter and tighter around his broken and weary heart, but the precious moments of comfort, even from a horse, had reminded him of something else. He may never see his loved ones again, but he knew they would want him to survive, to not give in, and to fight to remember who he was – Merlin, a person who had value and was loved – not just a nameless slave. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done, but it was all he had left to give them. Everything else had been taken away. So he made a silent promise, deep inside his soul, that for Arthur (even though he may not care anymore), for Gaius, and for his mother, he would continue to fight for life as long as he possibly could. Then, thoroughly exhausted, Merlin threw one last protective glance across the camp at his prince before he sank to his side on the hard ground and slept.

*****

The next day was even worse than the one before. The pattern was the same – made to work, given no breakfast – but he was chilled and so sore from the horrible ride and his nights on the ground that he could barely move. He was also sure the gash on his leg was infected. Still, it wasn’t until he was pulled over to his saddled horse that he baulked for the first time, struggling madly against Stupidly-Handsome’s grip. He never wanted to feel the suffocating helplessness caused by that horrible potion again!

His efforts were in vain. It only took Bow-Legs stepping up to help hold him still and he was restrained and forced to swallow the vile liquid or choke.

“That was a dumb move,” Stupidly-Handsome whispered, throwing his trussed up and increasingly limp body to the ground. The guard toed him until he was stomach-side down, twisting the rest of the rope carelessly in his hands. “You just earned yourself a demonstration of what happens to slaves who don’t like to obey.”

He stepped back and then cracked the end of the rope down against Merlin’s back like a whip. The boy was completely immobile, unable to cringe or tense up or even cry out, but he felt the stinging pain of every blow as his guard brought the rope down fourteen more times across his back and his bottom and his legs. He knew the smarting hits would leave spectacular welts and bruises all up and down his body.

After the fifteenth swing, Bow-Legs and Stupidly-Handsome hoisted him up and tossed him over his horse. They lashed him in place with all the thought and care of a saddle bag, giving no consideration to how the ropes might be digging into his now tender flesh.

Bow-Legs smacked him hard on the back and then stooped to where his face dangled over the side of the animal. “Enjoy your ride,” he said sweetly, then walked away laughing with his fellow guard.

They traveled until he was sure he couldn’t bear it any longer, and then kept going on, the hooves of his horse tearing up the leagues that took him farther and farther from home. When they finally stopped, he felt like everything inside of him had been turned to pudding and his nerves had been flayed one by one.

He almost couldn’t walk when he was set free, his body was so stiff and sore, and he clung to the side of his horse for several minutes, willing everything to start working again. He managed not to throw up this time, but he was so close to breaking down emotionally and mentally… It wasn’t enough for them to take away his freedom and his ability to use his voice and his magic? No, they had to take away even his control over his own body?

He was angry and shaking and just wanted to sit down and scream, but of course he couldn’t.

“Come on, boy,” Stupidly-Handsome growled, giving him a shove. “There’s work to do.”

Of course there’s work to do, Merlin thought bitterly. There’s always work to do.

He allowed himself to be pushed and shoved and semi-dragged across the camp as he fought to regain control of his own gangly limbs. To his surprise, however, he found he wasn’t the only doing the work that night. He was taken over to the back of a wagon he was sure hadn’t been with them before, and a group of busy people he knew instantly from experience were servants.

Apparently he’d been so out of it he hadn’t even noticed they’d met up with a larger group and more supplies.

If he thought the servants would be more sympathetic to him than the soldiers had been, he was completely wrong. There were three of them: one adult man, one boy in his mid-teens, and an older woman. The woman ignored him, as if he wasn’t worth her notice, but the men gave contemptuous sneers, their eyes roaming up and down him as though he were a disgusting piece of dung beneath their feet.

“Make good use of him,” Stupidly-Handsome said flippantly. “He has yet to learn his place.” The soldier gave Merlin one more shove for good measure as he left, sending him crashing into the side of the wagon, his manacles clanking as if to shout to the universe, Look, here is a pitiful slave!

“That right, eh?” the older male servant drawled, a calculating look on his face that made Merlin very nervous.

“Well, ain’t that my lucky day!” the teen hooted, and shoved two metal pails and a half dozen water skins into Merlin’s trembling arms. “Now you can freeze yer fingers off an’ git the water.”

Merlin shuffled, and juggled, and dropped the lot in the dirt. It took him three tries to get it all back in his chained hands while the boy snorted in open laughter and the other two just glared. Finally situated, he glanced around, not sure where to go.

“Over there,” the woman said impatiently, pointing down behind the horses. “An’ don’t take all day.”

He wondered if he was allowed to leave the camp without one of his guards, but decided taking the time to try and make someone understand his question would bring just as much punishment as leaving the camp alone.

Injured leg and recent bruises throbbing, Merlin made his way stiffly down the steep slope to the water and then just stood there for a moment, contemplating his options. It was a good-sized river that rushed through the forest, tumbling over rocks and logs, water churned white from the motion. It looked cold as ice. Even on a good day taking a tumble into the water would have been a risk for him, and this had been anything but a good day. He had no desire to die that night of exposure to the cold, nor did he want to get washed downstream and drown in chains.

He finally found a spot where the water shallowed slightly, its speed slowed by a small turn, and he was able to approach. His feet and hands would be soaked and frozen, there was no way around it, but hopefully he could keep the rest of him dry.

It was all he could do to hold back an audible gasp as he stepped into the crystal-clear water and then lowered the first water skin under its surface. It felt like mere seconds before his hands and feet had gone numb.

Soon his mind had as well as he worked at the thankless chore. Back up the hill with part of his load, back down for more. Up, back, up, back... Water for cooking, water for dishes. Water for the soldiers who had decided they just had to have a wash. One full bucket for each of the horses because the slope had been deemed too treacherous to risk their legs on. Merlin’s lungs burned and his abused body trembled from exertion, which coupled with his hunger and exhaustion threatened to send him head-over-heels down the hill at any moment. He gritted his teeth and kept going through sheer stubbornness alone, because he had no other choice.

His last trip to the river ended in a painful heap as he lost his footing about halfway and slid the rest of the steps down. He lay on his back, breathing hard and silently cursing everyone and everything, until he noticed the white plant right over him.

Yarrow, he heard Gaius’ voice inside his head. Good for fighting infected wounds.

It was a miracle it hadn’t frozen yet, this late into autumn. His silent murmurs ceased, and he sat up slowly, gazing at the darkening sky with narrowed eyes.

Was there perhaps something out there, still watching over him?

Sending up a voiceless thanks to whichever deity watched over hapless slaves, he climbed to his aching feet and gathered as much of the herb as he could. Then, in his first act of open rebellion, he limped up to the river and took a moment to care for himself.

First, he drank his fill, letting the sweet, clear water quench the powerful thirst he’d been fighting for almost three days. Then he hastily pulled down his trousers and examined the wound on his right thigh. It wasn’t long, but it was deep and as he’d suspected, highly infected. It oozed discolored puss, the skin around it tight and hot to the touch, red streaks shooting off in different directions around his leg.

This is bad, my boy, very bad… he heard Gaius’ voice once more and he couldn’t help snapping an annoyed but silent, I know! back.

And great, now you’re talking to yourself in your head.

He forced himself to focus.

Scooping water from the river, he washed the wound until it ran clear, then tore a strip from the bottom of his tunic. For the best results, the yarrow should be ground into a paste and applied as a poultice, but that wasn’t an option for him. Using two rocks, he chopped it as fine as possible and then packed it around the gash before winding his makeshift bandage around and tying it off.

He’d taken far too long on this trip, he knew it. He hastily fixed his trousers and stuffed his pockets with the rest of the yarrow for later, then washed his frozen hands and filled the two buckets before practically running back up the hill to the camp.

Stinging whaps to the head and the hands with the handle of a wooden spoon were his greeting when he set the full buckets down by the wagon.

“Ya got anything ‘tween those stupid ears of yorn, boy?” the woman shouted. “Be quick beyond yer ken?”

She struck him one more time across his ear, then stormed off with the the buckets to the fire, leaving Merlin alone with the older male servant.

“Go help Hab gather stones fer th’ fire,” the man ordered, pointing to the clearing on the other side of the camp.

Merlin just looked at him in confusion, nursing his ringing ear and bleeding knuckles.

“Stones! Ta heat in th’ fire! Ta warm the soldiers’ bedrolls tanight!” The man grabbed his chained hands and dragged him stumbling through the camp. “Worthless waste a bones and breath!” he cursed, stopping at the halfway point and pushing Merlin forward hard. “Don’ come back ‘til the sack’s full!”

Hab was delighted to have help, promptly slinging the burlap sack onto Merlin’s already bruised back and forcing him to trudge around the clearing after him while the bag grew heavier and heavier from the weight of the stones the boy tossed inside, making sure each one bounced off Merlin on the way down.

Finally, when it was too dark to see anyway, the sack was full. Bent double from the load, Merlin practically stumbled back into the light of the camp and up to the largest fire, letting the sack flop down with a tumbling thud a safe distance from the sparks. He trembled and closed his eyes, willing himself not to collapse, before sighing and getting back to work.

At least this job is warm, he thought as he tossed the rocks around the edges of the flames, using a long stick he’d found to turn them about. Pausing, he stretched out his hands that were red and raw from all the time in the water, letting a little warmth seep back in. He was just about to sit on his rump and stick out his feet, hoping to dry his boots before he was chained up for the night, when one of Arthur’s guards suddenly stomped up and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

Merlin clamped his lips tight to keep back a startled yelp, and scrambled to get his legs under him as he was dragged off without a word. His eyes widened when he realized where they were going.

The man was furious and he tossed Merlin onto Arthur’s feet with a growl. Hastily, the boy scrambled back, not sure if Arthur would appreciate him touching him or not.

“Get this idiot of a prince to eat or I will take it out on your own hide!” the angry man yelled at him, then threw a few pieces of bread their direction, set down a water skin and a bowl of stew with so much force it almost slopped over the side, and left.

A little shocked to suddenly be thrown right at his friend after days of being kept apart, Merlin gathered up the pieces of bread, brushing the dirt from them before setting them carefully aside. He tried to keep his chains from clanking, not wanting his master to know what a sorry state he was in, but from the frown that settled on Arthur’s face, he was pretty sure he wasn’t successful.

Merlin picked up the water skin, one of those he’d filled, and then just held it for a moment, able to see his master up close for the first time since they were captured.

The prince had a nasty bruise across his face, was dirty and stiff, and Merlin knew how much he had to be absolutely hating the blindfold, but otherwise he seemed fine. The boy let out a little breath of relief.

“What’s your name?” Arthur asked suddenly, breaking the stillness with a quiet voice.

Merlin’s heart skidded to a stop.

Arthur didn’t know it was him!

Not at all sure how to react, Merlin moved on instinct, bringing the water to Arthur’s lips with trembling hands. As he worked, giving his friend water but not too fast after the prince’s self-imposed fast, his thoughts swam.

Arthur didn’t know who was helping him. And he had no way of telling him the truth.

Perhaps that was a good thing? Perhaps Arthur was glad to be rid of him and wouldn’t want to know he was still around.

In turmoil, Merlin put the water away and picked up the food. Arthur spoke to him again but he barely noticed the words, too torn up about what he should do.

Arthur ate the stew, and the bread, and drank the rest of the water Merlin offered, unware of his servant’s racing thoughts.

“Thank you,” the prince finally said with compassion, and that was all it took. Arthur might not need him anymore, but Merlin desperately need Arthur, needed a kind voice and a friendly face in this nightmare.

Without thinking, Merlin reached out and brushed his fingers across the dark bruise on his friend’s face, hating that it was there. Beside him, Arthur suddenly stiffened, as if holding his breath, and Merlin had a sudden idea. He grasp the dirty collar of the other man’s shirt and pulled it straight, smoothing it down, just like he did every single day as he helped the prince dress.

Arthur swallowed, his chin trembling ever so slightly, before finally croaking out “Merlin?”

Merlin’s heart soared! The grin that filled his face threatened to split it from ear to ear as he rolled off his sore knees and allowed himself to collapse on the dirt next to his friend. He gave a little bump to the prince’s shoulder, even though Arthur was bound fast to a tree and unable to move, knowing the young man would recognize the simple gesture of friendship they had shared dozens of times.

Arthur suddenly began to babble, words that were almost sobs gushing out. “I thought…! They said…They told me you were dead, Merlin! I thought I had lost you! I thought I got you killed!”

As he listened, Merlin’s face was a contradiction of emotions. Tears carved tracks through the dirt at hearing the guilt and sadness his friend had suffered, but his grin refused to leave because he realized the sorrow Arthur had felt for the past two nights had been for him! His friend thought he was gone and had missed him. Despite everything, Arthur still cared for him!

Wishing with all his heart he could answer, could speak to Arthur and assure him he was indeed still there, Merlin settled for giving him another shoulder bump and then leaned up against him, soaking in the feeling of not being alone.

Arthur laughed and teased him about being too stubborn to let himself get killed, and all felt right with the world, until his friend’s smile suddenly slid off his face.

“What have they done to you? Why won’t you speak to me? Have they hurt you?” the prince suddenly demanded, and Merlin sighed. Oh, Arthur, he thought, even if I had a way to tell you, I couldn’t explain without breaking your heart with another betrayal. Sadly, Merlin patted Arthur’s knee, then glanced back out at the enemy camp.

The fires were dying slightly and he had a pile of hot rocks to return to. He shuddered, arching his spine - the consequences for not finishing his tasks would be painful. Reluctantly, he pulled away from his friend and back to his knees to gather up the dishes, which he probably also still had to wash.

“Merlin, wait?”

He stopped at Arthur’s voice, gaze returning to his friend.

“I found the cloak-pin, stuck in the hem of the wool.”

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Merlin froze.

“You didn’t steal it,” Arthur continued desperately, “of course you didn’t! I should have believed you and listened to you, but more importantly, I should have simply known that you would never steal from me. I dragged you out on that blasted hunt so I could make things right with you, but I’m an arrogant prat, as you like to say, and kept tripping over the words in my head. I should have told you the moment we were a league outside of the city instead of letting you stew while I fought with my pride.”

Merlin found it hard to breathe, hope and relief and a million other emotions he couldn’t even identify welling up inside of him. He shook all over and as Arthur continued on, he clenched his fists, as if hardly daring to believe what he was hearing.

“I’ve spent the last two days believing you were dead, believing you had died and I’d never made things right between us! Merlin, I’m sorry, for everything. More sorry than you can know. I behaved abominably and I hope you can forgive me.”

Something released inside of Merlin, an awful tension that had been building for days, and he launched himself at his friend, not even caring about Arthur’s aversion to touching and hugs and girlish feelings. The manacles prevented him from wrapping his arms around the prince the way he wanted to, but he could still grip his shoulders tight and bury his face against his friend’s chest.

“What are you doing?” the angry voice of Stupidly-Handsome suddenly shouted. “Get away from him, you brat!”

Merlin cringed, knowing more bruises were on the way, but before he could pull himself back from Arthur the soldier did it for him, yanking him away with a force that almost gave him whiplash. A backhand sent him to the ground as Arthur started to yell, but Merlin’s poor, battered head was ringing too strongly to follow what his friend was demanding, or what the soldier said back.

It didn’t matter, though. Not the ringing or the bruises or the way he was dragged off and dumped back to finish his chores, after another quick beating of course… Not his burned and blistered hands as he pulled the hot rocks from the fire and wrapped them in cloth to ensure the people who had enslaved him slept comfortably that night… Not the dishes he scrubbed, licking the pots and bowls when no one was looking because apparently touching a prince earned a slave no dinner for the night… Not even the cold the seeped into his bones as he once again huddled against a tree like one of the livestock… None of it mattered, because things were right between Arthur and him again. His heart was warm and mended, so he could endure.

Author’s Note: I am having the time of my life reading the responses and reactions to this little story of mine, so thank you very much and I hope you’ll continue to let me know what you think.

Once again, this chapter was pushed and prodded and whipped into shape by the careful help and assistance of the marvelous M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ing and Smuffly. Thank you!

Chapter Text

9. Whispers of Acceptance

“The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.”
- Robert Jordan

*****

Morning dawned bright and very cold. Stupidly-Handsome woke Merlin in his normal, gentle manner and set him to work once he was released from his tether.

The other servants were in charge of breakfast that morning, and Merlin was highly jealous of them as he staggered into camp with more buckets of water for the horses, because cooking meant fire and fire meant warmth. And food. His painfully empty stomach gave a loud growl, and he forced himself to turn away, back down the slope for another trip. He knew the routine well enough by this point to know slaves were given one meal a day, if they earned it, and he refused to let the bullying servants see his longing – he still had too much pride for that.

On his final trip to the river, he stole five minutes to again check his wounded leg. Though still horribly sore, it oozed less pus and the red streaks of infection had retreated slightly. He washed it thoroughly once more, packed it with new yarrow, and then bound it again with the improvised bandage, trying to wrap the cloth in such a way as to cover the wound with a clean section. It was the only bandage he had and he had no time to wash it.

It would have to be enough.

The camp was bustling that morning and he was afraid his longer absence would be noticed and met with more blows, but no one said anything as he crested the hill with the last pails of water. Sir Einar was anxious to get on the trail and everyone was working for once. Hab and the other male servant tended the horses, Arthur’s guards were giving the smarting prince his breakfast, and several of the other soldiers were packing and arranging the two wagons for the road.

Merlin moved around the doused fires, gathering and folding bedrolls. When he brought the last stack over to one of the wagons, he dragged along his sack of now-cooled rocks. If the soldiers were going to insist he heat stones to warm their beds each night, there was no way he was gathering a new lot at each different camp. He hefted the clattering bag onto the wagon tongue and then glared defiantly at the soldier who was packing – a red-haired fellow who whistled while he worked – daring the man to tell him the pile had to be left behind.

The soldier glanced at the heavy sack, then at Merlin’s face, and then burst out laughing.

“You’ve got guts, lad, that’s for sure,” he said with a wink as he took the heavy burlap sack, still laughing. “I think we can find room for this. It can be our secret.”

Merlin smiled back, soaking up the laugh and kindness that had become so rare in his now bleak life.

As he scurried around, following the last minute orders that were barked at him from many directions, he dreaded breaking camp. The potion, the feeling of being trapped in his own unresponsive body, the humiliation of hanging over his horse like a sack…

The wagons packed, Arthur was hoisted back into his saddle, restrained and blindfolded as usual, though Merlin noted with gratitude that someone tied a warm cloak around his neck.

Good! It was cold today!

Stupidly-Handsome collected him and brought him over to his mare – she’d been roped to the back of the last wagon – and Merlin’s shoulders drooped, prepared to simply endure. His guard didn’t stoop to tie his ankles, though, instead reaching for another length of rope that hung from the back of the wagon and fastening it to the chain between his wrists.

Apparently, with the extra men, and the servants, and the wagons which would slow their travel considerably, they were following through on their conviction that slaves should walk.

“You’re gonna be wishing you were still riding before midday,” Stupidly-Handsome said, tugging on the rope to make sure the knots were secured.

I highly doubt that, Merlin spat back inside his head, though a steady refusal to lower his eyes was the only outward sign of his sass. His guard growled, cuffed him about the head, and walked off.

He was tired and everything was exceedingly sore – his injured leg left him limping before they’d gone more than a few hours – but he’d take walking over the enemy’s version of riding any time. For one, it kept his blood flowing on a day that refused to gain any warmth, but just the ability to control his own body and watch the world right-side up helped restore his shattered dignity just a bit. Besides, it was much easier to keep an eye on Arthur like this. The pace was doable – eventually the constant motion even worked out some of his stiffness - and if he kept close to the end of the wagon he found he could avoid most of the kicked up dust and grit, so he tried to ignore his aching feet and leg and instead be grateful for small favors.

Still, that didn’t mean that he was enjoying himself. He was chained up as a slave to the back of the enemy’s cargo, lugged along like property, as Arthur rode ahead of him – blindfolded and bound – a captive pawn in some horrible plan.

It made Merlin want to scream, except he couldn’t even do that anymore! Which, besides the loss of his magic, was what he felt most keenly. He was not naturally a quiet person; he never argued when Arthur accused him of yammering on about nothing – he just liked to talk. And now, to go the rest of his life without speaking, without saying anything? To live with no way to communicate except by going to great lengths, when surrounded by people who would never bother to understand anyway? He felt like sitting down in the dirt and curling up in despair, even knowing that would just lead to him being dragged.

Except, that also wasn’t who Merlin was. He might not be a naturally quiet person, but he was also not inclined to be a quitter either. If he was, he wouldn’t have lasted more than a week as Arthur’s servant. It was that tenacity coupled with the silent vow made to his absent loved ones that first horrible night that kept him stubbornly putting one foot in front of another.

Stay alive. Fight for survival. Don’t give up. Pay attention. Find some way to get Arthur to safety.

The thoughts ran through his head as his feet stumbled through the miles, a kind of self-imposed mantra to keep himself going.

Because, while his captors had stripped him of so much, they hadn’t taken everything. He could still look around, still think, still observe – much better, in fact, than even Arthur could right now. A lifetime of having to live wary of others and two years of trying to keep a headstrong prince alive had taught him that a person could learn much from the edges and the shadows.

So, he determined that he would keep his head down and stay alive, but also watch and wait. If there was even the smallest chance of getting Arthur out of this mess unharmed, he would take it, regardless of what happened to himself afterwards.

*****

In late afternoon, a frigid wind picked up and by the time they made camp, Merlin’s fingers, nose, and ears felt completely frozen. He was also limping strongly, his wounded leg throbbing.

“Tents tonight!” Sir Einar called as he dismounted, and with those two words Merlin found his workload quadrupled as poles and canvas were pulled from the wagons and set about.

It wasn’t very long before he was mentally cursing – his stiff and frozen fingers, the fact that idiots thought people could work more effectively in chains, and the horrible excuse for a teenaged human who was supposed to be “helping” with the chore but was really just ordering Merlin about and whacking him with a thin stick he’d picked up whenever he was too slow. Merlin knew his type well – the ones who had no clout or status of their own so relished it when they were elevated slightly up the pecking order – there’d been at least three boys just like him back in Ealdor who had delighted in making his life as miserable as they could.

Merlin reached for one of the ropes to tie off on the last tent – an exceptionally worn contraption with only three poles - but his chain caught on the post and he toppled over, taking the whole thing down with him.

“Oi!” Hab cried, bringing the stick down hard across his back, “Can’t ya do anything right?”

Angry words flew to the tip of Merlin’s tongue and he had to physically chomp down on it to keep them inside as he fought to escape the mess of ropes and canvas and poles. Once he’d stomped his way free, he jerked his bound hands up with a furious glare, yanking the chain taunt between them, and shoving them in the kid’s face to make his point. He might have to take all the cruelty the men who had enslaved him threw out, but he didn’t have to put up with it from this whelp of a boy who had to be at least four years younger than him and didn’t even have all his teeth.

Hab’s dark eyes narrowed and he shoved Merlin backwards, nostrils flaring. “Watch it, slave!” he shouted. “Soldier’s got a whip ‘round here somewhere, I know‘t. Fer when the vermin get rebellious!”

Merlin stared defiantly back, refusing to lower his glare even though he knew it was going to cost him, but thankfully it didn’t come to that.

“Git that thing up er I’ll tan both yer hides!” the other male servant – whom Merlin had learned was called Gobert – hollered at them from across the camp. “There’s more work ta be done!”

With a reluctant scowl, Hab threw down his lording-stick and finally started to assist, muttering some very colorful words as he did.

Merlin didn’t care what he muttered, a small smile on his face as he ducked his head to pull the canvas back up; he figured he’d just won that round.

“There ain’t one fer you, ya know,” Hab said nastily, obviously also aware of the score from their little altercation. He gestured to the ragged tent they were almost finished with. “This here’s fer me n’ Gobert n’ Molls, but slaves don’t get one. Gonna be mighty cold tonight…”

Like I’d want to share sleeping space with the likes of you, Merlin shot back at him silently, missing his voice greatly. He allowed himself a beautiful moment to picture the boy with the greasy, brown hair as a large, warty toad instead.

“Better get used ta the cold,” Toad-boy continued, jabbing at him with words since he couldn’t do it with his stick anymore. “It’s the mines fer you anyway – ‘at’s where all slaves go.” He grinned maliciously at Merlin, looking him up and down. “Bet you don’t last a fortnight.”

Something constricted inside Merlin’s chest at the words and he forgot about the previous fight, instead glancing over to where Arthur was being led into the very center tent by his guards. If he was sent to these mines, how would he protect Arthur? How could he keep his friend safe if they were separated? The thought froze him even more than the bitter wind and he shuddered.

“At’s right. Yer a gonner fer sure,” Hab sneered, misinterpreting Merlin’s reaction. “Now be a good doggy an’ fetch.” He kicked the metal water pails at his feet and snickered as he walked off to gather firewood.

The thrill of his little victory had fizzled out and Merlin limped to the stream with worry and dread once more settled back in his heart. Thankfully, this camp was much better situated than the last one, with a gentle stream flowing just beyond the clearing on blessedly flat ground. His aching body and legs were immensely grateful, but it also meant he was in sight the entire time he worked and couldn’t steal a few moments for himself to check his injury or get a drink.

“Boy, hurry!” Molls yelled after him. He sighed and struggled back to camp, bracing himself for the thwacks of her deadly spoon that she wielded like a weapon. When he finally escaped to his next chore his ears and shoulders were bruised and stinging, and he had decided that he thoroughly regretted ever thinking that Arthur was a harsh master.

*****

Arthur was fuming.

Not even the facts that he could move, he could see, and he could use his hands again – although it had taken a good hour or so just to work feeling back into the abused limbs – were enough to assuage his anger. In actuality, all those facts just increased his rage – because he was mostly unbound and the blindfold had been removed, and yet he was just as stuck and helpless.

He growled, and turned to retrace the five steps in the other direction like a caged beast. It was a pitiful amount of room for pacing, but it was all that the small tent and the chain attached around his ankle and fixed to the center post allowed him.

When he’d first been led in here, Arthur had started plotting almost before Sir Einar had cut the ropes and removed the blindfold. If they were confident enough to give him his mobility back, he was going to turn that against them the first chance he got. But, the enemy knight had blown holes in his plans before he had even finalized them in his own head.

There was an armed and ready guard just outside the door of his tent at all times.

His tent was in the center of the camp, where it was visible on all sides by everyone.

He was chained to the center post as an added security measure.

And, should he disregard all of that – pull down the pole and tent to get free, somehow manage to untangle himself from the fallen tent and take out his guard and acquire a weapon – he would never manage to fight his way through the camp before Merlin was dead.

He growled again and slumped in frustration on the bare cot that had been left inside the tent with him, letting his head fall forward into his hands.

He’d made an error when he let his captors realize that he cared for Merlin – it both put the boy’s life in danger, and gave the enemy a threat to hold over his own head that tied his hands more completely than any rope or chain. And yet, there was nothing else he could have done. Servant or not, Arthur couldn’t let his only friend perish back in that clearing, and he couldn’t risk his life now on some half-baked escape plan that would probably fail anyway.

“What?”

Arthur’s head shot up, his eyes darting to the closed tent flap and the loud, unknown voice that had just come from outside.

“Bedding and supper? What do you think this is, kid, the bloody palace?”

Arthur’s forehead wrinkled as he narrowed his eyes in confusion. It sounded for all the world like his guard – thankfully not one of his normal, delightful fellows – was talking to himself.

“Fine, but his bratty highness don’t need bread and meat and cheese.”

There was a moment of rustling and then the flap opened and a pile of blankets topped with a food plate and a water skin stepped through.

“Merlin!” Arthur cried, jumping to his feet as the boy set his load down on the cot and then turned to him with a tired grin.

The servant didn’t answer, just picked up the tin plate – which Arthur noted absently now only held bread and some kind of cooked meat, no cheese – and held it out to him with an insistent nudge. Arthur took it out of habit, but didn’t eat, looking intently at Merlin for the first time in almost four days instead.

He was appalled by what he saw.

His young friend was filthy, his clothes torn in places and covered in mud stains and dirt and a few spots Arthur suspected might even be blood, and the boy was gaunt with dark circles under his eyes. Bruises stood out stark against his overly pale skin, and his hands trembled as he immediately set to spreading out the blankets he’d brought with him, making up the prince’s bed as if nothing were amiss, as if there weren’t – chains – binding his wrists.

Merlin produced a bundle wrapped in cloth from the depths of the bedding and lifted it up to Arthur with a triumphant smile and a finger held to his lips before tucking it down at the foot of the bedroll, and the prince suddenly knew what was bothering him the very most.

“Merlin,” he said, setting the food aside on the ground, “stop. Just stop for a moment.”

Merlin’s smile slipped away and he shook his head, still fussing with the bedding, before jerking his head meaningfully over his shoulder toward the tent flap and the guard who waited outside, a measure of worry settling in his eyes.

Arthur sat on the cot next to where Merlin knelt and reached out, stilling his shaking hands with his own.

“Merlin,” he whispered this time, looking him up and down and all over now he was even closer, “what have they done to you?”

His friend seemed to deflate, but only until his eyes landed on Arthur’s raw and bleeding wrists, then he wrenched his own hands free of Arthur’s grasp and grabbed one of the prince’s hands, gently running his fingers over the abrasions left by the ropes before looking around rather desperately, completely ignoring the question. When he took up the hem of his already ragged tunic, Arthur knew instantly what his intent was and reached out again to stop him.

“No, Merlin. It appears your clothing has already been sacrificed to other causes and its cold out, you need the protection. Am I right in assuming you don’t get a tent to sleep in tonight?”

The boy shrugged noncommittally, still without uttering a blasted word, and looked around again. This time he leaned toward the bedding, determined to pull bandages from somewhere, and in what was becoming a horribly familiar pattern, Arthur halted him.

“It’s nothing more than a little rope burn and a few patches of rubbed off skin,” he said, fighting hard to keep his voice to a whisper as his emotions rose. “I won’t see you beaten for tearing up the blankets when I’m fine, Merlin. But you, however, are not. Speak to me! Please!”

Merlin’s eyes suddenly shimmered with liquid and he lowered his head, chin almost touching his chest. Arthur followed the motion with his eyes and noticed what he hadn’t before. Something glinted at the boy’s throat, almost hidden by the ratty scarf his friend insisted on wearing – and that was probably no accident if he knew his self-sacrificing servant at all.

“What is this?” he hissed angrily, voice rising slightly as he reached out and pulled the red cloth down, exposing a cold, metal band circling Merlin’s neck. “How come you were hiding it?”

Looking more defeated than Arthur had ever seen his young friend, Merlin sat completely on the ground, bracing his back against the wooden cot as the moisture finally tracked down his grubby cheeks. He wiped a hand across his face in embarrassment, smearing it all, then squinted around through his tears at the forest floor that served as the bottom of the tent. After a moment, he picked up a small twig and then spread smooth a patch of the dirt Arthur had previously kicked up with his pacing.

Arthur watched in utter confusion as Merlin sucked in a hitching but completely silent breath, and then wrote in the dirt with his stick.

It’s a slave collar.

The crown prince clenched his teeth and his fists, brutal anger shooting through him, but Merlin wasn’t done, rubbing away those words as soon as he saw his master had read them, and replacing them with others, every short phrase more horrendous than the one before.

Enchanted collar.
Can’t speak - causes pain.
For obedience.

No.

Arthur shook his head vehemently, as his thoughts exploded.

No they did not get to do this! Merlin was his servant – his friend! A citizen of Camelot! Strangers did not get to grab him and slap chains on his already too-thin wrists…to collar him like an animal and take away his idiotic but often wise and funny words!

He shook his head again, rage practically making him vibrate, and opened his mouth to –

“Boy, you’re supposed to feed the princeling, not tuck him in for the night.” A harsh rap came on the canvas wall of the tent. “Get back out here before I call your minder over and tell him you’re trying to shirk your chores by hiding in the nice, warm tent!”

Real fear shot through Merlin’s eyes at the interrupting voice. He snatched up the abandoned plate of food, scrambling to his feet, and while Arthur still just sat there on the edge of his cot, staring at the boy in shock and anger, Merlin took his hands and pushed them together, emptying the hunk of bread and cooling piece of meat into them. Chains clanking in his hurry, his friend then set the half-full water skin next to him on the blankets. He turned to the exit but not before piercing the prince with an expression he could have sworn was meant to say I’m sorry, then practically sprinted from the tent.

Arthur went to bed still furious that night.

Furious at the cruel men who would put a helpless servant in chains.

Furious that he got a tent and a cot while he was certain Merlin was shivering outside.

Furious at the warm stone he’d discovered in the center of the bundle the boy had tucked inside his bedroll, one he was sure wasn’t supposed to be there and would bring more pain down upon his friend.

Furious that the useless prattle he complained so much about, but secretly enjoyed, had been brutally silenced.

Furious at himself, for being unable to stop any of it!

And especially furious that Merlin had taken the stupid tin plate away with him, because now he had absolutely nothing to throw about and bash against things, giving release to some of that fury.

Sorry for the longer wait this time, I haven’t been feeling very well for a few days. But, it’s up now and I hope you enjoyed it.

Also, this story now has a banner graphic up in the summary, so go check it out if you have time. (You have to click on the first chapter for it to appear.)

Chapter Text

10. Keep Quiet

Death twitches in my ear;
‘Live,’ he says…
‘I’m coming.’
- Virgil

*****

“I demand you set my servant free!” were the words Arthur greeted Sir Einar with when he was led blindfolded from his tent the next morning. Behind him, he heard the sound of poles and canvas and he wondered if Merlin were close enough to witness this conversation.

“The saddle horn is here,” Sir Einar answered instead, guiding his cuffed hands to the leather. In a new break with the routine – one he was very grateful for – his hands had not been rebound behind his back but were instead cuffed with iron manacles in front of him. There was no length between them for movement – only two small links of chain – but at least he retained feeling in his hands this way.

He did not particularly care about his hands at the moment, however, as the other knight was still refusing to answer him.

“Are all people in your country deaf? Do you not hear my words?” he spat again, refusing to mount the horse. “Let the boy go!”

Sir Einar sighed. “I hear you, Prince Arthur, but I have nothing to say to your requests, so why waste breath?”

“He’s just a peasant boy, dragged into things beyond him!” Arthur tried again, almost pleading. He couldn’t shake the image of Merlin – a dirty and silent Merlin, trying to hide his tears – chained and collared. “He doesn’t deserve this!”

“Most men rarely deserve the road fate sets out before them, but they must walk it just the same,” the older man answered, and Arthur almost thought he heard a trace of sorrow in his voice. “They have no choice. I have no choice – I must obey my orders. The boy has no choice – fate has seen fit to take it from him. The only one here who really has a choice is you, Your Highness. You may choose to get on this horse willingly or to cause your young friend more pain through your disobedience. It’s up to you.”

Biting back all the vicious words that longed to spew forth from his mouth, Arthur got on the horse.

For Merlin, he stayed silent as they roped his chained hands to the saddle horn and lashed his feet to the stirrups. For Merlin, he didn’t utter a word about the unfairness as a warm cloak was draped around his shoulders. But he knew in his heart he couldn’t stay silent for long, and he would have to try again. Merlin could no longer speak for himself – Arthur would have to do it for him, at least until he could think of some way for them both to escape.

*****

As the raiding party made ready to leave camp the next morning, Merlin ignored his guard as he was tethered to the back of the wagon, instead keeping his eyes focused on Arthur. Even captive and tied to his horse in chains and a blindfold, the prince cut a regal figure – back straight and proud, jaw set and determined with no hint of fear, though Merlin would be lying if he said he couldn’t see rage.

Rage his master had only restrained on Merlin’s own behalf, he knew, recalling the argument he had been witness to as he packed up Arthur’s tent. It warmed his heart, knowing someone in his now cruel world still cared for his well-being. He was embarrassed about the conversation with his friend the night before, his show of emotion and the revelation of things he’d hoped to keep from Arthur for as long as possible, but he couldn’t deny that it had fortified him as well – being able to finally look his friend in the eyes and share a moment of mutual compassion.

But just as Arthur’s concern and care for him brought him hope, it also filled him with waves of guilt. He was being used against his prince – used to force him to comply and be controlled. That made him even more of a tool than the slave collar around his neck, and filled him with disgust and self-loathing.

If he’d had a voice, he would have yelled at Arthur to stop being so blasted noble and save himself by now. But he couldn’t, and somehow he knew even if he could, the older boy would not listen anyway.

Merlin didn’t know what to do, and every step he took led them both farther from Camelot – from help and home.

Those steps were harder today, his limp worse given that he hadn’t been able to care for his wound at all the day before, and he had to admit he was struggling slightly to keep up with the wagon he was attached to. An injured leg and the natural ability to trip over his own feet, let alone rocks and protruding roots, was not a good combination, and he knew if he went down no one would stop to help him back up.

So he forced himself to grit his teeth against the gnawing hunger, the biting cold, and the shooting pain in his right leg and walk – on and on and on.

He distracted himself by observing, though it was a calculated risk to take his eyes off of those very weary feet. Still, he learned a lot, for it seemed that as soon as the collar was placed around his neck, he became invisible. Oh, he wasn’t when they wanted something done, or needed something to torment and laugh at, but for everything else, it was as if he wasn’t even there. He wasn’t a person, but a thing, and he faded into the background unnoticed like a pot or a chair or any other possession. It was infuriating, but also helpful.

As he walked by day and slaved by night he gathered names.

There were Hab, and Gobert, and Molls, – the servants, of course, and Sir Einar. He learned Arthur’s guards were Owain and Gerard – the latter being an extremely unpleasant fellow who seemed to be swallowed in a black cloud of anger and hurt. Merlin’s few interactions with the man had all ended painfully.

There were others, names he caught as they flew around him in the camp: Aram, Joalf, Twyford – the red-haired soldier who’d been kind to him, and Hermund.

Merlin didn’t know if he was disappointed or amused when he learned that Stupidly-Handsome was actually named Basil.

Basil? Really? The man who was responsible for most of the bruises that now littered his exhausted body, the man he’d come to hate and fear, was named after a plant? And an incredibly wimpy plant at that, he thought, as he recalled the green herb that grew in pots in the kitchen gardens and would curl up and die at the first sign of frost or heat.

It was amusing, and yet it also wasn’t. Merlin was rather sure that nearly half of his favorite foods had now been ruined because of this knowledge.

Not that it mattered, considering he’d probably never get to eat any of them again.

His hungry stomach gave a harsh growl at the thought of good food and he quickly forced his thoughts elsewhere.

By midafternoon, the party had left behind the deep woods Merlin had grown used to. There were still trees, but they thinned, allowing a view of the countryside beyond. Soon they emerged from the forest altogether, Sir Einar turning them onto an actual road.

Weary and trying desperately not to stumble, Merlin forced himself to gaze around, only to realize he had absolutely no idea where they were. The land was completely unfamiliar – the trees giving way to a flat, desolate expanse colored in the faded browns and greys of late autumn and shrouded in a thick mist. It felt ancient and magical, and given other circumstances Merlin might have been fascinated, but now he was just filled with a sinking dread. They were so far from home, in a place he wondered if even Arthur would recognize, and getting farther and farther from any hope with each hour that dragged past.

The afternoon worn on into evening and occasionally the mist would clear giving Merlin a glimpse of cold, craggy mountains in the distance. Gut instinct coupled with the group’s general sense of direction told him that’s where they were headed.

Mountains had mines – slaves were sent to the mines.

Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking his own life away, drawing ever closer to the place it would end, to his own death.

He forced the tears back, unwilling to let his captors see his fears, and plodded on.

Throughout the later hours, they passed the occasional merchant or group of travelers – the first other people Merlin had seen since this nightmare began. At first he had hope that the sight of a chained captive might cause some of them alarm, but he quickly realized he was wrong. A few spared him a pitying glance, but that was all, and he remembered with bitterness that for most of the land, slavery was just a fact of life. It was only Camelot in general and Arthur in particular who abhorred it. His sad state was nothing these people hadn’t seen before and certainly wasn’t something they would concern themselves about beyond being thankful it was him who was experiencing it and not them.

A few took notice of Arthur, blindfolded on his horse, but the cloak completely hid his limbs and any evidence of his bonds. To anyone who didn’t know, he was simply a soldier who had sustained a grievous injury to his eyes and was being lead home by his comrades.

After a while, Merlin gave up looking at the faces of the few people they passed – it hurt too much to have his hopes dashed every time there was no flicker of recognition or compassion.

They camped that night on the outskirts of a small, dirty village, its one redeeming feature, at least to the rest of the camp, being the fact it had a tavern. As he scrubbed the dishes, Merlin watched groups of laughing, carefree men drift from the camp toward the warm glow of buildings down the road and the chance to slake their thirst. He pondered, for just a moment, if this might be the chance he was looking for – the opportunity to get Arthur free while there were less men about – but he quickly discarded that idea. There were still plenty of armed and dangerous soldiers between him and the prince’s tent: Sir Einar…a very unhappy looking Basil who had apparently been left behind just to guard Merlin, as well as Arthur’s second guard Owain who was standing alert and grumpy outside Arthur’s door. There were also others, perhaps not feeling the call of the mead that night, scattered about the camp cleaning weapons and mending armor.

Merlin sighed and went back to his chores, head and shoulders drooping and shivering violently from the cold.

He was so frozen by the time Basil tethered him out with the horses that he honestly didn’t know what to do. He needed sleep – he’d had no chance to tend his injury for two days now and he could tell it was dangerously infected again. Sleep was the only medicine he had and his body craved it, but he also feared the cold. If he lay down and drifted off, would he ever wake again?

Would it be so bad if he didn’t? a little voice in the back of his mind interjected. Would it be so horrible to die peacefully in his sleep rather than violently as a slave?

Angrily, he shoved the thoughts back into the dark corners of his head. Arthur still needed him. He was not going to give up.

His mare was once more attached to the same tree, along with the two horses that pulled the wagons. Quietly, he limped over to her side and reached up a hand to stroke her shoulder, trying to keep his chains from clanking. She responded warmly, leaning into him and nuzzling his hair before nosing at his pockets where he usually kept a few treats for her.

I’m sorry, he thought sadly, resting his head against her side as he continued to stroke her. I wish I had something for you. After a while, he stepped back slightly and grabbed her bridle, gently tugging down on it. She shook her head, moving away from him and Merlin wished for the thousandth time he had a voice to utter praise and commands. Instead, he hobbled with her and then knelt down painfully, pulling more firmly on the leather while still stroking her head, urging her to follow him. With a huff, she obeyed, lowering herself to the cold ground and folding in her knees.

Good girl, he thought with relief as he stroked her, trying to show his gratitude the only way he could. After a while, she snorted with pleasure and rolled over slightly, her eyes closing, and he dared to let go of the bridle knowing she was comfortable and less likely to move. One of the other horses had joined them on the ground, eager for attention as well, and Merlin carefully shifted his sore body so he could curl up next to them both, soaking up their warmth and the softness of their skin.

Finally, exhausted beyond anything he’d ever felt before, Merlin let his eyes drift shut and went to sleep.

*****

He woke to blinding pain and absolute chaos.

“- stupid, worthless filth!”

As Merlin struggled to snap his eyes open and focus his mind, boots and fists rained down on him along with hateful words. Horses squealed in terror and the warmth he was curled next to disappeared, deadly hooves joining in on the madness.

“ – dead! Bloody Majesty killed him!”

One of the horses clipped him on the ribs as it fought to flee the unknown threat that had assailed it but then Merlin was jerked clear of them by the chain between his wrists, dragged to the opposite end of his ankle chain, and thrown back to the ground.

Holding his trembling arms before his face, he blinked up at his attacker. It was Gerard, Arthur’s guard, and judging by the anger and the smell, he was well into a drunken rage.

A boot came straight for his face and Merlin whipped his head down, curling in a ball with his bound hands trying to protect his head.

“ – my brother!”

Blows to his arms, his stomach, his ankle…

“ – treated like royalty! Spoiled brat!”

Merlin’s cheeks were wet and he could barely breathe as he trembled in agony and fear. The world was going slightly fuzzy around him and only parts of the shouts and obscenities were filtering into his ears.

“Can’t touch His Majesty!”

The next strike hit his back with a resounding crack, and Merlin peeked through streaming eyes to see the man had now armed himself with a thick branch.

“ – his little pet!”

Blow after blow came down on his vulnerable body and all he could do was fight the dark edges that were trying to creep up on him while he endured, until the raging man brought the wood down directly onto his already inflamed wound. Merlin’s back arched in agony and a scream tried to claw its way out of his throat, so strong that even biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood couldn’t stop it entirely. The collar stole any sound of what would have been a small, keening wail, but his mind’s instinctual attempt to give utterance to his pain triggered the magic. Knives of fire spiked up his neck and behind his eyes as his fingers spasmed, reaching blindly for his throbbing leg, heedless of the improvised club that still flashed through the air and smacked against his flesh.

“SOLDIER GERARD!

The harsh voice shouted across the camp even as the dots of blackness floating before Merlin’s eyes coalesced, stealing his vision as he lay tense, chest heaving from suppressed sobs that left him unable to breathe properly. He was vaguely aware that the brutal beating had stopped for now – new, angry words from a different voice poking at him as he struggled to cling to consciousness through the blazing pain in his body and his head.

“ – disgrace to the ranks –! – no longer trusted to guard –! – helpless boy –! – sober up!”

After a while, the yelling ceased and Merlin felt someone tugging at his tunic and trousers. Already half faint with pain and terror, his mind immediately conjured up the worst and he struggled weakly, pushing at the invading hands.

“No, please!” he tried to beg, then arched and twisted again as his brain attempted to explode once more before going completely still and limp. He was chained and tethered, unable to escape and rendered utterly immobile and helpless from the searing agony, teetering on the edge of oblivion. Hands fumbled over him – his head, his arms, his ankles – but Merlin’s only acknowledgment was the trickle of tears running down his face. He could do nothing to stop whatever was going to happen to him, and with a silent cry of resignation, he gave up.

*****

Sorry for the much longer wait this time. Life has been busy and this chapter was hard to get out. I appreciate your patience with me. Hopefully the next chapter will go up much faster.

Also, thank you to Missy and Smuffly for their reassurances on parts of this.

Chapter Text

11. A Breath Between

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”
- C.S. Lewis

*****

Arthur spent every waking moment both on his horse and stuck in his tent at night musing over plans and escape options, but to no avail. These soldiers were careful and cautious and unfortunately, very good at what they did. He could fight with his hands bound in front of him – he’d trained for that and it wasn’t just arrogance that spoke when he said he was good. Had he not had another life to worry about, he would have risked it days ago. He could also fight decently without his sight – another result of thorough training – but he could not do both, not with Merlin at risk for dangers he couldn’t see and account for.

He did wonder why there had been no rescue. A party this big, traveling across the land, it should have left a trail obvious enough for even the newest squire to follow, so where were his knights? He couldn’t help thinking that something big had happened at home, something awful. It was the only explanation he had and pondering on it left him stressed and worried.

He had just been drifting off to a fitful sleep after admitting defeat on yet another night of fruitless escape-planning when a loud commotion in the camp outside brought him fully awake again. He instantly rolled off the cot, ankle chain jangling, and stood – alert and cautious – ready to take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself even as he strained his ears to hear what was going on.

There was a lot of yelling and what sounded like panicked horses, but he couldn’t make out what was actually being said. Presently, the chaos outside dimmed, and he was left wondering what had just happened, not for the first time wishing to see something beyond the bland walls of his canvas tent. Blindfolded by day and trapped in the tent by night, he had never felt so isolated and cut-off before in his entire life.

He was just sinking to the edge of his bed, allowing himself to relax, when the tent-flap was flung aside. He shot to his feet once more as Sir Einar marched in, an angry glower stretched across his face and Arthur’s manacles in his hands.

“What’s going on?” Arthur demanded, voice hardening as the older knight stepped up to him and secured his wrists. “What happ –”

The words died on his lips as two more soldiers crowded into the small tent, one carrying a pail, some rags, and a candle which he deposited beside Arthur’s cot, and the other holding the bloody and beaten form of his servant, the boy unnaturally still.

Hatred seared through him. “WHAT DID YOU DO?” he roared, surging forward, only to be bodily restrained by Sir Einar. The enemy knight held him back while Merlin was placed – almost gently – on the ground by a red-haired man, who quickly attached a chain that was already cuffed to the boy’s skinny ankle to the middle post of the tent, just above Arthur’s own. The other two men ducked back out of the tent, leaving the prince alone with Sir Einar and a barely conscious Merlin.

“What. Did. You. Do?” he seethed again through clenched teeth, fixing a glare on the other man that had been known to curdle milk.

“I did nothing but stop the lad from being beaten to death at a drunken man’s hands,” the knight answered, sounding almost weary.

“The drunken hands of one of your men,” Arthur countered angrily.

Sir Einar didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped away, finally allowing the prince to rush the three steps to his friend’s side.

“I could have left him to the cold and a slave’s lot for the night, after stopping it,” the older man said. “Instead, I brought him here. You have water and clean rags and much of the night – do what you can, but know on the morrow he must walk again.”

The man turned to slip out of the tent, but stopped, glancing back. “And Prince Arthur, you have my word on my honor as a knight, the man who hurt him tonight will never touch him again.” Then he stepped out into the black of night and was gone.

Arthur forgot him the moment the door dropped closed, focus completely occupied with the injured boy in front of him.

“Merlin?” he called urgently, gripping his shoulder gently. “Can you hear me? It’s Arthur.”

The servant’s eyes were only partially open, and he lay completely still, which was so very wrong. Merlin was flailing limbs and goofy smiles, corners taken too fast and laundry all over the floor, pacing and bouncing and shifting from foot to foot. He was not and never should be still and silent.

“Merlin?” he begged again, fearing the soldier’s cruelty may have been one brutality too many for the boy to bear and, though the youth wasn’t unconscious, everything that made him Merlin may have fled.

Then one of his friend’s hands moved. Slowly, it crept up until his long fingers curled into the fabric of Arthur’s sleeve, holding on as if for dear life, while a fresh batch of tears cut trails through the already moist grime on Merlin’s face.

Arthur’s heart broke.

Knowing time was wasting, he gently tugged his arm from Merlin’s grip, and then carefully patted the servant all over, a job made even more awkward by the fact the manacles prevented Arthur from separating his hands more than a few inches. Merlin barely moved, though Arthur knew he had to be causing more pain, and his worry climbed even higher. Still, he didn’t think anything other than skin was broken, though there were a couple of ribs he wasn’t so sure about.

Once he was mostly convinced he wouldn’t be doing more damage, he hoisted the boy over his shoulder and then deposited him with care onto his own bed. He moved the candle to a better, safer location and then snagged the bucket of water and rags before sitting on the edge of the cot, praying the old wood would hold both their weight as he turned back to his friend.

Merlin’s lids had opened a bit farther and he appeared to be staring at Arthur, though his gaze was still glazed with tears and confusion.

Arthur wet a rag, wrung it out, and then gently started to clean the blood and filth from the boy’s head and face, trying not to bash Merlin in the face with his own chain as he worked.

He discovered a lip that had been bitten through, a cut to the forehead and one to the cheek, and bruise upon bruise upon bruise. Arthur also found that while his friend shivered as if he were freezing, his skin was hot and clammy with fever. No wonder the boy was dazed and out of it – he was lucky not to be unconscious. With each injury that was revealed, Arthur’s fury grew, but he forced it down. Merlin was in no condition to sort out anger directed at others from anger directed at himself, especially after the mistake that started this whole nightmare.

When Merlin’s face and head were checked and cleaned, Arthur unwound the beloved neckerchief, setting it aside. The boy was now watching him and he was relieved to see there was cognizance and awareness in his blue eyes once more.

“There you are, idiot,” he said softly, not even bothering to hide the worry or fondness in his voice. “Do you know where you are?”

The answering nod was slow and pained, but unmistakable. Arthur smiled, shoving his rage deeper inside for later.

“Can you sit?” he asked next. “I can’t hold you up and tend to your wounds at the same time. Not like…this,” he admitted ruefully, displaying his closely chained hands for his younger friend to see.

Again, Merlin gave a slow, weary nod.

Arthur eased him forward and then turned him sidewise, Merlin achingly swinging his legs so they hung over the edge of the cot. He wobbled precariously for a few long moments after Arthur let go, but managed to stay upright.

Between both of them having chained hands and Merlin being hardly able to move let alone lift his arms, removing the boy’s jacket and shirt was an inelegant and painful affair. Eventually, though, they were bunched at his wrists and Arthur had an unobstructed view of his servant’s chest and back.

The horrible burning, hatred towards those who had captured them and done this flared to life again and he was grateful Merlin seemed to be studying his boots.

He’d lost weight – weight he hadn’t had to lose in the first place. The boy’s ribs were beginning to show with alarming clarity against the skin, and that skin was painted with a kaleidoscope of bruises, cuts, and abrasions that blended together so closely Arthur was hard pressed to find a few patches of unharmed paleness.

Merlin had been beaten to a bloody pulp, and Arthur was supposed to make it all better in a couple of hours with a bucket of water and a few rags? He would have laughed, if it weren’t so far from funny he felt more like being sick.

He wished Gaius were there, to tell him what to do for Merlin’s hurts – to fix things properly with his caring hands and medicine. And he wished Gwen were there, soothing Merlin with her quiet words and presence – healing with the love of a friend. The moment he wished it, however, he took it all back, because he would never in all of eternity wish those two, gentle souls there with them, caught up in this pain and horror. In fact, he wished the gentle soul sitting before him was as far from it all as possible, uninjured and home in Camelot – safe.

But wishes wouldn’t change anything. Merlin was there – badly hurt – and the others were not, and the only one around to provide any help was Arthur. With a sigh, he rinsed his rag and got back to work.

His movements were stilted and uncoordinated, and the silence that stretched between them was loaded with so many unsaid thoughts it almost had physical weight. Arthur did his best, but he had the hands of a warrior – calloused and rough; they weren’t used to being gentle. He could bind a battle-field wound until more expert help arrived, but he’d never had to sooth and comfort before.

“If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone,” he started, falling back into their usual banter to kill the awkwardness, but then he stopped in horror, dripping cloth frozen in his hands as his eyes lit on the glaring, metal collar that circled Merlin’s neck and the realization of what he’d just said hit him.

The words finally drew Merlin’s attention up from the ground, but to his surprise and relief, there wasn’t accusation and hurt on his face but the beginnings of a smile. It broadened as Merlin gave him a knowing look, turning into one of the full-fledged grins Arthur was so used to, albeit a very exhausted version. With a trembling hand, Merlin reached up and made a locking motion in front of his lips, then mimed tossing away an invisible key.

Arthur laughed, and just like that the tension was gone, taking the embarrassment of before with it as well. The circumstances hadn’t changed, nor had the awfulness of his present task, but somehow a little normalcy had been returned. They were Arthur and Merlin again – master and servant, and best friends – though Arthur would die before he admitted that last part out loud to anyone other than the boy beside him.

Before Merlin came along, Arthur had never thought he needed friends. A prince should have servants, subjects, knights – people who followed him and did exactly what he ordered of them. He’d had pseudo-friends – the sons of nobles and knights near his age who’d flocked after him – but he’d always known their friendship was simply to guarantee a better position once he was king, and as such, they never dared to contradict him. And then Merlin had tumbled into his life – impertinent, never obeying orders, questioning his every word. He’d gone from wanting to strangle the boy to somehow trusting him with the thoughts and feelings he’d never shared with another living soul, and he wasn’t even entirely sure how it happened. But he couldn’t deny it – Merlin was his first real friend.

His father had drilled into him that such things were a weakness – un-princely and foolish. Friends made him vulnerable – which he supposed, as he glanced around the dirty tent he was trapped in, was true. But, looking back at the trembling boy before him – a boy who had now lost everything and still managed to grace him with a trusting smile – he knew his father was also wrong; friends made him stronger.

Warmed by this epiphany, he finished washing Merlin’s back and chest, pausing for a long time to study a particularly black bruise over the boy’s ribs on his right side. When he pushed on it, two of the bones gave slightly and Merlin sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, hands tightening to fists against his thighs.

“Are they broken?” Arthur asked, knowing the servant had more expertise with medicine and broken bones than he did, being Gaius’ ward and all.

The young man wobbled his hand back and forth slightly, which Arthur took to mean “cracked” then. Not that it mattered, he thought bitterly – he hadn’t anything to bind them with anyway.

“Can you breathe all right?” That was his main worry. Merlin indicated that he was fine, and there was nothing more to do but move on.

He pulled Merlin’s clothes back on, even replacing the ragged scarf, and then helped him lie down again. The servant’s eyes were starting to droop once more, lack of sleep and food, coupled with harsh work, terror, and agony taking their toll.

“You have a fever, Merlin,” Arthur said softly, tapping against the boy’s cheek to stop his fluttering eyes from closing just yet. “Can you tell me what’s causing it?”

Another nod, almost imperceptible, and his hand grazed over his right leg where there was a large tear in his trousers.

“Trousers off, then,” Arthur said, trying to sound unconcerned and not horribly uncomfortable, but he needn’t have bothered. Merlin’s eyes were closed in sleep. Arthur left him to it; he desperately needed the rest and it would probably be easier for both of them if he just slept through this next part.

The smell of infection hit him strongly as soon as he started to ease the filthy, torn material down Merlin’s legs. The limbs were a mass of black and blue bruises, just like the rest of his body, and Arthur cringed to think of the pain walking all day would cause his friend. But the source of the odor was an injury that took his breath away when he finally got a good look at it, a deep gash on the boy’s right thigh.

It had been clumsily bandaged once, which answered the question of what had happened to Merlin’s tunic, but it was obvious the servant hadn’t been able to care for it for days. The whole thing was a disaster of dirty, crusted material, oozing pus, and the hot inflammation of infected skin.

It was bad. Very bad. As Arthur peeled away the filthy bandage and peered directly at the cut, his heart sank. The wound itself wouldn’t have been life threatening if properly cared for, but now…

“Oh, idiot,” he sighed, fear clenching his insides. He had never felt so helpless.

He set the strip of cloth aside, to rinse in a moment, ground his teeth, and took up his wet rag once more.

It wasn’t pleasant. Merlin had tried to pack the wound with some sort of herb, but his inability to change the dressing for however long had probably made things worse. It needed to be thoroughly cleansed and opened, as much foreign material and infection as possible purged, and all Arthur had was a pail of increasingly murky water and his own hands.

Merlin jerked back awake at his first probing touches of the injury and then lay there ridged as Arthur worked, swollen lip pulled between his teeth and his hands clenched around the chain that connected them. His eyes were pinched shut, though occasionally a small tear leaked out, and his breathing was harsh and ragged.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Arthur muttered over and over again as he dug and squeezed, sponging away the pus and infection that ran out.

Finally, it was as clean as Arthur could get it given his limited supplies. He rinsed the original bandage and set it aside to dry, knowing he’d need it later, then wiped the wound down one last time before covering it loosely with the remaining dry rags. He pulled Merlin’s trousers up to just above his knees, then tucked every blanket the soldiers had given him around the shivering boy.

“Hey,” he said softly, tugging on his friend’s white-knuckle grip of the chain, “I’m done. I won’t touch it again. Just sleep now.”

Gradually, Merlin relaxed, and Arthur drew the blankets up to his chin, then he sat on the ground beside the cot where he could reach him with his bound hands. Recalling something he’d seen Gwen do once when Merlin was suffering from a winter illness, he reached out and tentatively brushed the hair off the boy’s sweaty forehead, then ran his fingers through the greasy locks a few times before letting his hands drop to the edge of the bed.

Merlin was almost asleep, his breath finally back under control after enduring so much suffering, but before he drifted off completely, he shifted his chained hand sideways and latched onto Arthur’s wrist. Then, holding on tight, he finally allowed himself to fall asleep once more.

For a long time, Arthur just sat there shivering from the cold. Making no move to release Merlin’s trembling grip, he stared at his servant as the candle burned low and sputtered, trying to come to terms with what his mind was telling him.

Merlin was dying. In his weakened state, with little food and rest, the infection in the wound would spread unchecked and surely kill him if not given proper treatment.

And Arthur had no idea what to do to prevent that from happening, he only knew that he must.

“I promise you will not die here, as their slave, Merlin,” he whispered fervently. “Somehow, I will get us out of this colossal mess. I swear it.”

As if to mock his words, the candle suddenly burned out with a hiss, plunging him into frozen darkness. Heart hurting and feeling like a complete failure, Arthur let his head sink down to the edge of the cot and slept, his own fingers clutching the fabric of Merlin’s sleeve.

Author's Note: Hopefully this makes up for the long wait last time. :) As always, thanks to Missy and Smuffly. You know what for.

Chapter Text

12. Actions Speak Louder than Words

“We know only too well that what we are doing is nothing more than a drop in the ocean. But if the drop were not there, the ocean would be missing something.”
- Mother Teresa

*****

Arthur woke to a hand on his shoulder that caused him to jerk his head up abruptly.

“Peace, Your Majesty,” – it was the red-haired soldier from the night before – “I’m just here to collect the boy. He has chores to do.”

The prince scrubbed his hands over his face and then maneuvered inelegantly to his feet, glancing at the cot where Merlin still slept before turning back to the other man. He recalled the way this man had carried his friend the night before, setting him down carefully when he could have just dumped him, and decided to take a risk.

“He’s wounded – gravely. I beg of you to just let him rest,” Arthur pleaded.

The soldier’s eyes filled with compassion and concern, while the corners of his lips pulled down into a frown.

Heartened by his reactions, Arthur pressed further. Merlin was beginning to stir as the prince moved the blankets aside from the injured leg and lifted the rags, revealing the horribly infected gash. The soldier stepped over to look.

“Please?” Arthur added, throwing all pride to the wind.

Fully awake now, Merlin’s pained blue eyes darted between Arthur and the soldier, before he started shaking his head “no” and struggling to rise. Desperation and fear rolled off him and Arthur sighed, reaching forward to help his friend sit up to the accompaniment of jingling chains. Once upright, Merlin stiffly pushed his hands away and reached for the dried strip of his tunic, hastily rebinding his festering wound and then with sluggish motions he tugged up his trousers and fixed his clothes.

The red-haired soldier had watched this all in silence, but finally he spoke. “I’ll take him to Aram, our field medic. It’s the best that I can do,” he said softly, before bending down to release Merlin’s ankle from its cuff.

Arthur helped Merlin to his feet, the younger boy wincing at every move and touch, and then watched with unhidden worry as his servant hobbled wearily out of the tent.

“Aram will help him,” the soldier said kindly, apparently having no trouble reading the emotions Arthur was displaying. “Try not to worry. And someone will bring you food soon,” he added, before following Merlin into the camp.

Try not to worry. Arthur huffed a short, mirthless laugh as he sat on the edge of his cot. About Merlin? The boy could make washing clothes deadly. And now, with him so hurt…Arthur knew he wouldn’t do anything but worry until they were both safely away from these people and back home.

*****

Merlin stumbled away from Arthur’s tent, trying not to show how incredibly much everything hurt, and headed for the water skins and buckets. He knew better than to think he would get out of doing work just because he felt like he’d been trampled by a stampede of horses. The red-haired soldier – Twyford he reminded himself – might have said he’d get him help, but Merlin didn’t think it would actually happen. No one had done anything to help him yet and he’d been limping for days – why would they bother to care now?

So he was completely shocked when Twyford caught up to him and stopped him from picking up the two pails.

“Come with me, lad. Let’s have Aram look at that leg.”

Eyes round with surprise, Merlin followed the man to one of the smaller tents meant to house the upper-class soldiers away from the rest of the men.

“Aram?” Twyford asked, sticking his head through the opening. “I’ve brought you a patient.”

“Bring him in, then,” a voice called out.

Twyford pulled the door open and tugged Merlin inside. He blinked a few times as his eyes fought to adjust to the dimness, but he really didn’t need them to know what was surrounding him – for the last two nights he’d set the tent up, hauled in the two cots and fitted them with blankets, and brought the wrapped stones to warm the soldiers’ beds.

“The slave?”

His gaze settled on the speaker – a shorter man with greyish-brown hair and a beard.

“I thought Sir Einar took care of this last night?” Aram continued. He caught Merlin staring and sent him a caustic glare, causing the boy to quickly avert his eyes to the ground.

“He’s more injured than we knew and in need of some of your skills,” Twyford answered, pushing Merlin a few more steps forward until he was standing in the center of the tent.

“Very well,” the medic replied. Aram dismissed Twyford and then, ignoring Merlin completely, turned to a washbasin that the boy had also set up himself in the middle of the tent – and hauled the water for – and proceeded to roll up his sleeves and wash his hands. The man shifted around as he dried them on a towel, and Merlin felt his eyes roaming up and down him but he didn’t dare raise his head or look up from the dirt.

Hands clean, Aram removed his pack from underneath one of the cots and tossed it onto the blankets, then stepped up to Merlin and grabbed his chin.

The man’s fingers weren’t gentle as he tilted Merlin’s head first one way and then the other, giving his bruises an unconcerned once-over. He let go with enough force it was almost a slap, then tugged Merlin’s tunic out of his belt without so much as a warning and yanked both shirt and jacket up to his neck. The man studied the bruises on his back and chest longer, spinning Merlin around with his hands and poking mercilessly at tender spots here and there. It was all the boy could do to keep from passing out when Aram spent several minutes focused on the black bruise that covered the two ribs he was sure were cracked, pressing and prodding the flesh and bones. Fury was rising up inside the young warlock at the calloused treatment and he had to forcefully stomp it down – Gaius would have verbally ripped this man apart for daring to call himself a healer – but when the man dropped his tunic back down and reached for the laces of his trousers, Merlin angrily pushed his hands away.

I can do this myself! he snapped inside his head, pouring all his frustration and rage into a glare he sent toward Aram, the part of dutifully cowed slave forgotten.

The man just laughed arrogantly. “Well then, get on with it, boy,” he said, gesturing for him to continue.

Merlin lowered his trousers, revealing the ugly, festering wound, and Aram’s cold, rough fingers were instantly unwinding his pathetic bandage and then probing it. He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of fresh agony, but at least the medic’s face showed real concern for the first time since Merlin had entered the tent. This wound was serious enough to finally warrant the man’s full attention, even on a slave.

“This is from the battle when you were taken?” Aram addressed him.

Merlin nodded.

“The infection is well set in and will kill you if it’s not purged,” he added nonchalantly, stepping away to retrieve rags and bandages from his pack, as well as some fresh water. “I give you probably a week – a fortnight at most, if you’re lucky.”

Merlin’s heart seized as what he’d begun to suspect himself was verbally confirmed.

“I reckon it’s only your magic that’s kept it from spreading faster,” the healer continued, wholly unconcerned with the fact he had just told a young man he was dying.

The servant glanced up sharply at the mention of magic, eyes narrowing. What did this man know of magic?

As if he was able to read Merlin’s mind, Aram gave a mirthless laugh and said, “Don’t looked so shocked. I know more than you think. Now, this will hurt.”

He stepped up to the boy, spread both hands over the oozing wound, and then closed his eyes. “Þvætta āþwēan, þvætta āþwēan, þvætta āþwēan!” he chanted, voice growing stronger with each repetition.

Blazing pain suddenly shot through the gash and the surrounding skin, and Merlin felt like it was burning – boiling! His chains clanked as he grabbed onto Aram’s shoulders to keep from collapsing, and then risked glancing down at his leg.

It actually was boiling – pus and sickness bubbling out with a scorching heat! It made his stomach roil and he turned away, clenching his eyes shut. After a few long minutes of agony, however, it abated and he could breathe again. He dropped his grip on the healer and opened his eyes.

Aram had magic!

The boy felt like he’d been punched in the gut – again.

Aram had magic, was kin, and yet he let them collar him! Let them take his magic and his voice, and didn’t seem to care at all! In fact, he’d probably placed the collar on Merlin himself as it would need magic to activate the spells set into it!

Merlin’s scowl was full of bitterness and betrayal as he stared at the man who was now busy washing his wound, wiping away the purged infection. Feeling the gaze, Aram glanced up.

“Save your hurt and accusations for someone else, boy. You serve a prince who would see all our kind burn, and yet you dare level shocked betrayal at me? You should know I feel no guilt from what I do, lose no sleep at night. Some men shall be kings and some shall be servants, some are soldiers and some are slaves. You aren’t the first boy to taste slavery and you won’t be the last. Are you better than all the rest, that you would hold your pride close and snivel at life’s unfairness?”

The man snorted and looked away, back to his task. He wrapped Merlin’s leg – efficiently, if none too gently – in a snug bandage and tied off the knot with a jerk.

“The infection has been drawn out, though the wound remains and must heal. Go back to your work,” he said, indicating dismissively for Merlin to straighten his clothing. “Come see me again tonight.”

Merlin couldn’t help the look of surprise that pushed out the anger on his face. All that talk of slaves and accepting his new lot in life, and yet he was to receive treatment again?

“A bruised slave is a motivated slave,” Aram said coolly. “But a dead one is just dead.”

And Merlin found that, even if he’d had his voice, he would have had nothing to say to that.

*****

He fumbled through the rest of his morning chores, trying to avoid both the verbal and physical jabs from Hab who was highly upset that he’d had to do more work while Merlin got time off to see the healer. Merlin wished he could offer to switch places with the kid – right down to the leg wound, the bruises, and the collar.

Despite Aram’s coldness he was grateful for the help. Now his leg only hurt just as much as the rest of his body, instead of ten times more.

Unwilling to risk more pain, Merlin kept his head down and tried to work as fast and competently as possible, though he did keep a wary eye out for Gerard. While he understood and even sympathized with the powerful grief the man was feeling, he couldn’t understand the need that drove the soldier to make others hurt in order to feel better. The man who had attacked him the evening before was nowhere to be seen, however. It wasn’t until Merlin was serving breakfast that he was able to overhear a few of the men talking about the “slave incident.” He learned that Gerard had been ordered to ride ahead and inform others of their progress, and more importantly to sober up and cool off.

As he turned away to wash the dishes, Merlin breathed a sigh of relief that was strong enough he felt a warning twinge behind his eyes from the collar. At least one small threat had been removed from his now pathetic existence.

Finally, they were ready to break camp and Merlin found himself in his usual place, attached to the back of the last wagon. As he stood there, he couldn’t help wondering, as he had so many times in the last week, why no one had come to rescue Arthur. Where were Sir Leon and the magnificent knights of Camelot, riding in to save their prince? Why hadn’t they picked up their glaringly obvious trail? That morning, standing there waiting, he finally understood the answer, because he now knew where to look. Glancing around he noticed Aram was the last to ride from their camp and the light of grim understanding came into his head. Magic. Their trail had been concealed by magic, something he should have realized much sooner if he hadn’t been distracted by the harshness of his own situation.

Hopelessness filled him and he let his head droop as the rope tugged on his chained wrists, forcing him to lurch forward.

There would be no Sir Leon riding up in righteous fury; there would be no rescue at all unless it was of their own making.

He limped along in deep despair for about an hour before he forced himself to snap out of it. Arthur’s escape was up to him now. He would not fail his master and friend.

So, instead of staring at his feet he studied the landscape. He watched for escape routes, opportunities for distractions, possible sources of help. And when he found none, he cursed the collar that left him useless, stripped him of the one strength he had – things that would have been no obstacle were insurmountable now and it hurt.

Around noon, it started to snow - a light dusting at first that soon turned into wet, heavy flakes that coated everything, leaving people and animals sodden and miserable. It also turned the road slick and treacherous. After losing his footing twice and crashing to the ground, Merlin gave up looking around and sped up so he could grip the wagon, opting to watch where he placed his feet instead. Mud and debris from his crashes clung to him and melting snow ran down his hair and face. His only comfort was that, even with their cloaks, his captors were almost as wet and wretched as he was.

They camped that night in the middle of what looked to Merlin like a soggy, white wasteland. The snow hadn’t let up which made most of the evening chores so much more difficult, and by the time he was heating his bag of rocks in the pitiful fire that hissed and spit from wet wood, Merlin’s teeth were chattering so strongly he was afraid they might trigger the collar’s magic as his sigh had earlier.

He was allowed a hasty visit to Aram’s tent again where the man took a quick look at his wound, pronounced it still free of infection, wrapped it once more, and declared Merlin fit for hard work with no need to return and see him in the future.

Merlin’s glare would have withered flowers if there were any growing in the four inches of snow that now covered the ground.

There were no trees in this camp so the horses were simply hobbled and Merlin’s ankle chain was fixed to one of the wagon wheels instead. He sorely missed the warmth of his mare’s soft side as he huddled under the wagon and scarfed down his meager dinner – even more, he missed the luxury of Arthur’s cot and blankets from the night before. He was soaked through, and though it had stopped snowing, the air was growing even colder. As with all the dismal nights he had suffered so far, he planned to simply endure until morning but after a while he suddenly noticed his trembling was lessening.

Alarm bells sounded in his head.

He was no stranger to the bitter cold - he remembered many winter nights spent in abject misery in Ealdor. As an unwed mother of a strange child, Hunith hadn’t always been able to find wood to heat their drafty home, and there were precious few in the village who were willing to help them out when they couldn’t provide for themselves. Merlin recalled times his mother would keep him awake all night, playing and dancing to music only they could hear. When he was older, he realized they weren’t just fun games but an attempt to keep them both moving so they wouldn’t freeze in their sleep.

Like he was about to right now.

With a silent groan, he pulled himself painfully from under the wagon and crawled to his feet. Then, with stumbling steps, he started pacing the short distance his chain would allow, slapping his bound hands against his sides every turn or so to keep the blood flowing.

I will not die in this stupid camp as a stupid slave, he repeated over and over in his head to fight off the exhaustion and suffering.

I will not die in this stupid camp as a stupid slave.

Turn.

I will not die in this stupid camp as a stupid slave.

Turn.

He lost track of turns and steps and words, just knew he had to keep moving – keep breathing – not give in to the steady cold and the desire to just sleep.

“Boy, stop.”

Merlin started, blinking blearily at the man before him without really seeing him for a few seconds before he pulled himself out of his frozen trance and was able to focus.

It was Twyford – the one kind soldier.

“Do you promise not to run if I bring you to the fire by me?”

Fire? Merlin thought sluggishly, not really comprehending.

The soldier placed a light hand on his shivering shoulder and spoke again, more slowly. “Lad, you’re freezing. If I bring you over by the fire to dry off and warm up, do you swear on your prince’s life that you won’t fight me or run?”

He was gazing right into Merlin’s exhausted eyes and finally the boy understood. For just a moment he thought of refusing – he shouldn’t promise anything that would keep him from attempting an escape, especially swearing upon Arthur’s life – but he also knew his own life wouldn’t last long if he didn’t warm up soon.

Merlin nodded.

Twyford released him from his ankle chain and brought him over to the fire, pushing him gently down onto one of the logs that circled it. Merlin noted absently that it was finally burning strongly, throwing heat out as the wood dried. The warmth was almost painful on his frostbitten skin.

“Don’t move,” the man ordered and then stepped away.

He needn’t have bothered – between Merlin’s bruises, his near-frozen state, and his bone-weariness, once he was sitting he found he couldn’t muster the strength to move even if he wanted to. Instead, he just slumped there, staring into the hypnotizing flames, dreaming of times when he used to be warm and cared for, before everything hurt.

It felt like it had been hours, though some part of his brain knew it could have only been a few minutes, when he became aware of a whispered conversation going on behind him.

“What’s the slave brat doing loose?”

It was Stupidly-Basil. Merlin tensed instinctively, body jolting to full awareness as he waited for the blows that were sure to come – only they didn’t. Someone else spoke instead and Merlin focused intently on the hushed exchange.

“He was almost frozen.” That voice was Twyford, and he sounded angry. “I brought him to the fire to warm him and hopefully keep him alive through the night, since you seem to be doing such a fine job of taking care of him.”

“You don’t take care of slaves – you use them until they’re no use anymore and then you get a new one.”

“And now I understand why, with you tasked as the main slave guard, so many of our slaves die on the journey. You didn’t even give the boy a blanket when the weather turned!”

“We don’t give slaves blankets!”

“We do when they are dripping wet and in danger of freezing to death! What good is gathering slaves if they never live to make it to Tharennor?”

“Just because it’s your turn to guard the prisoners tonight doesn’t mean you can butt your stupid morals into everything, Twyford! The kid’s a spoiled brat – he deserves to be a little cold. Besides, he won’t be getting a precious blanket in the mines, will he?”

Merlin felt his shivering increase, which could have been because he was warming up slightly, or could have been because of the reminder of where he was headed.

“Well, he isn’t in the mines yet and you’ve obviously been neglecting your duties as a guard. Sir Einar will hear about this! And maybe I’ll also mention all the time you spent arguing with me instead of patrolling the perimeter like you’re supposed to be doing!”

A warmth spread through Merlin at those words that had nothing to do with the crackling fire, fighting against the overwhelming fear. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have someone stand up for him.

“Fine. Pamper the little whelp if you want. Won’t matter anyway. In two days, he’ll be shipped off to work and that dark hole in the ground will make this trip seem like a picnic. Maybe he’ll finally learn his place, right before he dies.”

Merlin heard his guard stomp off in the opposite direction and then, after a short moment, Twyford was back at his side. The soldier set something on another log before stepping up to him and reaching for his wrists.

“You heard all that, didn’t you?” the man asked quietly while he gently rotated the metal cuff so the keyhole faced upwards.

Merlin nodded as Twyford produced a thin key, inserted it into the lock, and then opened the manacle with a click. The servant couldn’t hide his surprise as the metal band fell away from his raw wrist in two rusty halves.

“I’m sorry,” Twyford said, though he didn’t specify what he was apologizing for – the conversation…the abuse…or the fact that Merlin was being held as a slave in the first place. He quickly removed the second cuff, and then finally seemed to notice Merlin’s look of incredulous shock.

“Your clothes need to dry by the fire if you’re ever going to get warm, and they can’t do that if you’re still wearing them,” he explained, setting the chain aside on the ground. “I wish I could say I was taking them off for good, but…”

But even kind soldiers have to follow orders, Merlin finished for him silently. He nodded that he understood, and then, grateful for every small gift, wasted no time in attempting to remove his wet tunic and jacket. However, the beating from the night before coupled with the near frozen state of his clothes made the task impossible on his own, and Twyford had to help him, pulling his jacket off and then drawing his tunic up over his head.

“They should dry quickly,” the red-haired man said, spreading the garments out over another pair of logs near the blazing fire. Then he came back, retrieving the object he’d set down before.

It was a blanket. Eyes wide with wonder, Merlin’s jaw dropped as Twyford reached out and draped it around his trembling body, pausing at the end to draw one of Merlin’s wrists forward. Slowly, the man turned his limb back and forth, and the warlock swore Twyford’s gaze was full of sorrow as he took in the bloody, bruised and raw skin that a week of wearing ill-fitting chains had left behind.

The soldier sighed loudly, repeated the process with the other arm, and then tucked them both snuggly inside of the blanket and wrapped it tightly about him. “Sit as close to the fire as you can manage,” Twyford urged, before stepping away slightly to sit on his own log, a log that the boy noted gave the guard the advantage of viewing both Arthur’s tent and Merlin at the same time.

They sat for a long while in silence – still, it wasn’t awkward, like it could have been, just a sad necessity and Merlin’s new norm. He huddled into the scratchy blanket and closed his eyes, letting the warmth from the fire soak deep inside him, knowing this wasn’t a privilege that could last.

“You look much better without blue lips or icicles in your hair.”

Merlin’s eyes popped back open to find Twyford was smiling at him, even if it was still tinged with sadness. It felt normal – good even – and he shook his head, sending drops of water flying from the filthy strands before grinning back.

“Can you write, lad?”

Puzzled, Merlin nodded.

“Then tell me your name.” He gestured with his chin to the fire. “Use the end of that burnt stick on that rock there.”

Something strong and a bit overwhelming washed over Merlin at the request – no one besides Arthur had called him by name, or even cared to know it, since the day the collar had been placed around his neck. His hand shook as he snaked it out of the warm, blanket cocoon and grasped the stick. He glanced up at Twyford for just a moment, before pressing the charcoal end into the rock and spelling it out with forceful strokes.

“Merlin,” Twyford read aloud.

He dropped the stick, pulling his hand back into the protection of the wool and nodded with a smile, feeling a thrill shoot through him at the sound of his own name being spoken.

“Do you have family who are missing you, Merlin?” Twyford asked next, regret filling his voice.

The happiness of the moment disappeared as images of Gaius and his mother flashed through his mind and Merlin’s smile fled while his shoulders slumped. Full of aching sorrow, he nodded again, and then looked up, directly into the kind man’s eyes. The question was…strangely unnecessary, and the warlock couldn’t help the entreating query that spread across his face.

Twyford sighed, obviously knowing exactly what he was asking – begging for. “Even if I could, would you leave your prince behind?”

Merlin turned his head to gaze at Arthur’s tent, knowing the answer to that question without thought. With grim determination, he looked back at the soldier and shook his head firmly.

The red-haired man gave a sort of laugh. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again, you’ve got guts, lad. And courage, and stubbornness, and a loyalty I’m not entirely sure your prince fully appreciates.” He sobered. “You’ll need all of that, and more, to survive. Don’t give up.”

Merlin decided he liked and trusted this red-haired soldier, so – just as Arthur had done hours earlier – he took a risk. Extracting a hand once more from the folds of the blanket, he made sure Twyford was looking at him and then pointed first at Arthur’s tent, then himself, and then hesitantly mimed his fingers running away before piercing the man with a desperately pleading stare.

Shame flickered across Twyford’s countenance before he dropped his eyes, toying with the sword in his hands half-heartedly. “I also have a family, Merlin,” he finally answered quietly. “A wife and two innocent little girls.”

The servant read the implications of that statement all too well, and his small moment of hope seeped quickly away.

“I’m sorry that we’ve done this to you,” the man continued, raising his head again and speaking fervently, even if the pitch was little more than a whisper. “I hate it – these side orders to our patrols, the lives we ruin. But a man has no choice in the country he’s born into, or the king he’s born under, nor even really the customs that country accepts. I became a soldier to protect a land I love and the people I care about, and no soldier – even a guard of the citadel – can escape the occasional outland patrol. I know it means very little given your circumstances now, but I am truly sorry.”

It didn’t change anything, but Merlin accepted the apology with a nod – he knew better than anyone what it was like to have little control over your own situation.

Silence fell after that, only the crackling of the wood in the fire breaking the almost eerie stillness of the frigid, snowy night. Merlin shifted now and then, trying to allow the blessed heat access to all sides of him, and Twyford rose once to turn the boy’s clothes over.

Finally, the man stood and came toward him.

“My watch is almost over, and it would be best if you were back in your place when the next guard comes,” he said with a sad smile.

As much as Merlin hated the thought of leaving the fire and returning to the cold, he had to heartily agree with not wanting to be found unchained by any of the other men in this camp. With deep regret, he shucked off the blanket as Twyford gathered up his now dry tunic and jacket and then handed them over. Merlin wriggled into them as quickly as his bruised body could manage, grateful for the small amount of warmth that lingered in the cloth, and then held out his wrists without prompting.

Instead of clamping the irons back on immediately, however, the soldier paused and then grasped the hem of his own tunic and tore several long strips before taking Merlin’s right wrist and pushing up his sleeve.

“I know it’s rather like giving someone a hankie to treat a mortal wound,” Twyford said as he wound one of the strips over Merlin’s wrist from forearm to the base of his thumb, completely covering all the cuts and abrasions left by the manacles, “but if it helps even a little…”

For the second time that night, Merlin’s eyes opened wide with shock at the unexpected kindness.

Twyford tied the cloth off, then repeated the action for the other wrist, before slipping the chains back on and locking them in place.

“Come on, then,” the soldier urged. He helped him rise with a hand under an elbow before thrusting the blanket back into his arms and tugging him gently away from the fire.

Merlin looked at the item he was now holding then glanced up questioningly, eyebrows raised.

Twyford nodded, urging him to keep walking.

They reached the wagons and Merlin sank stiffly to the ground by the wheel while Twyford collected the free end of his chain. “Is the leg any better?” the soldier whispered conversationally as he attached the cuff to the boy’s ankle.

He nodded gratefully.

“I’m glad of that,” the kind man said genuinely. The red-haired man reached out and squeezed his shoulder with one hand, eyes full once more of what Merlin knew was remorse, and then gestured under the wagon with his chin. “Try to sleep,” he urged then released him and stepped away, back to his post.

Ignoring his many aches and pains, Merlin did as he was told and crawled under the wagon where he huddled against the inside of the wheel, wrapped the beautifully-scratchy, wool blanket around himself, and tried to snag a few hours of rest.

*****

The next morning, Merlin was awakened by a man whose name he’d never caught, an indifferent fellow who poked him to alertness, handed him a totally unexpected stick of jerky, and then sent him on his way to do his chores. Basil-the-Plant-Head was glowering across the camp, throwing murderous glares toward Twyford, who sat whistling happily as he cleaned his sword.

Merlin grinned, his first real one in ages.

He was almost dead sure Basil had just been sacked and his care had been reassigned to Personality-less No-Name. Bland and boring was so much better than violent and creepy.

After his endless, unwritten list of work had been completed, Merlin dragged his sack of rocks over to the wagon Twyford was once again packing, pausing to reach under it and retrieve the blanket he’d carefully folded earlier. He heaved the bag up to the man, and then held up the wool.

Thank you! he thought desperately, hoping the soldier would somehow know what he wished he could say.

Twyford shook his head no. “It’s mine to give, and therefore yours to keep. Tuck it in here and then take it again for yourself tonight. No one will question you on it, I promise.”

And just like that, Merlin found himself the proud owner of a single possession – a woolen blanket. His grin threatened to split his face in half this time.

Author’s Note: I’m sure everyone has noticed that updates have slowed down. I’m horribly sorry, but I’m a teacher and alas, summer has come to an end. I will keep writing and posting this, but the pace will most likely be a little slower. I hope you can forgive me and will stick with this story despite that.

Thanks again! Your support, comments, and enjoyment of this story mean the world to me!

Chapter Text

13. A Terrible Roar

“This is. And thou art. There is no safety. There is no end. The word must be heard in silence. There must be darkness to see the stars. The dance is always danced above the hollow place, above the terrible abyss.”
- Ursula K. Le Guin

*****

The warmth of Twyford’s generosity carried Merlin through the first few hours of travel that day. It was still freezing cold and the thoughts of what was coming – rushing toward him – sat heavy on the edges of his mind, but he allowed the kindness to buoy his feet and sooth his heart for as long as possible.

It couldn’t last, however.

All too soon it became apparent that it was not going to be just another day on the road and Merlin’s mood gradually subdued. Things were happening – there was a change in the air and posture of the soldiers around him.

Slightly before midday, their group started growing, from all directions. Herdsmen with their animals, peasants and merchants, wagons loaded down with supplies… By late afternoon Merlin was far from the last in the caravan; with people and carts and animals all trailing behind him.

And then the soldiers began arriving, appearing from different paths and roads, leading long lines of weary men who trudged with their heads down to the clank of chains, collars glinting around their throats.

Slaves. All of them.

In two days, he’ll be shipped off to work… he heard Basil’s voice from the night before echo though his head.

Two days. Shipped off to work. In the mines.

His breath hitched, lungs almost paralyzed as the reality sunk in that this was going to happen, and much sooner than he wanted.

As each group of slaves and soldiers joined the quickly expanding crowd, Merlin gazed at them with mixed pity and horror. All these men, torn from their lives – whether it had happened in the last week or years before didn’t matter – marching to a dismal future of pain and darkness. But that wasn’t the only thing that filled Merlin with fear – these slaves were so different from him. Each sad bunch that joined drove the point home to the boy with ever growing spikes of terror. They were slaves, yes, and their clothing and appearance spoke of the mistreatment and neglect they had all suffered, but they weren’t thin and pale – clumsy, sickly sticks masquerading as boys. Gwen would have called them big and burly, rough and tough – and huge and often crude and scary Merlin added as he watched them, their lowered eyes dead and cold as the whips snapped through the air and at their feet, forcing them to walk on.

They were men who’d been built for hard work and endurance – if the circumstances of birth and fate had been kinder, they’d have been knights, and who knew, maybe some had been – the kind of men that ate twigs like himself for breakfast.

“That dark hole in the ground will make this trip seem like a picnic. Maybe he’ll finally learn his place, right before he dies,” mocked Basil’s voice in his mind.

“It’s the mines fer you anyway – ‘at’s where all slaves go. Bet you don’t last a fortnight,” Hab’s words joined his mental anguish.

And now, looking at the ranks of captive muscle, Merlin understood.

He probably wouldn’t even last the week.

“Ya know,” Hab said that evening as the two boys erected tents, watching with giddy malice as Merlin’s eyes kept stealing fearfully to the various groups of slaves huddled all around the huge clearing that was teeming with people. “They say sometimes it ain’t the work ‘at gets the scrawny ‘uns, like you. The little ‘uns get the ‘special’ jobs.”

The warlock jerked his gaze back to the younger boy as his gut twisted in shock and terror.

Hab’s grin grew and he shrugged. “Even slaves need a little mot’vation an’ fun.”

Merlin felt sick – absolutely nauseous – as he understood exactly what Hab was hinting at, and he had to clamp his lips tightly shut to keep the meager contents of his stomach from reappearing. Even then he couldn’t hide the cold sweat the broke out all over, nor the trembling that seemed to have suddenly attacked all his limbs.

Hab laughed, leaned over to whisper a vile word in his ear, and then wacked him on the back with a pole as he walked away to secure the other side of the tent.

With a horror now planted inside him that went even deeper than his fear of the pyre, Merlin spent the rest of the miserable evening skittering silently about, head down and desperate not to draw attention to himself, lest his own party of soldiers remember his status as a slave and stick him with the others for the night.

He wasn’t allowed to set up Arthur’s cot or bring him food and he didn’t dare make a fuss about it.

Tomorrow – the thought dragged him further down into a panic - tomorrow he would be gone, taken away, never see Arthur again. Would he even get the chance to say goodbye?

He breathed a small sigh of relief when his new guard allowed him to collect his blanket and then attached him to the wagon wheel as before, blessedly alone. He crawled to his spot under the cart and pulled the wool around himself as though it were a shield that would protect him from the ugly, horrible world, knowing there was no way sleep would come to him that night.

*****

It was cold. Bitter cold. All around him was a white, barren land with nothing other than the group of enemy soldiers as far as the eye could see. It was empty – of trees, of birds, of even sounds. It was as if the whole world had been whittled down to him and these men who had taken him.

He was bound to his horse as usual, but strangely, his blindfold was missing. After a week of almost constant blindness, it felt so strange to be able to see and look around, except that there wasn’t anything to see – until his eyes landed on Merlin.

The boy was slogging along on foot, limping heavily.

“Faster, slave!” a soldier shouted, shoving his friend.

“Hey!” Arthur tried to protest, but no one paid him any mind.

Merlin struggled forward, his face flushed with a deep-set fever and his eyes glassy and blank from pain and illness.

They went on again, through more endless, frozen, white, nothing, until Merlin stumbled and fell down. No one stopped, the party continuing, and the boy was simply dragged across the snow by the chains attached to his wrists.

“Stop!” Arthur cried desperately, trying to force his mount to move closer but he as usual, he had no control. His hands were bound, his legs were bound, and the reins were held by someone else. “Help him, please!” he begged.

No one listened, and Merlin’s exhausted body left more marks as he was towed further down the trail.

Panicking, Arthur changed tactics.

“Merlin!” he pleaded, “get up! This is no time to laze about, you have to stand! Come on, idiot, please get up!”

There was no reaction, almost as though Merlin couldn’t even hear him – as if no one could hear him.

But then suddenly, the entire group halted. Merlin lay still on the ground, bloody and panting, arms outstretched above him where the chains had pulled them taunt, making no attempt to move.

One of the nameless soldiers approached.

“Pathetic,” he said with disgust, toeing the unmoving boy with his boot. “So worthless.”

And then Arthur watched in horror as the man drew his sword and casually drove it through the young man’s gut, before pulling it out and wiping it clean of blood with the snow.

Merlin’s blood.

Arthur’s roar of anger and grief echoed through the empty space with enough force to split the earth – but it didn’t. Nothing happened, no one heard, and Merlin was still dying.

The men dropped the chain and then they all moved forward, Arthur’s horse following obediently.

“Merlin!” he yelled, twisting in the saddle to see behind him.

The servant lay as he fell in a growing pool of his own blood that spread stark red against the white snow, his cheeks wet and his mouth twisted in a scream of anguish and shock he couldn’t even give voice to. Slowly, his tortured eyes raised and caught Arthur’s and the prince read the plea in them in the depths of his soul.

‘Please don’t leave me here!’

But he had no choice – it had been taken from him days before. Merlin was left dying in the cold snow as Arthur rode away until his friend was gone, swallowed by the great, empty nothingness around him.

Arthur sat up on his cot with a gasp, wheezing as his eyes strained to see through the darkness of his tent.

A dream.

It was only a dream.

The worst yet in a string of nightmares he’d been plagued with for the last couple of nights.

Merlin was not lying in the snow somewhere, left behind to die – he couldn’t be.

Arthur had to believe that – had to believe that Merlin was okay, even though he hadn’t seen him for two days and his friend had been so hurt the last time he had. Just like the prince had to believe that Camelot hadn’t fallen, his knights weren’t slaughtered, Morgana was somewhere safe and would be found, and his father’s mind would stay strong – because if he accepted the events that had been invading his dreams as real, he might as well give up for everything was already lost.

*****

The prince was cold and tense and tired as he sat on his horse the next day. The air around him was charged, full of noise and energy, and everything inside of him was screaming that something was about to happen.

He certainly hoped so.

It wasn’t that he was excited to arrive at wherever they were going – to face captivity, questions and torture, the huge, yawning unknown – but he was just so amazingly sick of the endless dark, the boredom, and of traveling.

He could tell, from sounds as well as smells, that their patrol had been joined by many people and animals, straggling out behind them quite a distance. To his limited senses, it felt as if an entire village was on the move.

And they were traveling up, a rather steep climb in altitude that had held steady all morning, slowing their pace and lowering the already freezing temperatures even further.

Still haunted by his dreams, Arthur prayed that Merlin was warm enough and able to keep up and make the climb.

Onward and upward they pressed as more hours of the day passed by. Arthur knew they had to be deep within a mountain pass – it was the only explanation – which narrowed the choices of where he was being taken considerably. There were only three or four kingdoms accessed through mountains that were far enough from Camelot to justify their length of travel.

Of course, for all he knew they could have been going in circles for days just to confuse him, so his thoughts might be horribly wrong.

Sometime in the early afternoon, the ground beneath his horse began to level again, and Arthur knew they had reached the top of the pass. They rode on but just as it started to tilt the other direction, indicating they were now on the decent, the soldier controlling his horse’s reins pulled them both to the side and stopped. He could hear other riders ceasing their movement around them as well as the sound of a cart or two being brought to a halt.

What was going on? It was too early to be making camp and anyone with any sense knew you didn’t camp on top of a mountain if you had the option not to. His confusion was heighted as still more people and wagons and animals kept moving, pushing passed them and continuing down the trail that would take them off the mountain side.

All Arthur could figure out was that for some reason, Sir Einar’s original party had stopped to let everyone else go on ahead.

It took forever for the last straggling goat to be herded by them, bleating its unhappiness as it went. Arthur – knowing by now that any attempt to ask questions would just be ignored – spent the whole hour sitting silently in his personal darkness and hoping Merlin still remained at his side.

Once the sounds of the others had faded to a distant echo, Sir Einar ordered their company forward again, but only thirty paces or so, and then everyone stopped once more.

The air around him was thick and silent, the horses shifting nervously, and Arthur felt a measure of fear settle in his gut.

Everyone was waiting for something – something big. He could sense men turning to face behind him, and he had never felt so trapped. Unable to spin his own horse, unable to see even if he could, he was forced to sit there blind, his back to whatever was about to occur.

“Now, Soldier Aram,” he heard Sir Einar’s voice order calmly and he instinctually stiffened – the only defense he had.

There was complete silence for a few long seconds and Arthur couldn’t help thinking the entire world was holding its breath, and then he heard something that chilled him to the bone. Words – shouted in a clear voice – words of magic!

Another pregnant silence fell afterwards, hanging there for a moment while Arthur whipped his head back and forth, desperately listening for sounds of attack or danger, and then he froze as the air was rent with an ear-shattering crack!

His horse jerked, for once he was grateful he was bound to it or he would have been unseated, and then came a roar as if the loudest thunder he had ever imagined was crashing to the ground all around him!

Filled with pure fear, he huddled low over his mount that was neighing and spinning in terror and waited for whatever beast or monster had been called forth from the very depths of the mountain to consume him. The demon sound grew louder and louder until he longed for the ability to cover his ears. Arthur knew death could only be moments away, but then the noise reached its climax and he was still there – they all were still there. He felt furious wind lift his hair and whip across his face, evidence of something massive passing far too close for comfort, but they all remained as they were – very much alive.

The rumbling chaos lasted for a long time before Arthur finally noticed it was quieting. He was ashamed to admit that it took much longer for his own breathing to calm, however, and he tightened his chained hands into fists to hide the tremors that ran through them as the awful, magically-summoned creation finally faded into the background.

“What in the name of all that is holy was that? What are you all playing at?” he spat as men on horses once more rode past him, tugging his own mount and him along. He was angry – and frightened – and he couldn’t keep the snarling words from shoving off his tongue. He expected to be ignored so he was shocked when he actually received an answer, albeit a cryptic one.

“Insurance, persuasion, and protection, my lord,” Sir Einar’s voice answered from just to his right. Arthur wrenched his head around.

“With magic?” he seethed, thoroughly tired of this whole game.

“Sometimes, nature just needs a little nudge,” the older knight replied, and then Arthur heard him kick his horse forward as he trotted to the head of the patrol once more.

“Do they teach you to talk in riddles where you’re from?” the prince shouted at his back, giving vent to a week’s worth of rage and frustration. “Beat the ability to give a straight answer out of you in training?”

No one answered.

As usual.

With a huff, Arthur settled back into his sullen silence, dragged where they lead him through the much-hated darkness, trying not to show how his pulse was still racing slightly from the unexplained fright. He distracted himself by listening for clues – specifically the faint clank of chains that might tell him Merlin was still alive and with them, not given to others or devoured by the mountain beast that had just been set free.

*****

Merlin had to admit he’d been anything but brave as he faced the light of morning the night after Hab’s awful words had pierced him to the core. He attempted to quell his shaking, but by the time he was attached to his rope for travel the looming fear of what lay at the end of this last day was so great he gave up trying.

If Basil was right, today was the day – and he’d not even managed to bid his master a stolen farewell.

He plodded up a mountain, his bruises forgotten as the torture of sick anticipation hung over his head like an executioner’s ax – fated to fall, but uncertain as to when.

Were the mines in this mountain? Just around that next bend? Would he be dragged off with the other condemned men this very hour or the next?

They crested the pass and then Merlin sucked in a deep breath of anxiety when Sir Einar gestured for their party to move to the side and stop. Shaking so badly he had to lean against his mare for support, the warlock watched as the dozens that had joined them passed and continued on down the mountain. As each group of slaves was prodded by, he fully expected someone to come forward and force him to join them, but when the last stragglers had gone he somehow miraculously remained. He was still with Arthur – at least for now.

Of course maybe the small and scrawny slaves who got the ‘special’ jobs where brought to a different place in the mines, his unhelpful brain suggested. And just like that his trembling returned.

Sir Einar urged them forward a little more, then all the men turned and halted in their saddles, except for poor, helpless Arthur who was left facing the wrong way and unable to fix it. From the back of group – which had now become the front – Merlin felt a surge of angry indignation slide through him at the dishonor shown his prince, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it as everyone suddenly seemed to be staring at him.

He gulped strongly before realizing they weren’t staring at him, but rather at something above and just beyond him in the distance. With apprehension, he whirled around.

To Merlin, who was already teetering on the edge of full-blown panic, things seemed to happen rapidly after that. Sir Einar gave an order, Aram rode forward slightly and shouted a very simple breaking spell, and then the mountain seemed to tear itself asunder.

As earth-born thunder filled the air, a tsunami of snow cracked loose from the mountain and raced straight toward him, forcing an instinctual yelp of fear to try and crest his lips. The pain it sparked left him bleary for a moment – unable to think rationally and reason through the fact that the soldiers wouldn’t trigger an avalanche down on their own heads so they must be mostly out of range – and he couldn’t help dropping to his knees and curling in, bringing his chained hands up in a vain attempt to protect himself.

For what felt like hours the billowing snow pounded by, so close to where Merlin huddled at the end of the line that the wind it created twisted his hair and clothes into knots and left him coated in a layer of fine, white powder as he fought the agony in his brain and the terror in his chest.

Finally, it slowed to a crawl and then stopped. Merlin stayed on his knees, gasping harshly. If it had come any nearer, Aram had miscalculated even a little… The others could have run away, ridden quickly to safety, but he would have been stuck, tied to a wagon and buried in the icy flow.

Desperately, he tried to calm his breathing and control the lingering ache from the collar – to push thoughts of another extremely close brush with death from his mind. He forced his head up and gazed through squinting eyes back the way they had come through the pass.

Only it was no longer there. The trail they’d just navigated had disappeared, buried under a massive wall of snowy boulders.

The wagon moved and lurched Merlin forward without preamble, compelling him to scramble madly for his feet. He’d been so lost in his own chaotic thoughts and fears he hadn’t noticed they were moving again. Once he was finally upright and no longer being dragged, he risked one last glance behind him in despair.

No one would be leaving through that direction for many months – now how would Arthur ever get home?

Chapter Text

14. Saying Goodbye

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime.
So, let me say before we part:
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart.
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have rewritten mine
By being my friend.
- Stephen Lawrence Schwartz

*****

By the time their group reached the base of the mountain, Merlin was numb – on the outside from the cold and the exertion, and on the inside from too much looming terror. He’d sometimes morbidly wondered what it would feel like to be condemned and forced to sit around anticipating his own execution – now he knew exactly how it would be. He could see lights in the distance, was aware what it most likely meant for him, but he was too physically and emotionally exhausted to care anymore. Everything was beyond his control and all he could do was follow mutely where they took him.

But the lights ahead became a border stockade – not a city or a mine – stone walls and four wooden towers rising from the corners. There was daylight left and Merlin figured they would press on past but to his quivering relief, Sir Einar turned the group aside, declaring they would halt for the night and finish the short trip to the citadel in the morning.

Merlin’s feelings were mixed – it was the gift of another night of relative safety, but also another night of awful uncertainty and dreading the unknown.

The wooden gates of the structure opened wide and their group entered – horses, wagons and all. The last to file through, the boy glanced around apprehensively. An open square was surrounded on three sides by wooden rooms that had been built up against the stone walls. The square itself held two huge bonfires that cast light on dozens of soldiers milling around, and three large, metal cages filled with waiting slaves.

The servant’s terror returned full force.

Men dismounted. Arthur was unbound from his horse and helped to the ground before being led away to one of the wooden rooms. Merlin waited for his own turn, but there seemed to be a sort of quiet discussion going on between several of the soldiers a little ways off from him. He recognized Twyford, his new guard, and a few of the others. Eventually, the group broke up and Twyford approached him.

Unable to hide his shaking, Merlin gestured with his head to the pens full of waiting slaves.

“Later,” Twyford nodded sadly as he released the boy from the rope that tethered him to the wagon. “But not quite yet. There’s work to do and many mouths to feed tonight; the servants are short-handed, so for now, you will still serve. Between you and me, Merlin, the others don’t look easily pressed into domestic duties. Would you dare eat anything they cooked?”

Merlin glanced back at the miserable, trapped men – all muscles and foul mouths and hairy chests – and couldn’t help but agree.

So he spent his unexpected extra evening once more hauling water, arranging bedrolls in the long, side rooms where the soldiers were to sleep, and peeling enough potatoes to quite literally feed a small army while trying to avoid Gobert’s blows, Hab’s rancid tongue, and Molls’ wicked spoon. He was sitting on an overturned bucket, up to his elbows in potato skins and idly listening to the conversations of the soldiers around him as a way to distract his brain from unavoidable, future events, when he heard Sir Einar speak behind him.

“Is the prince settled?”

“Yes, sir,” a voice Merlin didn’t recognized answered.

“You left him unchained and the guard has been doubled at his door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. After supper, have the lad heat two extra buckets of water and then tell Soldier Adric he will attend His Majesty tonight, that he may be clean and refreshed for our arrival tomorrow.”

The half-peeled potato and knife sat forgotten in Merlin’s hands as he listened, full understanding of what he was hearing quickly clicking in his mind.

For whatever reason, trick, or charade – Arthur was being prepared to enter the citadel tomorrow in regal splendor. A bath and a shave, clean clothes and combed hair… Some nameless soldier with no respect for the Crown Prince or Camelot would be assisting him, while Merlin spent the last night he would ever be near his master skinning roots and scrubbing pots.

He glanced at the far side of the compound to the cages full of slaves – one or two had leered almost hungrily at him as he passed back and forth for his chores – and saw his own future staring back at him with sickening certainty.

Emotions, hot and conflicting, crashed through him – fear, desperation, pride, anger, love – and he acted on impulse – he had nothing left to lose. He dropped the potato and knife to the ground and scrambled to his feet, rushing the few paces to where Sir Einar stood with a small group of soldiers. The boy didn’t pause to think, to ponder what could happen to him, he simply sank to his knees before the weathered man and poured every ounce of pleading he could muster into the gaze he turned up to meet the knight’s shocked eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing! Get away!” angry voices cried while rough hands grabbed at him, yanking him back as his chains clanked. They began to drag him to his feet but Sir Einar stopped them with a quick motion. Unceremoniously released, Merlin fell back painfully to his knees and then ducked his head down, unashamed that he was begging.

“What is it lad? What do you wish of me that you would take such a risk?” the man asked, real curiosity coloring his voice.

Merlin dared a glance up as he gestured shakily toward the room where Arthur was locked and then back to himself where he mimed the action of shaving. Sir Einar’s eyes flashed with intelligence, understanding, and something else he couldn’t place before the boy once more lowered his head.

“You heard me speaking?” the knight asked.

Merlin hesitated for a moment but then nodded.

“And you wish to serve your prince tonight yourself?”

He nodded again, more sure this time.

There was a long pause while Merlin’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, and then the leader spoke again. “I will allow it,” he said firmly.

Merlin’s head jerked up in surprise as several of the surrounding soldiers came alive with protests.

“But, sir!” one cried. “Surely that’s too great a risk, with the prince completely unbound tonight?”

“He’s just a slave!” another said in shock. “Why listen to his begging?”

Something cold passed over the old knight’s face and he rounded slightly on the man who had just spoken. “You know where this boy is headed tomorrow, what his fate will be,” he said, his voice suddenly gone chillingly quiet. “Yes, he’s just a slave, but he was not always so. And what if he were you, Soldier? His downturn of fortune yours? Would you not want one last night for fond memories and farewells?”

Merlin watched in incredulous disbelief as the soldier fell silent. Sir Einar turned to the others. “As for the pair escaping, the boy will remain chained and tethered inside the room, and is there not one of our very own set to guard the door each hour of the night?”

The men nodded.

“Besides,” Sir Einar concluded, “where would they run?”

Chagrined, the dissenting men moved off, leaving Merlin alone with the knight, still hardly able to believe what had just happened as he knelt on the muddy earth. He pressed his head gratefully to the tops of the other’s boots, trying to convey his thanks, before fingers faintly tugged his hair and bade him look up.

“Finish your potatoes, boy, and help with dinner. Then you may boil the water and bring it to the prince’s door. Soldiers will meet you there with the other things you will need.”

Merlin nodded and started to climb wearily to his aching feet, but he stopped when a calloused hand landed on his shoulder.

“Lad, I warn you, do not test my kindness.”

The servant gulped – message clearly received – and nodded heartily. Sir Einar let him go and stepped back, and the boy quickly pulled himself up and rushed back to his peeling. He’d just been granted a gift he’d thought was impossible – the chance to see and serve Arthur one last time. No way would he jeopardize that by being slow.

*****

Arthur sat in his current room, resting his elbows on the wooden table and his head in his hands – and wasn’t that a weird feeling to actually sit in a chair after more than a week of only sitting on a horse, the ground, or a hard cot – fully aware that his mood was rivaling that of a completely disgruntled bear. He was angry and bored and beyond frustrated, and he felt no need to hide those facts.

Soldiers had led him into this place and puttered about for a few minutes. A fire was lit, candles as well, and he heard other movements he couldn’t place. Finally, they had removed his blindfold and manacles and then came a shock when they retreated without attaching the chain to his ankle!

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Arthur had jumped at the chance. The sound of multiple locks on the thick door had barely finished clicking when he was moving about, examining every corner of the room built of stone and wood.

A fire burned in a center ring, smoke escaping through a hole in the distant thatched roof, and candles lit the room from rustic sconces mounted to each wall. There was no window. The packed earth floor was covered in places with animal skins, and the furnishings consisted of the table, two chairs, an empty chest, a chamber pot, and a single rope-bed that was built into one wall and made up in wool and furs.

The outer, stone wall was impenetrable – he’d checked. Even if he could stack the furniture high enough to reach the smoke hole in the ceiling, and then manage to climb it without falling, the thatching would never hold his weight and the resulting crash would alert everyone to his plan. He could smash the furnishings to pieces, but again the noise would be noted, and to what end? He’d have a wooden club to use against a garrison of soldiers armed with steel swords. There was nothing to dig with, and no time for a proper tunnel through the dirt floor that was packed hard as stone. He supposed he could light the wooden walls on fire, but he would probably die of flames or smoke long before there was a viable escape route, and the more likely outcome was that it would quickly be detected, put out, and his mobility restricted harshly. And punishment administered – probably brought down on Merlin.

So he now sat there, feeling bored and caged – beyond restless – and wishing the stupid soldiers had at least given him something to do. Even the horribly dull reports his father made him deal with at home sounded welcome at the moment.

His stomach growled loudly, reminding him they had yet to bring him food for the night. Maybe they figured leaving him unbound was reward enough and he had no need of super?

As if knowing his thoughts, sounds suddenly came from the other side of the door, the noise of locks being undone. Arthur stood, reflexively reaching to arm himself with a weapon that wasn’t there. Embarrassed, he crossed his arms and glared at the door as it swung open instead.

One soldier entered and stood near him, sword loose in his hand but stance firm and unmistakably a warning not to move. A second brought in a chain and fixed it to a rung at the foot of the bed.

“Changed your minds, huh?” Arthur spat darkly, unable to keep his spirits from sinking at the thought of being bound again, though he managed not to let any of his disappointment reach his expression.

And then his servant blustered in, arms full of cloth and items that threated to tumble to the ground at any moment and a familiar – if very tired – grin plastered across his face and Arthur forgot all about an answer to his question.

The boy scanned the room, noted the chain and its length, and then headed over and dumped his armful messily on the bed. It was such a normal, Merlin action that Arthur couldn’t help the smile that parted his own lips – mostly from relief as a huge knot he hadn’t even noticed in his stomach loosened and relaxed.

Merlin was still alive!

His servant gave him another little grin and a wave, and then limped quickly out of the room again. Arthur’s face fell in disappointment, but before he could even protest the black-haired boy was back, this time with a tray full of food. He hobbled over to the other end of the table nearest the bed – Arthur started to take an instinctual step toward him but the guard brought his sword up in warning and the prince stopped – and quickly arranged what looked like an actual meal on the table: bread, stew, cheese, some dried fruit, and a goblet. Then the young man took a small bowl and tucked it under the bed near where the chain was attached before exiting yet again, carrying the empty try.

This time Arthur tried not to panic, instead just waiting, and sure enough, Merlin returned a third time, lugging two buckets filled to the brim with steaming water, which he placed carefully near the burning fire. A last trip and he dumped an armful of wood to the side, enough to last through the night and again, purposefully within reach of the end of the chain.

Arthur waited for the guards to order him over to the restraint, desperately hoping he would be allowed to speak to his friend before they forced him out of the room for the last time. To his surprise, however, it was Merlin who walked over to the bed and sat unprotestingly while the second soldier fixed the iron cuff to his skinny ankle, tethering him to the room. Then, with a final warning glare, both guards exited and slammed the door shut, locks grating back into place.

Glancing away from the door and around his less empty prison, realization hit Arthur with giddy joy – Merlin was staying, at least for a while, and he’d carefully placed things where he’d be able to reach them at the end of his chain.

Arthur looked back at his friend who was still just sitting there, smiling a smile that was equal parts ecstatic and mournful, and he suddenly felt slightly lost. He felt the days full of distance and different paths of suffering and pain that stretched between them, his helplessness to do anything to protect his servant from the terrors he’d endured, but he also felt the desperate pull and deep longing of the familiar, of a short break from the worry and the anguish. He thought he could see a similar conflict reflected in the rather watery, blue eyes of his servant and it helped ground him slightly in his new, uncertain world – gave him someone to be strong for.

“About time you showed up for work, Merlin,” he teased gently, leaning casually back against the table’s edge with his arms crossed. “Been over a week. Where on earth have you been?”

A real smile, one that even reached the boy’s eyes, filled his friend’s face and he lifted his manacled hands palms up into a shrug. Arthur knew the gesture well – it was his ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about I’m totally innocent’ shrug – and he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up and escaped.

It was more healing than any medicine or balm, but it couldn’t last for long. Merlin pushed himself to his feet and gestured for Arthur to sit and eat. The prince shook his head, moving to intercept his friend as he stepped toward the table and stopping him with a light hand on his shoulder.

Serious once more, Arthur gripped the boy’s chin softly and studied the green, yellow, and blue bruises that littered his face, tilting his head gently one way and then the other. His skin felt cool – no traces of a fever to Arthur’s relief – but appearances could be deceiving and he had learned his servant was a master at hiding his own needs.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

A small tremor ran through Merlin at the question. He quickly hid it with a double thumbs-up, but Arthur caught the deception. His eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“And that was an outright lie in answer to probably my stupidest question ever,” he said with a sigh as he dropped his hands to his sides. “Come on, then. Let me see. Tunic and jacket up.”

Merlin crossed his arms and rolled his eyes in silent defiance.

Arthur crossed his arms and skewered Merlin with a full-blown ‘I am your prince and master’ glare.

Arthur won.

Merlin sighed and tugged his clothes up, then stood there, not really meeting his eyes, as Arthur examined his friend’s mottled and scabbed-over skin. The horrible bruises from almost three days ago had faded slightly, sickly brown and yellow now instead of stark purple and black. Arthur wasn’t fooled, though – he knew from personal experience how much lingering pain the boy would still be enduring from the beating. The addition of several newer, dark bruises on top of the old made his blood boil and he had to clench his teeth to keep from saying something he’d regret.

“Ribs mending?” he asked instead, reining in his desire to touch the bruise that remained the darkest, though slightly smaller, right over two of his friend’s fragile bones.

Merlin nodded and Arthur let the boy’s clothes drop back down.

A quick check on the wound he was most fearful of showed that, while it was still barely scabbed over and far from healed, no infection was present and it was bandaged and clean.

“The red-haired man kept his word?” Arthur asked, almost shocked. “He got you help?”

Merlin nodded again as he rewound the bandage and fixed his trousers.

“At least there is one semi-honorable man here,” the prince grumbled.

His servant rolled his eyes once more, clothing sorted back to normal, and then gestured with exaggeration to the meal spread on the table.

“Would you please deign to eat now?” he almost heard Merlin’s mocking voice ask.

“Absolutely,” he answered the implied question. “I’m famished.”

It was true. The food was warm and good and after the first bite Arthur found that he was totally starving. He dug in with relish and had made it through the fruit and cheese and most of the stew before he noticed he was alone. He glanced up in a slight panic and looked around for his servant, quickly finding him sitting on the floor by the bed, his back braced against one of the legs for support and the small bowl in his hands.

“What are you doing over there? Why don’t you sit with me?” he asked in confusion as he pointed to the glaringly obvious second chair. Merlin wasn’t one to worry about social proprieties such as sitting in the presence of royalty in normal times; he should have known Arthur would never begrudge him a seat in such an extreme situation as this.

Merlin answered by wiggling one of his legs, causing the chain to jangle slightly as he raised his eyebrows pointedly at his master.

“Oh,” Arthur answered lamely, realizing far too slowly that Merlin’s tether wouldn’t let him move that far. How quickly being free of his own restraints had caused him to forget that Merlin was not so lucky.

The boy just shrugged and turned his attention back to his bowl. Suddenly, the food Arthur had just eaten with such relish felt cold and lumpy in his stomach as he looked at the pitiful amount of stew Merlin was slowly scrapping from the bowl with one hard crust of bread, making sure not to miss a single drop. He lowered his eyes back to his own plate as an unfamiliar rush of shame shot through him and all twinges of hunger fled.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this – all full of worry over a servant and shame at having more of something than another. He was a prince – princes always had more and the best. That’s just how things were. He knew that – Merlin knew that – everyone knew that.

So why did it feel so incredibly wrong this time?

He toyed with the rest of the stew on his plate for a few minutes, unsure what to do, but an idea formed as he noticed his still untouched pieces of fresh bread. He picked them up with a slight grin.

“Oi,” he cried, getting his servant’s attention before lobbing the bread at his head. Merlin fumbled to catch it, dropping his empty bowl in the process and throwing Arthur a very familiar glare. “This bread is disgusting. Get rid of it somehow, would you?” he ordered haughtily then turned back to finish his stew. He didn’t know if Merlin saw through his ruse or not, but when he looked up from his empty plate a while later, the bread was nowhere to be seen. He smiled, though deep inside his heart hurt just a little more.

Merlin stood stiffly then came over and gestured questioningly to Arthur’s empty dishes, asking if he was done. When he nodded, the servant stacked everything sloppily on the empty plate and pushed the lot down the table as far as he could reach since he couldn’t actually leave to take things away. Arthur had to fight the urge to snort as he realized Merlin’s version of cleaning up while a prisoner wasn’t actually that much different than his version of cleaning up back at home.

The boy brought one of the buckets of warm water over and set it nearby, turned and tugged Arthur out of the chair and onto his feet, then fluttered his hands about for a moment before gazing expectantly at the prince.

Arthur felt the pretend normalcy shatter and reality crash back down around him as he stared at the servant - he had no idea what Merlin was asking. His eyes were drawn against his will to the boy’s neck and the scarf that purposefully covered the cursed metal that had stolen his friend’s tongue. Merlin watched him, saw his confusion and the direction of his gaze, and his posture slumped.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and ready to sink back into the chair and let the grief that had seeped once more into the room swallow him. Before he could, however, his servant forcefully squared his drooping shoulders, plastered on a determined expression, and tried again.

Arthur watched as the boy marched over to the bed and picked up two items. He pointed at Arthur, then scrunched up his face as if smelling something vile while holding his nose, then pointed to the bucket of water and held up what the prince now saw was a clean cloth and a small lump of soap.

“Hey, I do not stink!” Arthur cried indignantly.

Merlin simply crossed his arms while still holding the cloth and soap and scoffed at him.

“Well, I’ll have you know that you don’t exactly smell like a basket of roses yourself, Merlin,” he tossed out, glad to be back on the comfortable footing of shared banter.

In response, Merlin threw the soap at his head.

It was as if something that had been long stuck had finally come undone – released. Arthur grabbed the goblet and chucked it back at his servant, and then suddenly the air was alive with objects flying through it. He laughed as he ducked and dodged, Merlin doing the same as far as his chain would allow him, the two boys lobbing everything they could – bowls and clothes, a spoon and a goblet and the poor blob of soap – back and forth at each other with giddy delight. A sock landed perilously close to the fire but still they didn’t stop – not until one of Merlin’s throws went woefully off and his bowl struck the closed door with a crack, splitting down the middle and falling to the ground.

They both froze, looking at each other with wide eyes, and a thump sounded on the outside of the door followed by a shout. “What’s goin’ on in there?” a grumpy voice yelled.

It wasn’t funny – it was the farthest thing from funny in the world, given their current situation – but Arthur found he suddenly couldn’t hold back the snorts of laughter. One look at Merlin showed him to be in the same boat, desperately holding a hand to his mouth to keep any thought of vocalizing that mirth at bay.

“Quiet down or I’m comin’ in to make you!” the voice threatened.

The two friends waited a moment, nervous, but when all remained still they shared a smile and relaxed. Feeling about ten pounds lighter, they slid back into their reality and the tasks at hand without the need for any comment. Merlin gathered up the scattered items he could reach and Arthur collected the rest. Once everything was back where it had started, the servant again held up the soap and cloth and Arthur nodded.

He felt himself return easily to the role of prince and master as Merlin helped him remove his coat and then his tunic, grateful for the fire that burned steadily and kept the biting cold back to the edges of the room and away from his bare skin. Gently, Merlin scrubbed his back and his chest, washed his arms and hands, wiped away days’ worth of dirt and dried sweat. Arthur felt his tensed muscles loosen and relax from the warm water and Merlin’s caring hands. When asked, he knelt without protest and leaned over the pail, allowing his servant to wash his filthy hair then dry it with a rough, scratchy towel.

When he stood again, feeling much better, Merlin put the soap and rag into his own hand, pressed a folded pile consisting of clean trousers and smallclothes into his arms, and then turned respectfully away.

He finished his makeshift bath quickly – even with the fire it was too cold to stand around without clothes on when he didn’t have to – and was sitting in the chair to wipe down his admittedly smelly feet as he grumbled about wearing borrowed clothes when the rag was gently pried from his hands. He looked up in surprise as Merlin rinsed it out and then knelt down before him. Merlin – his servant who swore the stench of Arthur’s dirty socks could bring an enemy army to surrender – then pulled his left foot forward and started to tenderly clean it.

A solemnity stole through the room and Arthur straightened purposefully in his chair. To wash a man’s feet by choice was to grant him the greatest of honors. It was an expression of devotion and loyalty and love. The flickering firelight caught on the boy’s scraggly hair, glinted off the metal of his chains, highlighted his bruised face and the small tears that were barely visible tracking down his cheeks - and Arthur found himself humbled and touched to the core that Merlin would do this for him, while in the midst of his own great suffering.

When his servant finally released his feet, now both snuggly clad in warm socks, Arthur had to work hard to find his voice again.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he whispered with sincerity. Merlin just gave a watery smile and then stood. He turned away for a moment and Arthur knew he was swiping at his face and eyes, before he stepped over to the bed. When he returned, he held up a bowl, a brush, and a small razor, tilting his head in question and desperately trying to pretend the touching moment hadn’t ever happened.

“Yes, please!” Arthur cried, following his friend’s lead and putting the humbling experience aside to think about later. “By all means you may remove this revolting beard from my face! Honestly, I don’t know how Leon stands it!”

Merlin gave a silent laugh, and then the prince settled back in his chair and let his servant shave him. The boy’s hands trembled a little and the cumbersome chains were a pain, but Arthur stayed still, determined to show Merlin he trusted him. A few minutes later, after Merlin had dragged a fishbone comb through his now dry hair, Arthur sat up and gratefully ran his hands over his smooth, clean-shaven face.

“That feels so much better,” he said, and he meant it. To be warm and clean, have enough food in his stomach, to wear fresh clothes and be free of scratchy stubble… It boosted his spirits and cleared his head, made it easier to think, though he forced himself not to dwell on the reason he’d been allowed all these privileges. He could confront that reality in the morning – for now he would enjoy the respite with his friend. He grabbed the towel and wiped the last of the foam from his face, then stood and wandered closer to the fire, letting the heat warm his still bare chest.

A short clap sounded behind him and he turned back, realizing Merlin had been trying to get his attention and reminding him again how much he missed the incessant blathering his servant would usually fill such times as these with.

“Yes?” he asked.

The boy gestured at the now cool and soapy water, asking through motions if he was done and the pails should be moved aside.

Arthur started to agree but then stopped, his eyes catching once again on Merlin’s own filthy hair and scruff-covered face. “Why don’t you clean up as well,” he offered sincerely, holding out the towel to his friend.

A strange and almost desperate fear seemed to suddenly fill the boy’s eyes and he quickly shook his head no.

“No, really,” Arthur pressed, confused. “You hate ‘face-fuzz’ as I seem to recall you naming it even more than I do, or was all that whingeing during hunts for the last two years just for show? Besides, who knows when we’ll next get the chance,” he couldn’t help adding darkly, reminded of exactly where they were. “You should take it.” The night had been such a strange interlude in the horrors of the last week – the laughing, the luxuries, the humbling honors rendered by his friend. He felt the need to somehow do something for the young man in return.

Seeing his face, Merlin sighed and agreed, reaching out to take the towel from Arthur with shaking hands.

While the boy washed, Arthur settled down to sit on the bed, pushing the rest of his new clothes aside – he’d don them in the morning. Merlin chose only to wash his face and hair, attacking it quickly with the cold water and soap, before drying off.

The bed the prince was sitting on was lumpy, the mattress simply made of straw, but it was a million times softer than the hard wooden cot or the cold, frozen ground. Arthur found himself growing rather comfortable and sleepy as he vaguely watched his servant settle cross-legged on the floor and expertly shave his own face without even a mirror for reference. He fleetingly wondered how he did it, before remembering rather sheepishly exactly how Merlin had been raised. Ealdor was barely a dot on a map, the people existing with practically nothing. He knew for a fact that Merlin hadn’t even seen a mirror until he’d arrived in Camelot and became his servant.

So much hardship in such a short life, he mused sadly, reminded of how young his friend really was as he gazed with the unfocused eyes of lost thoughts on the quiet form still sitting there.

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he sat up sharply, really looking. The boy was pale and unnervingly still except for the fine tremors that ran up and down his whole body. An expression of utmost fear and hopelessness was etched onto his now clean-shaven face, his eyes distant and haunted, while one hand gripped the razor tightly, holding it frozen a mere hair’s breadth from his own throat.

Fear and shock spiked through him and Arthur was off the bed and yanking his friend’s hands down, twisting the razor away before he even found his tongue.

“Merlin!” he cried, eyes full of questioning betrayal and anguish. “What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. He pulled the traitorous piece of metal from his servant’s grasp and threw it, far into the corner and well beyond the reach of Merlin’s chain.

Face flushed with shame and abject bleakness, Merlin turned away from him, and Arthur felt his trembling increase to the uncontrollable level that spoke of stifled sobs.

“Oh, Merlin,” he sighed, turning his grasp on the boy’s hands to bring him around so his head rested on Arthur’s bare shoulder. “We will get out of this, I promise. There’s no reason for desperate acts or lost hope.”

It was meant to be comforting in his emotionally limited way, but if anything it only seemed to make Merlin’s sobbing increase. Arthur soon found his once clean shoulder now wet with salty tears. After a moment of inward panicking and debate, he wrapped an awkward arm around the boy and just let him cry, unsure of what else to do as reassurances appeared to only make things worse.

Finally, Merlin’s tears were spent and he sagged into Arthur’s side with limp exhaustion. They sat that way in silence for a long while before the prince finally spoke.

“Merlin, I know this all seems most hopeless and frightening to you. You’ve been sorely mistreated and our situation is still grim. But you must promise me, no matter what, that you will never…never think of or attempt to harm yourself again! As your prince, I demand you swear this.”

He waited what felt like an eternity before Merlin finally nodded, though the expression on the youth’s face when he eventually looked up to meet Arthur’s gaze seem to be that of a condemned man rather than a reassured one.

“It will be all right,” Arthur whispered again, desperate to wipe that look from his friend’s broken eyes.

Merlin nodded feebly once more and then sucked in a silent breath. He pushed away from Arthur and sat up, scrubbing at his face and visibly trying to pull himself back together again. In a rare showing of tact, Arthur gave him some space, climbing to his feet and padding across the room on his sock-clad feet to the farthest candle. He snuffed it out, glancing up at the inky black hole in the roof, aware it must be very late by now and they both needed sleep.

“Will they come for you again tonight?” he asked after he’d extinguished all the candles and tossed the last of the wood onto the fire.

The boy was calmer and once more in control – though Arthur’s heart still pounded slightly in his chest and he knew the image of Merlin holding that razor to his own pale throat would haunt his dreams. In answer to his question, Merlin simply shrugged, indicating he had no idea. The servant stood on wobbly legs and gathered up the rest of the shaving equipment, placing it all on the table with the soap, towel and rags, then moved the pails of dirty water aside and under the table’s edge.

Quiet fell and they both settled down, Arthur on the bed and Merlin on the skin rug beside it, staring wearily into the dancing flames of the fire.

“What was the monster they unleashed today, on the mountain?” Arthur asked, suddenly remembering the still unexplained terror, though it felt like a lifetime had already passed in the few short hours since it happened.

Merlin turned his face up toward him, lips pursed in obvious frustration, and Arthur mentally kicked himself for forgetting the limits of their communication. Still, after a moment of thought, the younger boy tugged on his hand, pulling it lower and turning it palm up.

Snow, he spelled out slowly and carefully across it.

Snow? Arthur puzzled before his brain awoke. Snow – an avalanche! A deliberate manipulation of nature to close the pass and hinder escape.

“Tharennor,” he muttered aloud, pieces of the huge puzzle combined with years of royal lessons and training finally clicking into place. Small, mountainous country…strange, mysterious king…“We’re in the kingdom of Tharennor.”

Merlin nodded, looking at him as if this was old news.

Arthur sighed, letting his head thump back against the wall he was leaning on, forgetting for a moment his own speech about not losing hope. “Tharennor has only one pass in or out,” he explained quietly. “And an avalanche rarely melts until spring.”

They were stuck – well and truly trapped. Merlin’s mouth formed a silent “oh” before he cringed slightly and ducked his head, shoulders slumped dejectedly.

“Get some sleep,” Arthur finally ordered, forcing himself out of his dreary thoughts. “You’re still healing; you need the rest.” He handed off the warmest of the furs, ignoring the servant’s gestured protests, then slipped into the bed, pleased when Merlin finally curled up on the floor beside him and tucked the soft material close.

He thought sleep would be hard to find, given all the new information and strange events of the evening that his brain needed to process, but his head had hardly touched the musty pillow when he felt his eyes slip closed and the warm, pleasant darkness of slumber claimed him.

*****

Arthur awoke without prompting to the strange feeling of being both warm and well-rested, and urgently aware of some horribly important deadline approaching. Light was just barely starting to grey the patch of sky he could see through the smoke-hole, and he knew it was still very early. He turned his head and glanced down – Merlin’s half-awake eyes blinked back at him.

With a tandem sigh, both of them rose, reluctantly shedding their warm blankets. The fire had burned to coals during the night and the room was chilled, their breath ghosting out to fog the air before them.

There were no jokes this morning – Arthur found himself with very little to say and Merlin…Merlin couldn’t even if he wanted to. But besides that, a strange sort of finality had come to fill the room and the space between them – Arthur didn’t quite understand it, but it felt solemn and sacred and he feared to break it.

Merlin’s tremors of the night before were gone, replaced by an almost worse sense of resignation. Arthur watched as he folded the fur and then straightened the bed, pale and wraith-like and looking oh so young and lost. The prince opened his mouth to ask, but the servant shook his head, eyes desperately pleading, and Arthur let it close.

He allowed Merlin to finish dressing him – soft tunic, fine doublet and belt, warm coat – the familiar motions taking on a virtually ritualistic feeling in the strangely charged half-darkness of the prison room. The boy fought his sleep mussed hair back into order and then stepped away, staring at him, as if he were trying to commit the sight to firmest memory.

“Merlin?” Arthur breathed, attempting to give voice to the awful something that hung in between them, but his friend turned away, once more shaking his head.

The servant stepped up to the bed and retrieved one last item. When Arthur saw what it was, anger welled up inside, hot and fierce.

A small circlet – a little crown.

A mockery. An insult.

He felt the overwhelming urge to hurl it at the wall, glower and throw a fit. He wanted to refuse to play this game, the one where he – nicely scrubbed and polished up – put on the show of captured prince and mighty prize.

But then Merlin stepped in front of him and held it out with shackled hands, and Arthur watched in amazement as his servant’s back and shoulders bent in a gentle, respectful bow. Merlin – the boy full of enough stubborn backbone and pride to hold himself tall even in the face of expectations and orders – willing deflected in reverence to him without a trace of sarcasm or mocking humor. It was the same show of love and devotion as the night before, and Arthur found himself again rendered speechless.

Wordlessly he nodded, allowing the crown to be placed carefully on his neatly combed hair, realizing something very profound. He might be a mockery to every soldier, every noble, every person in this city they would be entering, but to Merlin he was still his prince.

So for Merlin, he would stand tall and wear the offered crown with pride.

It was only moments later that there were sounds outside and the door swung open. Two soldiers entered, just as before – one to guard Arthur and one to collect his friend. Merlin made no protest, waiting to be unchained and then following the guard without order. He paused at the door, though, the strange heaviness of finality in the room growing thick as he offered Arthur a wobbly smile and a nod, and then he was gone.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later that Arthur was able to place the feeling that had infused the room since he woke – it was the same that had filled his chambers on that night more than a year ago when his young servant had come to visit him as he miraculously recovered from the Questing Beast’s bite.

At the time, he’d sworn Merlin was bidding him goodbye…

Fear filled his heart, deep and cold, as he gazed at the firmly shut door, afraid of exactly what Merlin had been telling him, and even more of what he had not.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to the few of you who are still with me, cantering on with this strange little tale I've been spinning. It means so much. And thank you to my guest reviewers – I can't reply to your comments, but I love them just as much as all the rest.

A special note of thanks today to two dear friends. First, M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng who listened and read all day as these words kept coming, giving so much encouragement. Then late in my night, Smuffly. This chapter came out fast and nose-dived down several paths I did not expect. She came and read it, and calmed my fears, telling me it was fine. Thank you, my friends. So, to all my readers, if you haven't taken a gander at their amazing tales Please Help My People, and A Trick of the Light, you should go jump into them right now. They're amazing!

Chapter Text

15. Everything That Isn’t Said

Every king springs from a race of slaves, and every slave had kings among his ancestors.
- Plato

*****

Merlin walked miserably behind the guards through one of the narrow, soldiers’ quarters and out into the open square, shoulders drooped and a pain in his heart that he thought might kill him from the inside.

As soon as the absolutely frigid, winter air hit him, he couldn’t help letting his gaze slide over to the metal cages where his fate waited with the other –

He stopped in shock.

The slaves were gone! All of them!

He gaped, breath catching in his throat and knees threatening to buckle beneath him. Trying to make sense of what he was seeing, he whipped his head around, scanning all parts of the compound.

No slaves.

They were gone. The pens really were empty.

Almost empty, he amended as a tiny flash of movement caught his attention and he narrowed his eyes, looking closer.

There, sitting dolefully against the bars of the farthest cage, was Twyford – locked inside.

The shock, the sudden tilting of his world sideways again without warning, the millions of questions running through his head – all of it was enough to make him forget about his own place for a moment and he started to run across the square to the pen, wanting to know what had happened to this one soldier who had been kind to him.

“BOY!”

The angry shout smacked into him from the direction of the cook-fires and he slid to a halt, cringing as he looked around to find a furious Gobert advancing on him.

“One night in luxury an’ ya think ya ain’t got ta do no chores? Who’d ya think ya ‘r now, t’ bloody prince!”

The raging servant latched painfully onto Merlin’s ear and yanked him back toward where the others were already working. He dragged him to a big metal tub full of boiling water that was surrounded by a gargantuan mound of dirty pots and pans and dishes and threw him roughly onto the ground in the midst of them.

“Didn’t get time ta finish ‘em last night ‘fore yer tête-à-tête with His Highness,” he sneered, crouching so he was right in Merlin’s face. “Well, guess what, slave brat, we saved ‘em for ya! Have fun!”

Still shaken from all the unknowns that had confronted him in the last few minutes, Merlin simply got to work and did as he was told. The water was hot enough to scald his hands, but he didn’t dare go for any cold, gritting his teeth and enduring instead. As he scrubbed at the crusty, caked on remains of last night’s meal, he couldn’t help glancing up now and then to the empty slave pens and the imprisoned soldier.

What had happened?

What was going on?

What was going to happen to him?

He was reaching for the first dish in the last stack of bowls with a semi-burnt hand when a formal call of command cut through the stockade.

Forgotten and overlooked in his little corner off to the side, Merlin swished the rag in his hand absently around the dirty bowl as he watched with horrified curiosity while all the soldiers who remained assembled in the square, facing the almost empty cages. From somewhere in their ranks a drum started beating, steady and menacing. Sir Einar stood before them, his face blank and unreadable.

Two soldiers Merlin at least recognized by sight collected Twyford from the pen and led him to a post set firm in the ground, and sickening realization filtered through the boy as he watched them order the red-haired man to remove his coat and tunic.

“It’s yer fault ya know,” a nasty voice said from behind him, right in his ear. Merlin jumped, dropping the dish and rag into the dirty water with a splash.

Hab stood there, leering smugly at him. “Sir Einar ordered him special ta take last watch an’ fetch you when t’ oth’r slaves was leavin’ afore dawn. He fell asleep, though – on duty! Sir Einar was so mad!”

With dismay, Merlin turned back to the scene happening before them, where Twyford had now been bound to the post with his hands above his head. Another soldier stood behind him, a leather whip in his hands.

Twyford had fallen asleep. Had failed to collect him. The slaves had left for the mines without him.

His head buzzed, full of confusion and emotions and slivers of hope his panic quickly tried to crush because he couldn’t go through that again, let hope in just to have it yanked away later.

Twyford had been kind to him – had looked at him with pity and regret – had asked him his name and treated him like an actual person. Had he…was it possible…had he done it on purpose? Had he done this to save him?

The boy flinched as the first lash cracked in the air, landing on the kind soldier’s back, and guilt spiked through him like a knife, bringing tears to the edges of his eyes. He fought to keep them in since Hab was still standing there, gloating, but he couldn’t help cringing at each additional blow that split the morning air.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

After the fifth stroke, Sir Einar held up a hand and the soldier administering the punishment lowered the whip. Twyford was breathing heavily, but still standing tall and Merlin found himself proud the man had been able to bear the beating without making a sound.

A fist suddenly struck Merlin sharply on the back of the head. He flinched instinctually and turned around to face a seething Gobert.

“Brainless idiot! Finish yer work, ‘stead a starin’ at yer betters! Less ya want ta feel the taste a the lash yer ownself!”

“He broke a bowl,” Hab suddenly spoke up, the picture of innocence. He held up a tray and Merlin noticed his and Arthur’s dishes from the night before, his own bowl sitting in two neat halves. While it was technically true – he had broken it in their moment of spontaneous fun last night – Hab didn’t know that. He was just relishing the chance to watch Merlin get in trouble once again.

Merlin glared at the tattling younger boy for two seconds before Gobert exploded.

By the time his own beating was finished and the servants had left him to his washing, the soldiers in the square had returned to their normal activities. He scanned the whole compound but there was no sign of Twyford.

With a sigh, he sank back to his knees and numbly resumed his scrubbing, afraid to feel anything because of the horrifying uncertainty that was once again hanging over his small, pathetic life. Still, one thought pushed through and banged around inside his brain, the warlock completely unable to stop it.

What was going to happen to him now?

*****

The morning sun was high in the sky by the time Sir Einar’s party made ready to leave. Merlin gathered the requested horses one by one and led them to the spring that bubbled up in one corner of the fort to drink before settling them in their tack and saddles. He took a few extra minutes with Arthur’s mount, scratching the stallion behind the ears and laying his forehead against the soft mane, knowing that whatever happened to him now he’d still most likely never ready this horse for his master again. He prayed that Arthur’s fate would be kind – that he’d someday be set free – ashamed that he’d been so terrified by what was to happen to himself that he’d forgotten about the lot of his prince.

Would this kingdom treat him well? Would his captivity be as gentle as possible, or would they torment and hurt him? Merlin begged whatever power might be listening that it would be the first and not the latter.

Stolen moments run out, Merlin led the stallion to the waiting soldiers then returned to bring out his own mare last. He watered her before walking her to the traveling party that was almost ready. Only half of the soldiers would be making the trip to the citadel, so he brought her to the back of the lone wagon and attached her lead.

Then he just stood there, uncertain. For once, he had no other jobs, no one yelling at him or whacking him. He felt lost and adrift and very small – almost forgotten. No one had bothered to tell him what his fate was to be now, what he was to do or where he was to go. So he lingered by the one familiar thing he had, rubbing his mare’s hide and leaning into her, seeking comfort.

‘You don’t know your fate either, do you?’ he thought to the horse, holding an imaginary conversation inside his head as he clung to her neck. ‘I hope it will be a nice one. Maybe you’ll get to carry a knight now, instead of just a servant.’

She nudged his pocket, forever hopeful even though he hadn’t had a treat to give her inover a week, and he smiled sadly, wishing with all his heart that he did.

As he stood there, Sir Einar walked by, speaking with another soldier. They stopped near enough Merlin could hear their conversation.

“I could send your disgraced soldier to the northern villages for the cold season, if you wish,” the other man spoke, his armor clearly showing him to hold the rank of knight – the only one other than Sir Einar Merlin had seen on this horrible trip.

“That won’t be necessary” Sir Einar said calmly. “He’s served his punishment – I doubt he’ll make such a mistake again.”

“And what of the slave?” the knight asked. Both men turned in Merlin’s direction and he quickly dropped his gaze, afraid to be caught staring. “You could leave him here. A slave would be useful this winter and we could ship him on to the mines when the guards switch out in two months.”

Merlin clenched his hands, burrowing the side of his face into his mare’s shoulder, afraid to hear the answer as he listened to the men discuss his future as though they were bartering a rug or a chair.

“No, he will continue with us,” Sir Einar said indifferently and Merlin’s knees sagged with relief as he eavesdropped. “I will consult with the king, find out his will on the matter. The slave may have…other uses…”

Their conversation continued, military leaders speaking of tactics and needs, but Merlin tuned them out. The slivers of hope were growing inside him again, pushing cracks into his numbing despair and he wasn’t sure what to think, what to feel.

Perhaps – miraculously and through the great sacrifice of someone else – he’d been granted a reprieve from the terror of the mines, at least for a while. But, what would his immediate future hold, now?

One thing he was certain of was that no one would ask his preference before they decided.

*****

Arthur waited a long time after the servant who was decidedly not Merlin had brought him breakfast and collected the soiled dishes and toiletries from the previous night before he heard men once more at his door. He stood, tall and proud, determined to live up to his rank and heritage, even if there was only one gangly serving boy left to acknowledge it.

It was Sir Einar himself who entered. The man studied him, gazing at him in his new clothes, clean and combed and crowned, and nodded.

“Your Majesty,” the knight greeted with a small bow.

“Sir Einar,” Arthur replied, unmoving. He might have to play this game, but he didn’t have to make it easy or comfortable for his foes.

Something the prince could have sworn was respect passed through the older knight’s eyes. “Tharennor welcomes you for the winter season,” the man said as he took a very fine, warm cloak from one of his men and stepped forward himself to drape it about Arthur’s shoulders, fastening it with a jeweled pin.

Arthur didn’t answer – just cocked an eyebrow in silent challenge to which Sir Einar simply nodded yet again. Then he drew out Arthur’s wrists, fasting on the now familiar restrictive manacles.

“Tharennor’s showing of hospitality is obviously second to none,” Arthur said snidely, holding up his now bound hands as the knight stepped back.

Sir Einar didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he dismissed the other guards, leaving the two of them alone in the room, before moving closer to Arthur, though still well out of his reach.

“All is not always as we think, Prince Arthur,” he said softly, and Arthur frowned, something in the knight’s words capturing his attention. “Nor life’s pathways always direct. My respect is genuine, believe what you will. Still, I would offer you a word of warning on this day. It would be wise – for both your sake and the boy’s – if you were to hold your tongue as we complete this journey, no matter what you see or feel. I know I’ve given nothing for it to be granted, but I ask that you trust me.”

“Trust must be earned, Sir Einar,” Arthur said coolly.

The knight’s face fell slightly, as if in disappointment, but he simply nodded for a third time and then gestured for Arthur to proceed him out of the room.

“What, no blindfold?” the prince snapped, nerves already fraying from the whole charade.

“Not today, my lord,” the old knight answered softly.

When he immerged a few minutes later into the bright, cold sunshine of an open square, the first thing his watering eyes sought out was Merlin. He found the boy tethered to the back of a wagon, apparently expected to walk – with a wounded leg! – next to his very own riderless mount. Anger that was already bubbling so close to the surface surged and he opened his mouth to raise a fuss, but his servant rapidly started shaking his head in warning and his blue eyes were so full of fear that Arthur let his lips snap shut again.

Trust me the knight had asked. There is more here than you know.

He was reminded again of the feeling of parting that had permeated that very morning, and his mind was drawn back to some words his friend had once spoken, words he’d almost forgotten.

But you must learn to listen as well as you fight…

Perhaps, it wasn’t just idle advice.

Back straight, he nodded slightly to Merlin in what he hoped was reassurance, and then allowed himself to be directed to his own horse.

He mounted and his hands and legs were lashed down as usual then hidden carefully beneath the velvety folds of the cloak. To anyone watching, it would almost appear he was entering the city under his own volition, and the deception confused him. Surely, the whole purpose of this act was to cheer Tharennor’s great victory while at the same time to humiliate him? What point would this ruse serve?

Thoughts and warnings still running through his head, he kept his burning questions to himself for once as the old knight gave the order and their company moved out of the stockade and back onto the road.

*****

Merlin had to admit one thing as he again trudged down the road attached to a wagon like livestock: Tharennor was a beautiful country. Only a little beyond the stockade they’d circled a foothill and suddenly a valley had stretched out before him, covered in snow and surrounded on all sides by rugged-looking mountains. The road they followed wound down past small hamlets and homesteads where grey smoke curled from the chimneys of thatched roofs and small dots that were people went on about their lives. Near the center, where the valley was at its widest, the road split, and Merlin could see each fork eventually meandered off into little side valleys, snug and hidden within the protective mountain feet. At the far end where the sides of main valley once more narrowed, a medium city sprawled, spilling over from the valley floor to creep up the foothills to where a gleaming citadel perched proudly on a cliff, climbing toward the cold, clear sky.

It was breathtaking, and he wished he could be seeing it through the eyes of a visitor, not the frightened ones of a captured slave. Still, he’d never been one to overlook any small favor, and he supposed he should be grateful he was headed to live out the rest of his however short life in a place of beauty instead of one of ugliness and squalor.

Appearances can also be deceiving, he reminded himself. Just because there was beauty on the outside didn’t mean there wasn’t something rotten within.

Morning turned to noon and they began passing through the villages. As they arrived, the people would stop their daily tasks and line the road to greet them, their reactions far from what he expected. He cringed in anticipation of the first decaying projectile that would be thrown at his friend – Arthur was in essence a spoil of war and commoners were rarely subtle. But while Merlin himself garnered looks of disgust and confusion, Arthur? Arthur received smiles and cheers.

The servant thought at first that surely they must be mocking the Crown Prince, but the more people they passed the more he came to feel that the joy and excitement was real. The peasants of this country were genuinely happy to see Arthur – and not as a prisoner or tribute. It confused Merlin to no end and he wasn’t alone – he could plainly read the same mystification written on his master’s face, though Arthur managed to mask it with more skill than the servant.

By the time they reached the main town, Merlin had given up on understanding anything – his world had stopped making sense nine days ago, why should it change now? Sir Einar led them on a steady, direct path through the city streets and up the mountain to the citadel, a growing train of citizens following behind them, though they wrinkled their noses at Merlin and gave him a wide berth.

Only the soldiers, Arthur, and Merlin entered the castle gates, the common people cheering outside for a few more moments before melting back to their normal lives. They crossed a great courtyard, the horses’ hooves echoing and sending ominous chills up the boy’s spine, and then stopped before two small sets of steps that led off in opposite directions toward the interior of the fortress. At the top of the one on the right stood a lone man.

He was middle-aged and splendidly dressed in clothes of the finest materials. His blond hair was longer than expected and he wore a neatly trimmed beard but his eyes were stormy and cold. He gazed at Arthur with a sort of possessive glee that made Merlin sick, and the boy knew immediately who he was seeing, despite the man’s lack of a crown.

The king said nothing, simply waiting while Sir Einar and his company dismounted and the head soldier bowed, then nodding in approval. Merlin could see the questions practically jumping inside of Arthur’s head, clawing at each other to be the first to spring from the prince’s mouth, but to his complete astonishment, Arthur held them all back and remained stonily silent, biting his tongue.

In dismay, Merlin watched as two soldiers cut the prince lose and helped him dismount, then led him up the second staircase where he disappeared from the boy’s sight into the castle, leaving Merlin alone with just the soldiers, Sir Einar, and the frightening king.

A king that was suddenly descending the staircase and marching toward Merlin with anger spread across his face.

“Why have you brought another prisoner? Who is this child, Sir Einar?” the king demanded, stopping a few feet from Merlin who stared resolutely at his own wet boots and tried desperately to quell his shaking.

“He was captured with the prince,” Sir Einar answered.

The king took a step back, and Merlin risked a glance up to see a look of revulsion cross his face.

“A slave! You sully my house and my presence by bringing a slave through these gates! He should have been sent to the mines with the other riff-raff! What are you thinking?”

The words hurt, even though they were hardly the worst he’d had thrown at him since this whole nightmare started, and he hung his head further, feeling the small tendrils of hope once more wither and die.

“He was set to go with them, my lord, but there was a mistake and he was left behind,” Sir Einar answered.

“Well, send someone to take him there now! They can extract at least a week or two of hard labor from him before he’s a corpse!”

The numbing, all-consuming fear was returning at the king’s awful words and Merlin had to clutch at the back of the wagon to stay upright as he listened to Sir Einar’s response.

“Sire, if I may be permitted to speak freely…” the knight began.

“Just say what you want to, Einar!” the king spat, looking away from Merlin and back to his soldier.

“Sire, the boy was captured with the prince – was his personal servant, and the prince is very fond of the child, to the point of putting the boy’s safety before his own on several occasions. I know your feelings, my lord, and I meant no besmirch upon your house or the customs of your rule, but it could be…advantageous to keep the boy close… Have easy access to him, should you need stronger persuasion.”

Suddenly, the king was invading Merlin’s field of vision, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up, studying him with eyes that – while they still held overt disgust – were also sharp and calculating. The man’s grip was harsh and the servant fought the urge to whimper as the king reached out to yank his neckerchief away, revealing the dull metal of the slave collar.

The longest moments of Merlin’s life passed as the King of Tharennor examined him, twisting his head this way and that while his eyes roamed up and down the boy’s trembling body without care, before he shoved him away with a jerk and wiped his hand on his cloak as if he’d just touched something foul.

“Very well, Einar,” the king said, turning back to the knight. “I have trusted your judgement before, I will do so again. Send it to the Steward, tell him to find use for it, whatever he sees fit as long as it stays alive until I say otherwise. And tell the man to give it my mark, and to make sure its status is clearly visible!” As he spat the last words, he threw Merlin’s neckerchief onto the ground and deliberately stepped on it, twisting it beneath his boot.

“As you wish, sire,” Sir Einar replied with a deep bow.

“Meet me in the council chambers for a full report within the hour,” the king threw over his shoulder in parting as he swept back up the stairs and into his castle.

Without warning, Merlin’s legs decided they’d had quite enough of all this fear and uncertainty and they buckled, sending him pitching to the ground where he landed on his knees with a painful jolt. Rather that repeat the process, he opted to stay there, breathing heavily and head spinning as the old knight approached him. The man stared at him for a long while before he released him from his tether and then crouched before him.

“Look at me, lad,” he requested almost kindly.

It was a few moments before Merlin could obey, raising his head and meeting the man’s eyes with obvious difficulty.

“You must pull yourself together.”

The servant gulped, still trembling, but with effort he eventually managed to calm his breathing and bring the dizzy world back into focus around him.

“Good. Now, heed my words. The Steward is not kind and the work will be backbreaking and unpleasant, but if you keep your head down, child, and do as you’re told, and you might just survive this. Now, rise. Soldier Twyford must report back to his captain of the citadel guard – he will take you to the Steward on the way and you can start your new life.”

* Author’s note – I hope none of you are too disappointed that Merlin didn’t actually get sent to the mines. I had never planned on sending him there, though I must admit that the evil author in me started to actually consider it after seeing the reaction to the threat from many of you.

Also, I was absolutely floored and humbled by the response to the last chapter! Thank you so much! I can’t tell you how much it means to me! It is you, my wonderful readers, that make writing this story so worth it!

Now, it’s Monday and another school week has started. I wouldn’t expect to see an update until at least the weekend. Sorry.

Chapter Text

16. Marked

“Life is filled with unanswered questions, but it is the courage to seek those answers that continues to give meaning to life. You can spend your life wallowing in despair, wondering why you were the one who was led towards the road strewn with pain, or you can be grateful that you are strong enough to survive it.”
- J.D. Stroube

*****

Merlin found himself alone for a moment after Sir Einar left – Twyford nowhere to be seen yet. Soldiers came to start unloading the wagon he was still behind, so he shifted to the side – out of the way – and waited.

As he stood there, he found his breathing slowing down, returning to a more normal rate as his panic and fear subsided slightly. It cleared his mind and allowed a little normal, rational thought to leak back in.

He wasn’t going to the mines.

He wasn’t going to die in a dark pit, hacking at stone.

He wasn’t going to die as an abused plaything for other slaves.

He was going to work in a castle.

Under an apparently horrid man and for a king who might just rival Uther in the area of terribly frightening.

But still – a castle.

After two years in Camelot, he knew castles, and servants, and serving work. He had no doubt he’d end up miserable and starved, forced to do the worst of the worst jobs that kept a castle running – but still, no matter how awful they made it, these were things he knew. This – he could survive this.

And he would still be close to Arthur. They might not let him near the prince, but at least he might be able to keep an eye on him from afar – perhaps he could even help his master in some small ways.

A splash of dull red caught Merlin’s eye and he glanced over to find his neckerchief still lying limply in the dirt where the king’s boot had ground it. He moved and picked it up, working the worn cloth between his fingers.

His mother had sewn this for him – out of a piece of fabric left when one of her dresses grew beyond the point of mending. To be perfectly honest, he was amazed Sir Einar had let him keep it – that he’d been allowed to hide the collar for as long as he had – that it hadn’t been ripped off long before.

Suddenly, with the overriding terror of the mines removed, Merlin found his natural curiosity returning, raising questions. First there was Twyford and his “mistake” on a task assigned to him specifically by Sir Einar, and now that same knight with his risky suggestion to the king…

Had these two men just neatly conspired to save his life?

“You won’t be allowed to keep wearing it, Merlin,” a voice said quietly.

He turned to find Twyford standing beside him, looking at the red scarf still in his hands. The man’s face was pale and slightly pinched, and he held his shoulders in the tight, strained posture of someone hiding pain, but otherwise gave no outward sign of the ordeal he’d endured just that morning.

Merlin looked at him – stared hard at the red-haired man he was more convinced than ever had saved him from torture and death, and endured the punishment for it – and wished deeply he still had a voice to express the overwhelming gratitude that was filling him now. Instead, he reached out and took the man’s hand, pushing his cherished neckerchief into it and then closing it tightly to a fist.

Thank you! he longed to cry, but all he could do was hope Twyford would somehow understand.

And it seemed he did, for the soldier nodded, placing the cloth reverently in his pocket. “You’re a good lad, Merlin,” he said very softly. “I would not see you suffer that fate. Though I’m not sure how much kinder this one will be. Still…” he trailed off, leaving Merlin unsure what the man had started to say and with no ability to ask.

“Come on,” he said instead, steering Merlin toward a lower, more hidden entrance to the castle. “The Steward will be even more unpleasant if he’s kept waiting.”

*****

Apparently, the rumor mill in Tharennor worked just as fast, or perhaps even faster, than the one in Camelot. As Twyford took Merlin through the lower corridors of the fortress, people were already whispering – shooting him scornful glances before turning away. Merlin fought the urge to duck his head in shame – reminding himself that these were not soldiers with the power of life or death over him, but simply busy-body servants eager for any break in the mundane drudgery of their lives.

Still, the gossip served one purpose – the Steward was expecting them.

Merlin was not used to instantly disliking people. Generally, he tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, at least until he got to know them better, but this man needed no trial period for the boy to spot his true colors. He was well dressed – clean tunic and trousers, leather belt with dangling keys that spoke of his station, long felt coat with darker cowl, and a red cap that flopped carefully to the left. But it wasn’t his clothes that set Merlin on edge but rather his face – his eyes were cruel and menacing and the trimmed beard and mustache that filled out his already round cheeks helped accentuate the haughty sneer of revolted arrogance inside of them.

Twyford brought him into the dimly lit room, paused to remove the manacles from his wrists, and then ducked away after throwing Merlin an apologetic look.

The silence reigned for a breathless moment – oppressive and dangerous and hinting at unknown suffering to come – as the man studied him, moving in a circle around him like a predator closing in on its prey. Feeling vulnerable and exposed, it took all of Merlin’s willpower to keep facing forward as the Steward slipped behind him, but he stiffened his spine and held his breath until the intimidating man was done.

“You came from Camelot?” the man finally growled at him.

Merlin nodded, not liking the way the Steward had said the word ‘Camelot’ as if it were an expletive.

“The Princeling’s personal servant?” he sneered.

Again, Merlin nodded, eyes narrowing in anger at the insult to Arthur.

“Well say goodbye to your cushy life because you aren’t anymore. You are a slave – a thing – a possession – and everything from the clothes you wear to the food you eat to the air you breathe is a gift that can be withheld.”

Merlin had been expecting this but it didn’t stop the cruel words from hurting, each one like a stinging slap on raw and tender flesh as he listened to the Steward reduce his life and worth to nothing.

“Every person in this castle right down to the skinniest scullery boy is your better, and I…I own your life. You will do what I tell you, sleep when and where I tell you, and you will not speak to anyone unless asked a direct question. You will avoid being seen by royalty at all costs so they don’t have to look upon your disgusting features – and this includes your precious prince! If you complete your tasks as ordered and on time, you will be fed each night. If not…”

The words hung in the air – a direct threat – and Merlin had the certain feeling he was going to be very hungry for the rest of his probably short life.

“Do you understand?” the Steward asked, speaking slowly as if to a simpleminded fool.

Merlin gritted his teeth and nodded.

“You will answer with ‘Yes Master’ when asked a direction question!” the bully snapped, a hand striking out like a snake to cuff the back of Merlin’s head.

He eyed the man in confusion through watering eyes, certain he couldn’t have missed the collar that circled his throat and made that order impossible. Didn’t he know? But then he remembered the other slaves he’d almost been forced to join – they all wore collars, but they hadn’t been silent. Apparently only the collars designed to contain magic also stole a victim’s voice.

Hesitantly, he reached up and touched the collar then moved his fingers to cover his mouth.

The Steward’s reaction was fierce and unexpected. He jerked back from Merlin as if bitten.

“A sorcerer!” he hissed, leveling a glare of utmost hatred at the boy. “From Camelot?”

He spat in Merlin’s face and the servant cringed in disgust as he felt the spittle run down his cheek, but he didn’t dare draw more of the Steward’s wrath by wiping it off.

“Vilest of the vile and thrice cursed!” the man continued to rant, his face growing red beneath the beard. “A slave – from that foul country – now tainted with magic as well! I won’t have you spread your filthy, foreign curses through my castle!”

Bitterly, Merlin wondered exactly how this horrid man expected him to curse anything with the wretched collar locked round his neck. Still, he figured it was healthier for him if he didn’t try and correct the Steward by pointing that out.

“Strip,” the man suddenly ordered coldly.

Merlin stared at him in shocked horror, not moving.

“Remove your filthy sorcerer’s clothing or I’ll do it for you!” the Steward repeated, stepping to an imposing, wooden table and picking up what looked like an ornate riding crop.

Rage filled him, made stronger by knowing how helpless he was. Glaring daggers at his newest enemy, he reluctantly conformed and pulled off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He continued, adding garments to the pile until he stood there shivering in nothing except his smallclothes and a few pathetic bandages. But he stopped there, chin jutting out defiantly – he would go no further willingly.

The Steward ignored his tiny rebellion, pointing instead toward the fire that crackled in the room’s low hearth. “Now burn them.”

Merlin’s breath caught and he hesitated. He’d though he’d be made to wash them – “purify” them somehow – but to burn them? Surely he wasn’t going to be forced to live without any clothing?

He’d paused too long and suddenly a searing pain slashed across his bare shoulder and chest. Tears sprang to his eyes as he realized the man’s short whip was far from just for show.

“I won’t repeat myself again,” the Steward ground out. “Burn it all now!”

With great sorrow, Merlin gathered up his pitiful armful of belongings and limped to the fire. He fingered them one last time – his blue tunic and brown trousers – sewn by his mum so he’d look smart in his new home… His well-worn jacket – the scents of herbs and polish and old books still clinging to it – it smelled of Gaius… The boots had been a gift from Arthur and the socks a sweet gesture from Gwen… Desperately holding back tears, he consigned them all to the flames – one by one – knowing he was losing more than just clothes and his last connections to his home and family. As they turned to ash and smoke they took with them all remnants of what made him Merlin – a person – and left behind only a nameless, stripped-of-everything slave.

The Steward stood there holding court with his lash and his hate and watched it all burn until only smolders remained, then turned back to Merlin with open disgust and latched onto his arm. Without even a word or explanation, he pulled the boy from chamber.

Shame brought color to Merlin’s face as he was dragged stumbling through the bowels of the castle in his horrible state of undress. The young man had never been comfortable flaunting his skin to others and now everyone could see his pale, bruised, and skinny body. Servants laughed and twittered while they pointed and he was ready to die of mortification by the time the Steward shoved him into a steaming-hot room.

“Over there,” the man ordered, pushing him toward the far corner of what Merlin could now see was the bustling laundry. Unsure what was about to happen to him now, he obeyed with trepidation. Embarrassment kept his head lowered to the floor so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s mocking eyes, and so he noticed that the corner held a time-worn groove cut through the stone that channeled water out of a small hole in the wall and away from the castle. He stood there by the drain, shivering despite the moist warmth of the air, and listened as the man called two serving boys over with their buckets and brushes.

“Scrub it clean lest it spread its evil and plagues through our halls,” the Steward ordered the boys haughtily.

The servants didn’t argue and Merlin had to bite back a yell of pain as one of the pails was upended over his head, sending scalding water all down his unprotected skin.

The next few minutes were an exercise in pain and humiliation – some he hoped dearly to forget one day. He stood there like an animal while the boys scrubbed him raw with near boiling water and lye soap. The brushes were coarse and the servants ungentle, and soon harsh scratches littered his skin from head to toes, made even more unbearable by the stinging soap. He sputtered and choked as the foul mixture ran in his mouth, and was half-blind from it dripping into his eyes before a last bucket of freezing-cold water was dumped over him and it was done.

Through bleary, aching eyes he watched the Steward wave the boys away while he stood there dripping like a drowned and boiled rat. No one offered him even a sheet to dry off with, but the man who had just earned a place higher than Basil-the-Turd-Face on Merlin’s hate list did move over to a basket of cloth just off to one side. Wearily, Merlin recognized it for what it was – the rag pile. Even Camelot had a mound like it, where clothes, sheets, and bedding that were too worn or stained to be worth fixing ended up. Any salvageable material would be repurposed to mend other objects, and even the most ragged parts would be torn into strips to be braided into rugs.

The Steward pawed through the pile for a while, then stepped back and lobbed a bundle of cloth at Merlin’s face.

“Get dressed,” he ordered.

Grateful to at least be given clothes Merlin didn’t argue, pulling the soiled rags on over his sodden undergarments and bandages. There was a pair of trousers – black, ill-fitting, and mostly threadbare. They were held up by only a gathered drawstring and their frayed cuffs stopped inches above his bare ankles. The tunic he slipped over his head was the splotchy, mottled grey of a failed dye job with at least a dozen moth holes and the seam of the right sleeve split so that his elbow poked all the way through. It hung from his bony frame like a particularly shapeless sack.

And that was it for clothes. No jacket – no socks – not even a thin pair of shoes.

Of course not, Merlin thought bitterly. Why give a slave shoes when he can be barefoot in the winter and therefore even more miserable and aware of his awful lot in life. He wondered if the Steward was satisfied that his “vile magic curses” had at least been washed away.

His arm was seized again and he fought the urge to roll his eyes as once more the portly man twisted him through the castle passageways as though he was too stupid to follow on his own. This time they passed through an outside door and immerged into the tepid light of a cold afternoon. Merlin’s toes curled instinctively against the assault of the frigid flagstones and his wet hair seemed to suck whatever warmth was left inside him right back out. He was dragged across a small, dirtier courtyard, past a well, and around a few more corners before arriving at a squat, stone building that billowed smoke. He only had a few seconds to recognize it as a blacksmith’s forge before being yanked inside.

Confusion lined his brow as he glanced around. The end of the building they’d entered was dark and shadowed, but the far side held a fiery forge and the acrid smells of metal, sweat, and smoke hung thick in the air.

Was he going to be put to work in the smithy? He knew nothing of running a forge, though perhaps at least it would be warm.

A tanned, soot covered boy perhaps a few years older than himself who stood at the bellows noticed their entrance and hollered for his master’s attention over the din of clanging metal and flying sparks. At the anvil, a great, grizzly-bear of a man put down his hammer at the shout and then turned around.

Merlin worked hard to stifle a silent gasp that still made the collar give him a warning spike of pain. The man was huge – muscles bulging beneath his leather apron and blackened tunic – but his face was… Three long scars disfigured the smith’s forehead and left cheek, one disappearing down the neck and into the collar of his shirt. It was a miracle the man still had both eyes. In spite of himself, Merlin tensed and backed up slightly as the Steward released him to speak with the frightening man.

“Juno, heat up the king’s mark. It’s needed.”

At those words, Merlin’s knees suddenly felt weak for the second time that day and he knew exactly why the Steward had brought him there.

Juno the Blacksmith nodded to his apprentice who retrieved a long, iron rod with some sort of symbol on the end and thrust it deep into the heart of the glowing coals.

“I wasn’t aware the king had any new stock…” the scarred man responded, looking puzzled.

The king’s mark! Merlin fought the urge to hyperventilate. A brand! He was going to be branded!

“Just this,” the Steward replied calmly, dragging him forward and thrusting him into the middle of the room.

Branded, like livestock! Marked for life!

The blacksmith’s face darkened and he narrowed his eyes as he glanced up and down Merlin’s trembling body. “You want me to brand a boy?” he growled.

And it was going to hurt…oh it was going to hurt!

“It’s not a boy, it’s a slave.”

Juno’s eyes sought out Merlin’s collar, and the young servant thought he almost saw anger and pity flash through them.

“He wears the thrall ring – why does he need to be marked further?”

Dimly, Merlin realized the man was actually defending him, trying to save him from this anguish, and he felt a sliver of guilt, knowing he’d misjudged the man based solely on his frightening appearance.

The Steward drew himself upright and glared at the other man. “You would argue with a direct order from your king?” he asked with menacing arrogance.

Juno hesitated, looking toward Merlin again, but then looked away. “No, Master Steward, I would not,” he said firmly, “though I don’t have to think it right.”

“I don’t care a whit what you think so long as you do as ordered,” the Steward spat.

“As you command, sir,” the blacksmith answered coldly.

The man went to check on the progress of the heating metal and Merlin just stood there, waiting and trying to calm his racing heart so it wouldn’t jump right out of his thin chest. He almost wished he didn’t know what was coming – the anticipation was torture in and of itself. Finally, the blacksmith nodded.

Without preamble, the Steward manhandled Merlin over to a thick and scarred wooden table, then took a moment to rip off one of the wet bandages Twyford had placed around the servant’s damaged wrists nearly three days ago. “You, boy,” he ordered to the apprentice that had been hanging back in the shadows, watching Merlin with a strange mix of revulsion and pity. “Help hold it down.”

Merlin’s left sleeve was roughly shoved up past his elbow and his arm jerked down to the tabletop, palm facing upward. The Steward held his fist, crushing it into the hard wood, while the young apprentice gripped his elbow with one hand and wrapped the other arm around his chest to keep him from trying to tug away.

Trembling violently, it took everything the warlock had not to wilt or lose the meager contents of his stomach. A hand touched his shaking shoulder and he looked up through fear-blown eyes.

“Here, son,” the blacksmith said quietly, holding out a thick leather strap. “Bite down on this.”

Merlin opened his mouth and allowed him to place the strap between his teeth, biting tightly and feeling more trapped than at any other point in his life as he waited immobilized for the intense, scarring pain that was to come.

He watched the blacksmith pull the rod from the fire and turn, saw the strange design blazing orange with burning heat at the end, and then clenched his eyes shut.

Be brave! he ordered himself desperately.

Be strong!

Brave and strong, like a knight! Like Arthur! FOR Arth ---- AHHHHH!

The last thought became simply a wordless wail in his tortured mind as pain worse than anything he’d ever known before seared through the tender flesh of his forearm. His mouth shot open for an anguished scream that couldn’t sound, doubling his suffering as the collar’s evil spell joined the agony in his arm which caused him to sag limply in the apprentice’s grip.

It seemed hours that the metal was held firmly against his arm, charring the previously unmarred skin and making Merlin gag on bile at the scent of his own burning flesh. Finally, the rod pulled away and the cruel hands released him. Boneless, he sank to the dirty floor, eyes opening so the tears could pour out, the leather strap falling from his mouth – gouged deeply – as he weakly coughed up bile.

His vision went dim and blurry for a while after that, everything but the agony in his arm and his head fading to the background. The pain flared bright again as a liquid that burned almost as strong as the fire was dumped over his damaged limb and he only barely kept his face from becoming acquainted with the black soot of the floor. Words he couldn’t grasp flowed back and forth above his head…hands grabbed his uninjured arm and jerked him up to legs that wobbled as the world pitched drunkenly around him…and he stumbled through his suffering back to the castle, dragged by a man with no mercy.

More corridors, more turns, more hushed whispers that all hovered somehow on the edges of his anguish, unable to pierce through until finally he was dropped to the ground before a mound of dishes and pots that seemed to his fuzzy brain to reach toward the ceiling.

The Steward crouched down. “Laze about all you want, slave, but you’ll see no food or bed ‘til this kitchen is clean and the candles are snuffed at midnight. Should the sun rise without it done, you’ll taste the lash.” Then he stood, wiped his hand down his clothes one more time, and left.

Despite the warning, Merlin simply lay there for a long while, lost in the pain and hopelessness and not even sure he cared about the consequences of not moving. What was the threat of more pain when it already felt like every nerve had been flayed? But finally, the ache in his brain began to recede, leaving only the fire in his mangled arm. Turning it slowly, he dared to look at the mark he would bear for the rest of his life.

Three intricate and interlocked triangles - like mountains – had been burned into his arm, the wound black and red and weeping.

The Mark of Tharennor.

Somehow, it shoved the reality of his situation into his face in a way nothing had before.

Yes, he wore the hated collar – magic and voice stifled – but part of him still dreamed and plotted of how to remove it, what he would do once it was gone… Believed in a rescue from home or from Arthur, where it would be unlocked and life would return to what he once knew…

But this? This would never go away. For the rest of his life he would wear the shame of being a slave to an enemy king burned into his skin.

He was ready to let his head sink back to the floor and just fade away – wait for his fate in the morning and hope the beating was strong enough he just didn’t get back up – but an annoying voice in the back of his head pushed through the agony.

Get up, idiot! Don’t just lay there! Don’t let them win!

Arthur.

Merlin snorted slightly and closed his eyes, turning away from the mound of stinking dishes.

Why did his inner monologue have to sound like the Prince of All Prats?

Because I’m your master and you have to do what I say, the Arthur in his mind answered back.

Not hardly, the Merlin in his brain replied.

But he gave a silent sigh and dragged himself up to his knees anyway, if only to shut up the argument that was happening inside his own head.

Some people got an angel and a devil, trying to influence their choices. How was it fair he ended up with a clot-pole? he mused as he wearily took the sponge out of the water with his good arm and started on the endless night ahead.

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: I am so sorry for how long it has taken me to post this chapter. I assure you, this story is not abandoned, nor have I lost my way on it (it is very much fully outlined.) But I did, for a while, lose my muse as real life ganged up in me and I worried about making sure this most pivotal chapter came out how it should. I’m hoping I got it right.

Fingers crossed that the next chapter doesn’t take this long, but I should let you know I’m a music teacher, and I’m right in the middle of the school I work at putting on their fall musical. So, if I’m slow, that’s why.

Thanks as always to Missy, Smuffly, and Lizzie for endless patience and encouragement.

17. Telling

“I have felt the wind on the wing of madness.”
- Charles Baudelaire

*****

Two thousand, six hundred and forty three.

There were two thousand, six hundred and forty three nails in the wooden ceiling of his new room.

He knew because he’d counted them – twice.

As Arthur lay on his back on the bed, head hanging over the edge so he could stare up at the old wood overhead, he pondered if it would be any more entertaining to count them for a third time.

Probably not, he admitted, running hands through his already mussed hair.

With a sigh, he pushed up and swung his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the built-in corner bed, surveying his new “chambers.”

If they were planning to torture him, they had picked the most excruciating method. Pain and torment he could cope with if he had to – but boredom and being ignored? It was driving him to distraction, as were the contradictions by which he found himself surrounded.

He almost stood and started pacing the circumference of the little room again as he had at least three times an hour for the last two days – there was nothing else to do! – but he’d been placed on the top floor of an old, weathered tower and he knew by now that it was painfully unconducive to mindless wandering.

The chamber was small and oddly-shaped – mostly square, but with only one true corner. One was lost to the triangle shelf he currently sat on; Arthur suspected it had once been a spacious window seat but had been made up into a cramped bed instead. While the covers were thick and the mattress soft, they were old and faded – as though they had been quite grand but were now just quite sad – and the window in the corner let in a chill even when shuttered. To accommodate his height he’d had to sleep either sideways or on the very outward edge, and the two nights he’d spent there had left him stiff and restless in the morning. A curtain hung from the stone at the head and could be drawn across to hide the whole ledge from the rest of the room, providing a privacy that seemed too dangerous to indulge in, while he was obviously still a prisoner.

Because yes, though he might not be wearing chains or languishing in a dungeon, he was a prisoner and this room was his jail – that much was evidenced by the fact that his door locked from the outside, not the in. There were no bars on his windows (though the drop from them was of a height not pleasant to contemplate – it was the first thing he’d checked – so the lack of bars really didn’t mean much), a fire blazed in his hearth, warm rugs and bedding had been left, and both a wardrobe and a trunk were filled with clothing and other items clearly intended for his personal use – but it didn’t matter. He was forced into this room against his will and no amount of mocking comfort could hide that fact.

He knew he could have escaped – overpowered the timid, mostly-silent servants who had appeared several times a day to bring him food and drink and to tend his fire – but to what end? The avalanche had blocked the pass – the king knew it, the knights knew it, and Arthur himself knew it. He couldn’t possibly hope to stay hidden within a small country until springtime so where would he run?

Besides, he had to admit the real truth of the matter was that he would never leave without Merlin, and at the moment he had no idea where the boy was.

Unable to help himself after almost two weeks of forced inactivity, he stood and strode east past the trunk that sat against the wall. It took only a pitiful eight paces to reach the next not-corner. Here the stone room bulged outward into a circular shape that held two deep-set windows and added a tiny bit more space to the chamber – enough to hold three mostly empty, skinny bookshelves and a small table and chair. A glance out one of the windows showed the same scene he’d looked at a dozen times already – the bleak and snow-covered mountains of Tharennor rising up to meet the heavy, black clouds that were ready to dump more of the blasted whiteness on this cursed country. He growled in frustration and turned away and his eyes landed on the few tattered books that lay forgotten on the dusty shelves. He contemplated picking one up and sitting down at the table but figured he wouldn’t be able to read the ancient, foreign script any better this time around than he had the last ten times he’d tried that activity. There weren’t even any pictures to look at, something he took as a personal offense! And he’d just recovered from the sneezing attack the dusty, mildew-ridden pages had caused him the last time he’d tried. No, it was better to leave the useless things alone.

Not that there was really anything in his chamber that was useful - at least not to him. At seemingly random intervals small, square windows punched through the thick walls, the stone around them cut in the shape of a spade, leaving ledges for sitting on below while the top rose to a blunt point. Each had a single, hinged shutter for nighttime that only partially blocked the chilly, Tharennor air from whistling through the thin, cracked glass. Directly diagonal from where he now stood in front of what he’d dubbed the “library circle,” another of the room’s corners was missing, given over to a thick door. Here the walls of the chamber turned inward to accommodate a housing for the winding stairs that were just outside the door and filled the true corner of the tower.

It was the only way in and the only way out of his room – and even though Arthur knew it was locked firmly from the outside, it took real will-power not to test it yet again.

Instead, he forced himself to turn to the side, striding a few paces over to the east wall which held no window but a surprisingly large and unexpected hearth. A fire burned happily, throwing warmth out and making the small, drafty room bearable, with more wood stacked next to the wall for him to add throughout the day. It took up at least a full third of the wall, and was easily the most interesting thing in his entire room. Across the top where a mantle would normally have been, an intricate raised carving stretched instead – of a fierce dragon and a beautiful tree. It was incredible and almost life-like, and he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit to a rush of fear the first time he’d noticed it. The dragon’s toes curled, sharp talons extended. Its wings, tongue and eyes still glowed a faded, painted red, and its head turned backward in a roar that showed razor-like teeth. On the right side of the hearth was carved the tree – tall and delicate, and yet somehow exuding a strength he couldn’t even explain. The dragon’s muscled tail curled protectively around its trunk, while the tree towered in equal measure of protection over the scaled beast.

As he had done many times over the last few days, Arthur stared at it, rather transfixed.

Dragons were obviously creatures of magic and therefore evil, and yet, once he became accustomed to its frightening appearance, he felt almost comforted by the artwork. After all, dragons were also the symbol of the Pendragon line and of home – an irony that had never been lost on the young prince. He felt somehow – protected and watched over – closer to Camelot and safety when he stood there, gazing at the stone creature.

That didn’t mean he felt comfortable with all the other obviously magic related things he’d discovered in his new chambers. Being trapped in this room for the last two days, he’d gone over every inch of it – looking for weaknesses, weapons, routes of escape, something to keep him from going spare with boredom – none of which he’d found, though he had discovered that his “guest quarters” came complete with a roof that leaked in two places and a few floorboards he doubted were entirely stable. More importantly, however, he’d realized with slight trepidation that at one point this had to have been the living quarters of someone who seriously dabbled in magic, because the signs of it were everywhere. There were runes he couldn’t read carved over the door and windows, markings on the wood floor near the corners, and once he knew what to look for, little carvings of plants and animals all over the walls and furniture. And the most glaring evidence – besides the dragon on the mantle place of course – was a large tapestry on the south wall that, after hours of studying, he was sure was some sort of catalogue of magical acts – though strangely none of them seemed malicious or deadly. It bothered him and added to his ever-growing sense of unease and unanswered questions.

Why had he been put here? Was the magic active? Was it affecting him? Was he enchanted? Being manipulated or corrupted against his will?

After two (now going on three) days he’d slowly decided that while he still didn’t know the reason behind sticking him in this tower room, he didn’t think he was being influenced by magic. He was too bored and grumpy and irritated – emotions he reluctantly had to admit were all his own – for there to be magic acting on him. Apparently, the magic that used to infuse this room had worn off, leaving only the markings as a memory.

Still, it was just another unfathomable piece in this puzzle that was driving him nuts.

Tapestries took years to make – were worth good money. And that dragon and tree carving had taken much skill and many hours to produce. The curtain by his bed was made of velvet and the rugs on the floor were expensive furs. His wardrobe and trunk were full of trousers and tunics, doublets and belts, warm jackets and socks and leather boots. And yet, the tapestry and bedclothes were faded, the velvet and furs worn and sporting more than a few holes, and the clothes ill-fitting and either garish and tasteless or plan and threadbare. Servants bowed and called him “My Lord” and “Your Majesty,” just as the soldiers had from the very onset of this debacle, but he was locked in his room – this chamber that bore the trappings of past finery but was now old and worn with a leaky roof and cracked windows.

It was such a contradiction – the appearance of respect and honor, but a dark, deeper undercurrent of mockery and contempt. He couldn’t fathom what was meant by it and worrying over the possibilities sent his thoughts spiraling in circles the more he was left alone with them.

Alone. Such a horrible word, and one he hadn’t had to really contemplate since Merlin had crashed into his life with his incessant chatter and dogged loyalty.

Sighing again, Arthur drew himself away from the warmth of the fire. He walked around the old table that ran most of the length of the south wall and to the window beyond it, sitting on the stone seat and gazing out at the castle that sprawled below. It was a hodge-podge affair of towers and buildings that climbed the mountainside in several layers – gardens and courtyards wedged between them – with stone walls that circled the whole lot. It was darker and older than Camelot, as though it had been cobbled together and added up on over many years and generations, and then worn down by ages of harsh weather and secrets.

Somewhere out in that mess of stone and wood was his servant – at least he hoped so because he refused to entertain the notion that the young man wasn’t all right. He prayed his friend was well, that the boy wasn’t suffering in a dungeon or dark pit. Because, he missed him – needed him – something he would never admit out loud but knew was still completely true.

He’d wanted to demand information about Merlin’s welfare and location from the servants who had come to tend him off and on, but something had stayed his tongue. They were only servants after all, and hardly privy to the plans of their disturbed ruler. But more than that, he understood he had to be careful now. He had become a pawn in some game and he couldn’t afford to make rash demands and decisions without adequate information, especially given the fact that Merlin’s life was even more precariously balanced than his own. As much as he wanted to be insufferable and – as Merlin would say – a royal prat, he knew he had to exercise caution and restraint – an act that was becoming more and more difficult with each hour he was left shut up in this room with no answers to his overflowing fountain of questions.

Still, if he didn’t receive some answers soon, he was afraid his old, wooden ceiling was going to end up with even more holes.

The day had dragged on into evening as a storm raged outside and Arthur was once more lying on his back on the cramped bed plotting the detailed and extremely painful deaths of everyone who had hurt Merlin in the last two weeks when he heard the sound of the locks on his door sliding open. Instantly, he sat up, fully alert.

A middle-aged man dressed in plain servant’s clothing entered, hauling a bucket of steaming water. He set it on the floor, turned and closed the door (Arthur noted that he didn’t lock it), and then bowed low.

“My lord,” he said to the floor, his voice quiet and uncertain. “King Alfhild has requested the honor of your company at dinner. I am here to help ready you.”

“I already have a manservant,” Arthur growled, crossing his arms and refusing to stand. “Why don’t you send him up to get me ready?”

The man faltered. “I wasn’t…I didn’t… I wasn’t aware a servant was brought with you,” he finally stammered after several false starts.

“You mean dragged here as a prisoner with me?” the prince snapped. He was fully aware that he was being waspish and mean, but nearly three days of almost solitude had pushed him past the point of caring for niceties.

The servant finally raised his head, meeting Arthur’s eyes with his own panicked brown ones. “Please, my lord,” he pleaded, “I know nothing of your manservant, just that I was ordered to see you properly tended to.”

Arthur sighed, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was obvious this man was terrified - whether that was because the servant was frightened of what the prince might do to him, or because he was afraid of what others might do to him if he failed to follow through on his orders Arthur had no idea, but it hardly mattered. The terror reminded him too much of Merlin – chained and collared and silenced as a slave – and he couldn’t add to it.

“Does the king regularly dine with his prisoners?” he asked as he reluctantly stood, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice at least.

The servant took his rising as a cue he was allowed to do his job. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, the man picked his bucket back up and moved to the washstand that was set up just to the side of the wardrobe, pouring the warm water into the ceramic bowl.

“Oh no, my lord,” he said as he worked, his voice still quiet if slightly less shaky. “You’re not a prisoner. You are our honored guest!”

Arthur scoffed harshly, eyebrows climbing as he eyed his worn-out room. “Says the man who just had to unlock my door in order to enter,” he mumbled, then continued louder with, “Tharennor and Camelot obviously have a different meaning for the word honor.”

“It’s for your protection, sire,” the man answered, throwing the wardrobe open and digging through clothes.

The action was so painfully familiar and yet completely wrong because it wasn’t Merlin doing it, that Arthur let his arrogant annoyance slide away, the will and energy to keep it up fading.

Without protest, he allowed the timid servant to assist him out of his rumpled tunic, then stood silently and compliant as his skin and hair was washed carefully with the warm water and a soft flannel, memories of the last time his friend had performed these same actions flooding him. When he was guided to a chair and the older man produced a flat blade and a brush from a hidden drawer in the wardrobe, Arthur couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“What’s your name?” he asked, seeing Merlin’s trembling and chained hands in his head instead of the new servant’s as the man spread shaving foam across his jaw.

His fingers faltered for just a moment and he looked at Arthur in surprised shock. “Linus,” he finally answered quietly.

“Tell me, Linus,” Arthur continued after some time, speaking soft and earnest as the man deftly rid his face of the itchy hair, his resolve to wait for more information cracking at the painful memories. “Have you seen a new boy about the castle? Skinny and gangly, with raven hair?”

“Yes,” Linus answered after a bit of hesitation, wiping the Crown Prince’s face clean with the warm cloth.

“Where is he?”

Linus rinsed the cloth and rung it out, hanging it over the edge of the washbasin before answering. “He is…working, my lord.”

“And is he well?” he couldn’t stop the question from slipping out.

There was a pause and then the servant picked up the pair of dark brown breeches he had selected earlier. “We must get you dressed, sire. The king should not be kept waiting.”

And Arthur found his heart clenching as he had his unspoken answer.

*****

As Arthur was led through the twisting halls of the castle by a silent guard, he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of his servant but saw nothing. In fact, the halls were practically empty, and it sent chills up his spine that the warm overcoat Linus had dressed him in couldn’t stop. Finally, he was brought into a medium-sized chamber. A fire roared in the hearth across the room, antlers, furs, and tapestries decorated the walls and floor, and a solid table that was set for a formal dinner filled the center.

A man, dressed in black and crimson, stood in front of the fireplace, his back to the doorway and the shadows from the dancing flames lighting off his blond hair.

“Prince Arthur, Your Majesty,” the guard announced officially.

King Alfhild turned, his face an unreadable mask though that didn’t stop Arthur from trying, looking for any clue as to what this man wanted from him.

“Prince Arthur, welcome to Ulethien Castle,” the king greeted, nodding his head as though meeting an old friend.

“Your Highness,” Arthur answered warily, nodding in return as he determined to play along until he understood, but refusing to bow to this man who had kidnapped him and allowed such abuse of his missing servant.

“Come, sit,” Alfhild said loudly gesturing to a chair.

Feeling off balance and unsure, the prince took the offered seat while the king settled into his own place at the head of the table. Immediately, silent servants appeared, pouring wine and serving up helpings of meat, cheese, bread, and boiled vegetables. King Alfhild waited until their plates were full and the servants had melted from the room, leaving the pewter of wine on the table and closing the doors behind them, before gesturing again.

“Please, eat!” he ordered heartily, digging into his own food with relish.

For just a moment, Arthur hesitated, wondering if perhaps the food might be poisoned and that was the king’s end plan – to deprive Camelot of an heir while having the pleasure of mocking as he watched Arthur die painfully – but apparently, his thoughts were laid bare on his face despite his best efforts to hide them as Alfhild threw back his head and laughed, an almost manic quality in the sound that set Arthur shivering.

“It’s not poisoned,” the older man answered, still chuckling gleefully, reaching over and spearing a carrot from Arthur’s plate before popping it into his own mouth. “I’m hardly going to bother bringing you all the way here just to kill you. I would have let my men run you through in the woods if that were my desire. So please, Arthur, eat,” he said casually.

“Why did you drag me here?” Arthur ground out through clenched teeth, but Alfhild shook his head, eyes and mood darkening instantly.

“If they have not taught you it’s rude to let a host’s offered meal grow cold with pestering questions then Uther’s court truly has sunk low. You will eat now, young prince, and hold your tongue in the presence of my great generosity.”

Gone was the warm, welcoming façade as the room frosted over with the veiled threats. Unable to wrap his head around the yo-yoing emotions of the enemy king, Arthur bit back his words and started to eat, though he hardly tasted the food as his mind continued spinning.

How was he to use his strategic training to plan the best actions and responses in his desperate situation if he couldn’t even predict the king’s moods? He felt like he was floundering, set adrift in a shaky, leaking skiff on a very large and stormy sea.

They ate in silence for many minutes after that. The king refilled their wine – the servants did not make a reappearance – and Arthur picked at his food, his appetite having fled.

“You should feel thankful that I don’t stoop to holding grudges,” the king suddenly spoke without warning, eyeing Arthur and his cooling food. “I treat my guests with honor, unlike your father.”

The waiting, the uncertainty, the confusion…it had all been mounting inside of Arthur, though he’d been trying his best to restrain it. At the dig to his father, however, the prince felt his hold dissolve and he spat out an answer in anger, throwing diplomacy to the wind. He’d halfway decided that diplomacy was going to be useless with this man anyway.

“Honor?” he scoffed, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. “Keeping me bound and blindfolded for days on end as you kidnapped me and brought me here? Locking me in an old, magic-tainted tower and refusing to let anyone answer my questions? This is how you treat your guests? Continually besmirching Camelot and now mocking my father?”

“Your great father laughed at my messenger!” Alfhild exploded, bringing his goblet down on the table with a crash that echoed through the mostly empty room and sent a small flood of wine over the lip to splash in horrible crimson on the white cloth. “Turned my peaceful delegation away without even a formal audience!”

Arthur wrinkled his forehead in confusion; he had no memory of a delegation from Tharennor, turned away or otherwise.

King Alfhild leaned back in his chair, letting out a cold, ruthless laugh. “See, Uther Pendragon thought so little of my honest proposal he never once in the last year mentioned it to his son.”

Bewilderment filled Arthur as he gaped at the king. A year ago? This king was still holding onto a slight from a year ago? Outraged, he glared at the older man, putting every ounce of his princely fury into the move. “So this is what? You claim at holding no grudges yet you engage in petty revenge? Because my father wouldn’t grant your man an audience?” he asked in disbelief.

“Oh, Prince Arthur. How young and naive you still are. You know nothing of what I desire.”

“Perhaps that’s because no one will tell me!” the prince replied icily. “So please inform me correctly, Your Majesty,” he spat, “what exactly do you want?”

“A husband for my daughter and a male heir for my kingdom. To rule Camelot and make Tharennor a kingdom to be feared. Perhaps to even rule the whole world,” King Alfhild muttered quietly, his eyes distant and far away.

Silence filled the hall as Arthur stared at him, waited for the cold laughter that goosed up his flesh but at least meant the king was acknowledging his not-very-funny jokes, but it never came. Instead, the words hung there, solemn and filled with truth.

Heavens above, the man really is mad, Arthur thought with panicked alarm. He opened his mouth to sputter a response, but then let it snap closed again, unsure of what exactly he could say in the face of such a claim. After a long moment, the king’s eyes came back into focus and finally the laugh Arthur had been waiting for emerged, though for a different reason.

“Look at you – the Golden Prince of Camelot – rendered speechless.”

“You will never take Camelot!” Arthur retorted hotly, fire replacing the shock in his veins.

“I can and I will, though the manner of its fall and brutality to its people is entirely up to you, Prince Arthur.”

Arthur straightened his back, holding his head erect. “I will tell you nothing, do what you will,” he said firmly, eyes hard as rocks.

And Alfhild threw back his head once more and laughed, pitching Arthur off-keel again.

“Oh, Arthur,” the madman breathed when he finally reined in his emotions, “you amuse me more than my own fool. I didn’t bring you here to have you tortured, I brought you here to have you wed!”

Arthur’s jaw hit the floor – he honestly couldn’t help it – as the king’s words penetrated his brain.

Wed? He’d been kidnapped so he could be forced to marry?

Gwen’s sweet face flitted unbidden through his mind, reeling him in and centering him, and he pushed himself past his incredulity and back to the anger.

“You sent a marriage proposal for me to my father.”

“I did,” the king answered, leaning forward and meeting Arthur’s eyes with his own smoldering and not-entirely-stable ones. “I thought it was high time the throne of Camelot was shared by someone actually of royal birth, rather than just a common usurper or his mongrel son! My Bodil would bring that back and eventually return control of Camelot to those with a purer claim on the land! But Uther spat on my goodwill, turning my messenger away with a note carried by a servant, too busy to even come himself!”

Rage flooded Arthur at the sneering man’s words and he leapt to his feet, shoving his chair back.

“My father brought law and peace and prosperity to a land ravaged by barbarians and ensconced in chaos, and he has kept it for nigh on thirty years! He is recognized as rightful king and ruler by all the neighboring lands, including Tharennor! Do you forget the treaty that has stood for decades – signed by your own father – benefitting both our peoples?”

“My father was a fool!” Alfhild snapped, also rising. “The only thing he ever did to strengthen this land was manage to sire a male heir!”

“Well, he certainly has you bested there, doesn’t he?” Arthur goaded even though he knew it was unwise. He was just so furious his tongue was getting away with him. “What is the count of daughters at now, sire? Six, isn’t it?”

He expected Alfhild to explode – to retaliate, maybe even to draw a weapon on him – and he tensed in preparation to defend himself even as he chastised his rashness. The king, however, just braced his hands on the table and leaned forward, speaking in a deceptively calm tone.

“You are my guest, Arthur. You have been given chambers and clothing, and if there is anything else you desire you need only ask. The castle is yours to roam, within reason. You may join my knights and soldiers in training, as we all know a young warrior must do something to stay fit and wile away the long winter hours.” He straightened and stepped forward, moving around the corner of the table and into Arthur’s personal space, causing the prince to fight the urge to slide back.

“And you will court my daughter. Openly, declaring your intent before court and kingdom. Come spring, when the pass reopens, you will be wed, and word sent to Camelot of your new title and home. And when you sire a son of Bodil’s womb, he shall be my heir, keeping Tharennor’s bloodline untainted and bringing Camelot back into the control of those with true royal lineage.”

“You’re insane!” Arthur breathed, shaking his head in astonishment. “How can you speak of your own daughter with such callousness and disrespect?”

“I’m a king, Prince Arthur, and I do what I must for my kingdom! Bodil knows this.”

“And if I refuse?”

King Alfhild turned and strode away, moving to the fireplace and pausing to gaze into the dying flames, hands held thoughtfully behind his back.

“Is your father well, Arthur?” he asked casually, abruptly changing the topic as he spoke to the fire. “I have heard whispers of late – rumors that all is not right at home… Old King Uther’s mind might be faltering…”

Arthur hissed in a silent breath, clenching his fists at his side.

“Winters in Tharennor generally last four to five months,” the king continued, again forging off in another direction. “The longer you go without pledging your troth to my daughter the more I will increase the ranks of my army. I warned you I would have Camelot one way or the other, and that the level of carnage would rest firmly with you. Marry Bodil and the exchange is mostly bloodless – your people will not suffer. Refuse and with the melting snow I will march forth with a well-trained army to take it by force. We may be small, but surely even you have noticed that one thing Tharennor does extremely well is make soldiers! How easy do you think it will be to wrest the kingdom from the hands of an ailing old fool, especially when he sees the head of his only son and heir going before us on a pike?”

The threat should have sent a jolt of fear and worry though him, but all he really felt was perplexed disbelief. This king really believed his words – failed to see the spectacular holes in his flawed plan. Arthur had to admit he’d been grudgingly impressed by Sir Einar and his soldiers – could see that an army from Tharennor would pose a real challenge – but the King was confidentially assuming Arthur would let it get to that point! Refusing to let anger rule his words again though, to lose control like he had before, Arthur gritted his teeth and answered as a prince, rather than an offended son.

“Four or five months is a long time. Your threat is rather distant and ineffectual.”

“Which brings us to the boy.”

Real fear slithered into Arthur’s gut for the first time, though he worked hard to keep it from his face.

“I admit that took me by surprise – the Crown Prince of Camelot, caring so for a mere slave boy,” the king said, finally turning from the orange embers.

“He’s not a slave!” Arthur cried, resolve crumbling in a few short seconds as rage over Merlin’s treatment returned. “He’s a free citizen of Camelot and my manservant!”

“It is my slave, captured fairly in battle. Its freedom is not up for negotiation, though its life and the extent of its suffering is.”

The blood roared through Arthur’s veins as he heard the king speak of Merlin as an “it,” nonchalantly reduced to being a thing, a possession. But the threats were no longer veiled, instead hanging like an executioner’s ax out in the open, and he couldn’t help picturing Merlin’s skinny and trembling neck stretched beneath. With great effort, he forced himself to still.

“How much is one filthy slave worth to you? Your pride? Your misguided honor?” Alfhild goaded, voice soft as a whisper. “Think on it, Prince Arthur. Tomorrow night I will have your answer at your welcome feast, and I hope it’s the right one. ”

It was a clear dismissal, but Arthur dug in his heels, refusing to move. He had lost all verbal battles with this deranged king so far, but he knew he had to try for one tiny victory, buy time to regroup and rethink without causing further harm.

“Sire, you said if there was anything I lacked, I had but to ask…”

Amusement flickered through King Alfhild’s stormy eyes. It made Arthur sick, knowing the man would be thinking him already cowed, but still he forced himself to keep speaking as the king gestured for him to proceed.

“I wish for the boy to continue as my servant while I am your…guest.” He knew the last word came out more as an expletive than was polite, but overall he felt his restraint in his request was of enormous proportions. And he was doing this for Merlin. He couldn’t save the boy yet – had no way to set him free – but if he could find a way to make sure some of his hours were spent in Arthur’s own care… It was all he had left.

Alfhild let out a wry snort, rolling his eyes. “Slaves are disgusting creatures, not fit to share breath with those of noble blood,” he lectured and Arthur clamped his mouth shut to contain his again-boiling emotions. “That you would desire one as your attendant proves everything I already knew about the bloodline of Camelot’s reigning family. Still, why should I save you from a dishonorable hole you dig yourself?” He threw out a hand dismissively. “The slave whelp may serve you – I’m sure it will provide great entertainment to myself and my court – though none of its other work may suffer or fall behind.”

Then, before Arthur could think of a reply that didn’t involve him continuing to insult his kidnapper – or laying him flat with a well-aimed punch – King Alfhild called loudly for a guard.

“Escort Prince Arthur back to his chambers. He’s quite tired,” the man said, somehow back to the kind and concerned host he’d appeared when Arthur had first entered the hall.

As he followed the nameless man back to his room (one that he knew was still a prison, no matter what the king had said,) the prince’s thoughts spun in hopeless circles, leaving only one thing desperately clear: the King of Tharennor was entirely mad! And like flies trapped by a hungry spider, Merlin and he were caught fast in his carefully crafted web of insanity and lies, and anyone who knew anything about the world knew that almost always ended badly for the flies…

Chapter Text

18. Quiet Truths

“But it does not seem that I can trust anyone,' said Frodo.

Sam looked at him unhappily.

'It all depends on what you want,' put in Merry. 'You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin--to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours--closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo.”

- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

*****

Sunlight glaring through his closed eyelids disturbed Arthur the next morning and he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes as he rolled onto his back. He was groggy, exhausted, and so-not-conscious-yet, having spent most of the night in agonizing thought, and all he wanted to do was keep sleeping.

“Go away,” he mumbled, hearing bustling sounds from his chambers. There was no response, but as even more horrendous light streamed in, he knew the servant was ignoring him, as usual. When the pillow was tugged out from under his head, however, he took personal offence.

“No respect…” he whined out of habit, eyes finally working open. “I’ll throw you in the sto –” He stopped abruptly as his brain finally snapped on completely and caught up with his mouth as he took in the sight before him. It was Merlin, standing beside his bed and holding his pillow beneath crossed arms, a cheeky grin plastered onto his face.

“Merlin!” Arthur cried, leaping from the bed and gazing at his friend, unrestrained joy shooting through him. He grinned back, his face splitting with happiness as he watched Merlin throw the pillow back onto the messy bed and turn away, picking up clothes and straightening just like he normally would have, but without a single sound.

Scrubbing a hand over his face to banish the last vestiges of sleep as Merlin scrounged through the wardrobe, Arthur glanced around quickly. He still couldn’t believe Merlin was here, in his chambers, with him. He’d completely expected the king to go back on his word, or stall with excuses about why Merlin couldn’t be spared yet. Not send the boy to his room the very next morning. Still, all the shutters were thrown open on his windows, a pail of steaming water sat by the washbasin, and a good-sized breakfast was spread on the table, so Merlin had clearly been given permission and instructions. It was almost like the start of a regular day, except that it was so drastically not. He turned back toward the other as the younger boy dumped a pile of clothes onto his bed, his smile fading as he finally took a good look at his friend.

“Merlin, where are your boots?” he demanded, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. It was just that the boy hated having cold feet. Arthur might be a clueless prince, but even he had learned this over the two years Merlin had served him. In fact, Arthur could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his servant without boots on – usually involving said servant being late for work and Arthur marching down to his room to drag him bodily out of bed – and even then the boy had always been wearing thick socks. To see him totally barefoot was something of a shock.

Merlin paused in his straightening of the bed coverings long enough to roll his eyes, gesturing pointedly to his own throat.

“You ate them?” the prince teased sarcastically. It was a natural, ingrained reaction that just slipped out before he could stop it, though his mood was rapidly darkening as he continued to examine his younger friend.

The servant threw his hands up in exasperation before turning back to the bed. He twitched the covers slightly and poked at the pillow a few times before picking up a tunic in each hand and turning around, head nodding questioningly between the two.

Seeing Merlin try to pretend everything was normal even as he stood there barefoot with hands that trembled from cold and who knew what else, Arthur growled and strode forward, tugging both tunics from his friend’s fists and throwing them back onto the bed, then placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. “Hold still,” he ordered and proceeded to look him up and down, anger flaring as he took in everything.

The collar – while he loathed it – he expected considering that was the horrible discovery he’d made last time he’d had to look his friend over like this, but now there was so much more that was just wrong.

Merlin was pale to the point of being ill with dark bags under his eyes that spoke of not nearly enough sleep. He was filthy – covered in soot and dirt and grease; Arthur could tell he’d tried valiantly to wash up but it seemed to be a lost cause. At least the hateful manacles had finally been removed allowing Merlin free motion with his hands, though they’d left behind rings of purple bruises and scabbed over skin on the skinny wrists. He could also make out many other bruises in various stages of healing beneath the dirt – on the boy’s face and neck, his feet and ankles and his hands – hands that were so chapped and red from too much work that they were bleeding in several places.

With growing fury, the prince realized that more than just Merlin’s shoes were missing; all of the boy’s own clothing had been taken away and he was now dressed in rags so worn-out and poor that Arthur wouldn’t have forced them on prisoners in the dungeons – frayed trousers that were too thin and too short and a tunic that hardly qualified to bear the name. And of course the boots and socks, jacket and neckerchief – anything that might provide any sort of warmth and comfort – were entirely absent. A plethora of quiet curses he couldn’t hold back escaped his lips and he unconsciously tightened his hold on Merlin’s shoulder to the point his friend winced.

“What have they done to you now?” he growled.

Merlin didn’t answer – of course he didn’t, Arthur berated himself mentally – but instead twisted out of the prince’s grip and tried to move away, back to the discarded pile of clothing, obviously hoping to make light of his own horrible situation. Arthur refused to allow that, however, and reached out and caught the boy by his left forearm, clamping his hand tightly to stop his friend’s escape.

He expected Merlin to turn and glare daggers of exasperation at him, while stubbornly trying to tug away, or to stop and roll his eyes again. He didn’t expect his friend to crumple to the ground, mouth open in a silent scream as his face turned to ash.

Arthur instantly let go and stood frozen in shock as Merlin drew his arm protectively in toward his chest, eyes squeezed shut and breath ragged, before the anger surged even hotter through his veins

“Merlin!” he cried, then winced as he saw his friend flinch at the seething fury in his voice. With great effort, he forced it back as he crouched down. “Merlin,” he repeated much more softly, reaching out gently for the obviously damaged arm. He slowly pulled it away from the boy’s protective hold, his friend allowing it though he noticed the young man’s breathing quicken, and then with utmost care tugged the tattered sleeve up to the elbow.

Arthur looked – looked and stared – as things swirled and crashed and roared and broke inside of him. Then he closed his eyes, head dropping in shame, though the image of the blackened, festering wound stayed tattooed upon his mind.

Merlin had been branded.

Scarred for life.

An unwanted mark burned deep into his flesh with abject callousness and cruelty, meant to strip away his identity as a human being and designate him a “thing” instead.

Arthur’s stomach churned and his righteous anger raged, hatred and hopelessness and failure surging. He tried so hard for Merlin to hold it back, knowing the frightened and fragile state of his friend – carefully releasing the injured limb and climbing to his feet, stepping away. But the images kept flashing through his mind, stoking the anger – his father, bitter and alone with both his beloved ward and son and heir missing, Gwen and the impossible choice he was facing between love and honor or the safety of Merlin and all his people, and a trembling and abused servant boy who had suffered beyond belief in the last two weeks, his best friend that he’d completely failed to protect. It was too much for Arthur – hot-headed prince and warrior, never gifted with much patience – and it just boiled over.

With a roar of fury and frustration, he grabbed hold of the nearest chair and threw it at the wall, feeling like it was his own soul falling in splinters to the floor. He stared at them for a few moments, stunned and lost, before putting a fist up to the stone and leaning his forehead against it, eyes closed once more as he tried to steady his harsh breathing.

*****

Eyes and teeth tightly clenched, Merlin sat where he had dropped, trying to force the pain down from unconsciousness-inducing torture to manageable agony. He was dimly aware of Arthur examining his arm, then after a while being left alone. His eyes flew open, however, when the silence was shattered by an aching roar and a splintering crash, and his heart broke as he took in the destroyed chair and then he watched Arthur sag against the wall, bare back heaving and shoulders slumped in defeat.

It sparked his courage and resilience that had taken such a brutal beating in the last few days, seeing his friend hurting so. Willing the bile back down into his hollow stomach, he gulped air until his breathing was vaguely steady then found his wobbly feet, purposefully forcing himself to drop his throbbing arm to his side where it was less noticeable instead of cradling it like his instincts were demanding. When he was certain he wouldn’t pitch headlong back to the floor, he padded to Arthur’s side and softly laid his right hand on his friend’s shaking arm.

It took a moment, but Arthur finally opened his eyes and looked at him. Immediately, Merlin started firmly shaking his head.

It’s not your fault! he screamed in his mind, willing his eyes and his actions to get his message across.

Arthur snorted quietly and looked away, gaze lingering on the broken chair at his feet.

“I have failed my father and my kingdom, myself as a knight, and most of all, you, Merlin.”

Merlin squeezed his friend’s arm tighter, animatedly shaking his head again, though he wasn’t sure if Arthur would see the motion.

“Merlin, it’s because of me that you’ve been brought here, that you’ve lost your freedom! It’s my fault you’ve been so brutally hurt and permanently scarred!” At this the prince turned his face, eyes drifting to the hidden brand. “You are my friend and my servant and my responsibility, and I’ve failed to protect you!”

His voice was laced with hard anger as the fist held against the wall tightened once again, and Arthur turned back, stuffing his face into the wall as before. “I don’t need a servant this morning,” he mumbled eventually. “You should…should just go.”

Dejectedly, feeling as though he had also failed his master but unable to argue with anything other than the motion of his head and the expression in his eyes – neither of which were currently working because Arthur refused to look at him – Merlin let his hand fall away. He stepped back, prepared to reluctantly do as he’d been asked, when his eyes fell on the carving over the fire.

When he’d first entered Arthur’s room that morning he’d been unsure of what exactly to expect. Having already been up for hours, scrubbing his life away, he was shocked when the Steward appeared, dragged him up by his hair, and ordered him off to the oldest tower with the instructions that service to the occupant was to be added to his already horrendously long list of awful chores. With trepidation bordering on fear he’d gone, lugging water and food, though a strange sort of hopeful calmness had washed over him as he moved through the room directly below his destination and on up to the door. He stood there for a minute, puzzled, before knocking softly. When there’d been no answer, he hesitantly pushed the door open, only to be instantly flooded with happy relief at the sight of his messy-haired prince fast asleep and drooling on the pillow.

He hadn’t been sentenced to serve some brute on top of everything else! He was to serve his friend!

As he’d set the pail of water on the floor and then laid the table, the warm feeling had filled him again, and this time knowing he was safe, he’d paused. It was calm and protective and familiar – tugging at him like an old friend…

Magic! he’d realized with a start! There, whispering through the room! They might have contained his own deep within him with the cruel collar, but they couldn’t stop him from feeling the flutterings of it in the outside world.

Curious, he finally raised the head that had been beaten into a submissive droop over the last four days and looked – really looked – around, though he knew he’d pay for it later when he had less time to finish his work.

Still, it was worth it because what he’d found was wonderful – though he rather doubted Arthur would see it that way. All around the worn-out chamber was magic – charms and good wishes and little protection spells. Words for good dreams and runes for good health… Pictures for happiness and patience. Most of them had little if any power left, but somehow they still made Merlin feel so much better. And then there was the carving – the magnificent, glorious carving – stretching across the place of honor on the mantle.

He’d known Arthur had to have been placed in this cramped, tumble-down tower room with the remnants of magic as a slight and an insult. Over the last four days he’d learned many things – that outwardly Arthur was an honored guest, but when the ale was flowing and the servants’ tongues free and loosened as they gossiped at night away from the dark presence of their king (while Merlin slaved in the background), he was dishonored as base and low, a fake prince from an uncouth and backward land. And magic, while not banned in Tharennor, was certainly not held with much esteem either. As they cursed and hurt him, ordering him to the least desirable jobs, he couldn’t tell which they despised him for more – that he was a vile slave, or that he was tainted with magic.

But what was intended as a shame to Arthur made Merlin’s heart soar, for he could tell that whomever had once lived in these rooms, he’d been good and kind and powerful – and maybe, just maybe, some of that lingering magic could help protect his friend.

So, when Arthur asked him to leave, broken and defeated, he suddenly knew what to do.

Reaching out, he grabbed the older boy’s arm once again and tugged – firmly – until Arthur was forced to look up from his brooding.

“Merlin,” he sighed, “I said –”

But Merlin adamantly shook his head and ignoring the pain that tried to pull tears from his eyes as he moved it, reached out with his other hand and cut Arthur’s words off the only way he could, by clamping a hand across his mouth.

Shut up, Arthur, he muttered in his head, and it was apparently such an unexpected action that Arthur actually did, lips closing with a snap.

Satisfied, Merlin nodded his head and let his hand fall back away, before tugging on Arthur’s arm again.

Come here, prat, he continued his silent conversation, smiling slightly when a shocked and quiet Arthur dutifully followed as he dragged him over to stand in front of the fire he’d lit before waking the prince what seemed ages ago.

“Merlin, what –” Arthur tried again, but Merlin shook his head, glaring as he held a finger up to his lips. Arthur’s depression was already lightening slightly to pouting and Merlin fought the urge to “comment” when the prince crossed his arms, gesturing for the servant to get on with it.

Quickly, the boy stepped up to the exquisite carving. He gestured first to the image of the tree and then to himself, then pointed to the dragon and back toward his friend.

Arthur’s face drew in with confusion. “While I agree completely that you are skinny and stick-like, I fail to see the need to compare me to an overgrown, evil lizard that just likes to kill and eat things.”

Merlin puffed out a breath as he rolled his eyes, only the infernal collar locked around his neck preventing him from making a dig about hunting after the last part, and marched back closer to the carving. With exaggerated gestures he showed how the dragon’s tail curved protectively around the tree’s trunk, but how the tree also stretched protectively above the dragon. Arthur watch him, face serious once again, but after a moment he looked away, almost ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. I’m afraid I just don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

The servant’s shoulders wilted and he almost gave up, before he noticed the pile of ashes scattered thick in Arthur’s fireplace, extending far beyond the actual flames. He’d been seeing a lot of ashes and fireplaces lately as cleaning out the castle’s hundreds of blackened hearths was a job that had landed on the list of appropriate work for lowly slaves. Idea blooming, he crouched and quickly wrote a few words in the dirt, making sure to stay well away from the fire. A looming presence at his back told him Arthur had followed and was leaning in with curiosity to read.

The dragon protects the tree, the tree protects the dragon. Me and you, we protect each other. NOT a failure!

“But they hurt you. Badly,” Arthur argued, voice soft and full of shame and regret.

Yes, Merlin nodded, not denying it. Hurt you, too, he wrote, eyes slightly moist.

“And they will keep hurting you and there’s nothing I can do to stop it,” his friend muttered, ignoring the last words he’d written.

The younger boy stood, wiping his hand off on his grubby trousers, and faced Arthur. He hesitated for just a moment, before he set his jaw determinedly and reached out, grasping the prince’s right forearm in the traditional knight’s clasp, eyes boring into his friend’s as he begged him to understand what he was saying: I’m stronger than I look, and together we are much stronger than alone.

After a second, Arthur returned the gesture, nodding with that thoughtful expression he sometimes got when Merlin suspected he might be seeing him as more than just a clumsy servant. Then, after a moment he let go.

Merlin was still freezing, still hungry beyond all imagining and in a world of pain, but he grinned anyway because at least he had his friend back, though he knew the prince was still burdened with things they had yet to discuss. With a sweeping gestured, he motioned for Arthur to come back by the bed and pick out which of the least atrocious outfits Merlin had found he wanted to wear for the day.

Still, Arthur hesitated, looking at Merlin with troubled eyes.

“How can you do this?” he finally asked. “Just pretend that everything’s normal, it’s all okay, when it’s so obviously not?”

With a sigh, Merlin dropped his grin. Uncertainly, he reached out and took Arthur’s hand, turning it palm up as he had back at the outpost, so he could trace a few words.

I have to, he wrote slowly so Arthur could follow along. It’s all I have left.

Arthur’s fist curled tightly when he finished, as if to cover up the invisible words, but he followed Merlin over to the bed without protest after that and allowed himself to be washed and dressed.

Chapter Text

19. Inconvenient Wisdom

“Even strength must bow to wisdom sometimes.”
- Rick Riordan

*****

By the time Arthur was clean and in an only slightly-hideous turquoise tunic and brown trousers, Merlin’s arm was burning in agony. He tried with all his might to hide it, to keep Arthur from noticing the trembling and flashes of pain, knowing every wince would be piled onto the prince’s own shoulders in the form of guilt, as if somehow Merlin’s suffering was Arthur’s own fault. The young warlock couldn’t do much to help his friend, but he could at least refuse to add to that burden.

Tossing the sleeping clothes Arthur had removed into the open trunk, Merlin looked the prince up and down with a critical eye then shrugged somewhat in defeat and prodded his friend over to the table where the rapidly cooling breakfast was still laid out, his gut starting to clench with worry.

How long had he been here with Arthur? How long was he allowed? Would someone come looking for him? Would he be punished if he wasn’t back by a certain time?

Still, he couldn’t leave until Arthur had dismissed him, or at least finished his food so Merlin could return the dishes to the kitchens.

Too nervous and uncertain to stand still, Merlin moved to the wall where the remains of the broken chair lay scattered. It was better to stay busy, and better to be farther away where the scent of Arthur’s breakfast was less torturous on his ravenously empty stomach.

Should have brought up a broom, he couldn’t help thinking as he tried to gather up even the smallest pieces of ruined wood and throw them in the fire, erasing the evidence of Arthur’s momentary temper. Hopefully, the castle wasn’t keeping too close of tabs on the furniture in their captive’s room.

“Merlin,” Arthur called suddenly, causing the boy to glance quickly around. The prince was sitting at the table, listlessly pushing his food around while staring at his servant. “Mind your feet for…for splinters.”

He looked down at his feet that were black from ashes and dirt – feet that were so cold he doubted he would even feel a splinter if he stepped on one…but Arthur didn’t need to know that. Instead he smiled and offered a reassuring gesture – touched by his master’s concern – and continued with his task.

There was silence for a few minutes as Arthur pretended to eat, his mind obviously troubled, and Merlin threw the last of the broken chair into the flames. Then he grabbed the bucket of lightly used water and a rag and set himself to mopping the floor. He couldn’t help wondering exactly how many years this chamber had been abandoned, to collect such an impressive layer of dust.

Suddenly, Arthur broke the silent rhythm of his work with a soft voice.

“Have you ever been faced with an impossible choice, Merlin?”

If he’d still had the ability nothing would have been able to stop Merlin from giving a bitter laugh at Arthur’s words as he quickly glanced up at the older boy. Impossible decisions seemed to be the sum total of his life! But maybe it was better the horrible collar diverted his first reaction and forced him to pause instead, allowing him to notice the deep vulnerability in his master’s voice, see the horrible lost look in his eyes.

Merlin let the rag fall into the bucket and sat back on his heels, nodding slowly.

What is it? he tried to convey with his eyes.

“Apparently, I’m getting married.”

And Merlin fell backwards, landing solidly on his rump after those words, his mouth gaping like a fish as he stared at his friend.

“Wish I’d had the luxury of that same reaction,” Arthur muttered, a small smile turning up his mouth though he was obviously still very serious.

Merlin threw his hands out to the sides in the universal “what the heck, explain right now!” gesture, his eyebrows rivaling Gaius’s, and to his surprise Arthur listened.

“Come sit by me, Merlin,” Arthur offered, pushing his barely touched breakfast to the side and pointing to the remaining unbroken chair.

Quickly, Merlin shook his head, curling his frozen feet beneath his legs. He needed to stay close to the bucket of water, just in case someone came into the room so he could look busy, like a good little slave. Besides, it was warmer there on the floor near the hearth, and it was the first time in days he’d been allowed more than a few moments of steady heat. He conveyed this to Arthur with a tiny nudge of his head toward the flames.

Arthur’s eyes softened with silent understanding and he nodded then set his elbows on the table, clasping his hands and resting his chin on them as he started to explain. As the evil plan of Tharennor’s mad king rolled from the prince’s tongue, Merlin felt a coldness creep inside that not even the roaring fire could chase away.

“I always knew, though my heart longed for it to end differently, that the chances of Guinevere and I…” Arthur muttered, having given all the important details. “Still, the thought of betraying her – and like this – it tears me apart, Merlin, but to save Camelot’s people from harm, my knights and my brothers, to save yo –” He broke off abruptly, running his hands over his face and through his hair. “I see only one choice. I must agree to court this girl, marry her to keep the peace, and then when spring comes and the pass melts try to find a way to escape, taking her back to Camelot with us. King Alfhild would be hard pressed to start a war with Camelot once the marriage had taken place – that would fly in the face of all established rules between countries – so if we could just get away, I could keep the kingdom beyond his control…”

Merlin was scrambling to his feet – shaking his head firmly – before Arthur had even finished his anguished words.

“What else would you have me do? Refusing the marriage means war and death, for my people and those I care about!”

Thoughts and emotions whirled through Merlin’s head and he ground his teeth in frustration at his inability to express them, to rattle off all the insults and advice and warnings he would normally spout. It was so…infuriating and demeaning to have to condense his communication to ape-like gestures and two-word phrases that could be scratched in the dirt or written on the palm of a hand! But, like it or not, those were his only options now and he somehow had to make Arthur understand – stop him from making this very permanent mistake.

With urgency, he grabbed Arthur’s hand away from where it was still tugging on the prince’s hair and forced it flat on the table, palm up.

Idiot, he wrote first, unable to stop it.

“Merlin,” Arthur started in exasperation, but Merlin shook his head, cutting him off with more words traced on his palm.

Not wed. Pretend.

It often alarmed him how easily a life of dishonesty and lies came to him now, and it was certainly not something he was proud of, but at the moment he was grateful at least one of them was able to think outside the upright and honorable box.

Arthur looked up at Merlin with a frown. “Are you suggesting I court this girl under false pretenses? With no intention of wedding her?”

Merlin nodded emphatically.

Court to stall.

Escape before wed.

“That I can’t do!” he cried incredulously, rising angrily to his feet and pulling his hand away. “Lie! String her along! It goes against all my vows of knighthood and everything I’ve pledged my life to support!”

Merlin threw his hands up in the air before trying to tug Arthur’s back out so he could continue writing, but his friend wouldn’t have it. “No, Merlin, I won’t hear this. It isn’t honorable,” he said, stubbornly crossing his arms to stop the boy “talking” to him.

Merlin ground his teeth and huffed a breath out of his nose. No, you prat! he screamed in his mind, his eyes flashing with anger. Not you, too! It was too much, on top of everything else, to have Arthur use the collar against him – use it to shut him up – simply because he could and he didn’t like what Merlin had to say. Near tears from rage and helplessness, he stomped over to the fireplace and dropped to his knees in the cooled ashes, scratching furiously.

DON’T IGNORE ME!

It took a few moments but eventually Arthur’s curiosity got the better of his stubbornness and he came up behind Merlin. As soon as the boy was sure the prince had read his message, he scrubbed it out and wrote just as harshly: Just like them!

Arthur looked stricken. “Merlin I –!” but the servant wouldn’t let him finish, writing again.

Used this against me! Then he yanked at his collar to make sure Arthur got the point, before swiping a filthy hand at a traitorous tear that had managed to leak out, leaving behind a streak of black soot.

Arthur sighed. “Stand up, Merlin,” he ordered quietly.

Somewhat reluctantly, Merlin obeyed.

After a long silence, his master extended his hand again, palm upward. “I’m sorry. You’re right, that was horrible of me, and I won’t do it again. Now, what did you want to say?” he asked.

Merlin sniffed, hating himself for his weakness, and scrubbed his fingers on his ragged trousers before daring to reach out and write on Arthur’s clean hand once more.

Not dishonor.

Strategic. Like battle.

Arthur looked away slightly. From the sheen of his eyes and tightness of his jaw, Merlin could tell the great war raging inside his friend, so he gathered his courage and wrote again. This time he moved slowly, needing the understanding achieved by a full sentence rather than an abbreviated jumble of words as he bared one of the supreme truths of his life.

Sometimes lies can save lives.

Arthur grew even more pensive, still not answering, and Merlin knew his master would have to take time now. Time to mull these thoughts along with all of his own over in his head – to let his heart and values and sense of duty do battle with their stark reality, and then he would make up his own mind, no matter what Merlin had said. That was just how Arthur Pendragon was made and nothing could change it.

Merlin sighed and reached for his friend’s hand one more time.

Need to go, he spelled, a sense of urgent dread settling in the pit of his stomach as he realized how much time he must have spent in Arthur’s chambers. He nodded toward the abandoned breakfast in question.

“Yes, go. I’m done.”

Quickly, the servant boy gathered the rejected food back onto the tray, balancing it carefully on his right arm in an attempt to spare his branded skin, then bent to pick up the bucket of dirty water and rags with the trembling, injured limb. He turned to leave, but Arthur called him back.

“Merlin, will you serve me tonight, at the feast?’

Instantly, he shook his head no, furrowing his brow and glancing down at his rags and bare feet. Merlin had worked in a castle long enough to know how formal, royal banquets worked. Even the servants were expected to dress their best and put on a good show. Serving his master in his present state would be an insult to Arthur and all of Camelot. But as he was fervently objecting, Arthur stepped up to him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Merlin, you are my servant and my friend. All the rest of this is their doing, their shame, not mine and certainly not yours. I…I wish you by my side tonight, so…please, Merlin? Will you serve me?” The prince’s blue eyes bore deep into his own, emotions laid naked and bare.

The boy wanted to agree, amazed at the uncommon show of feelings from his prince, but the Steward’s warnings about “the disgusting slave” being in the presence of royalty – warnings that had been beaten into him over and over throughout the last four days – rang loudly in his ears and he hesitated. Setting the bucket back down, he gestured to the metal the circled his throat and again shook his head.

I’m not allowed, he tried to say with only his face and his eyes.

“I don’t care that you can’t speak, and it’s not like you would be required to say much while serving food and pouring wine anyway,” Arthur argued, completely missing the point.

Merlin shook his head, stamping down the growing frustration, and tried again. This time he rubbed his left arm against his side, causing the sleeve to ride up painfully, once more exposing the ugly brand, which he presented to his friend.

A flash of hot anger lit Arthur’s eyes, along with understanding – finally. “You are not their slave, Merlin – not forever, I promise you! And besides, King Alfhild granted my request that you still be allowed to act as my manservant. If I ask for you to be there, they have to allow it.”

Merlin wasn’t entirely sure Arthur could keep either his promise or his request but still, he couldn’t say no to his friend when he was looking at him like that – with such need and honest friendship, so he gave in and nodded.

“Come back to help me dress just before dusk,” Arthur requested.

The servant nodded again, then grabbed up the bucket for the last time and rushed from the room.

He took the stairs as fast as his wobbly, aching legs would allow him, and then – three flights down in a cobweb-infested alcove just off the base of the tower – he paused long enough to inhale the picked-over remains of Arthur’s breakfast, an act that was entirely new for him. Oh he’d “liberated” the occasional roll or sausage from his master’s plate before, but he’d never actually stooped to consuming his half-eat leftovers. He might just be a lowly peasant from a dirt-poor farming village who was no stranger to hunger and cold, but he’d still had his pride after all.

Now though, that pride was long gone – had crumbled days ago – another voiceless victim of slavery. It was demoralizing, but he tried to remind himself it didn’t mean his captors had won – just that he’d had to shift his energy to survival. His defiance – his silent rebellion – would now be to stay alive in the face of everyone who seemed to want to beat or starve that life out of him an hour at a time – even if he had to eat Arthur’s scraps in order to do so.

When every morsel of edible food had been consumed, he gathered everything back up and raced to the kitchens wondering exactly how many more bruises he’d be sporting by the time he was allowed to report back to his master.

Author’s Note: The musical is finally done. And I’m exhausted, and have so much to catch up on, but hopefully writing this story will be one of them. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to drop a word or two. I can’t tell you how much I love reading your thoughts and reactions to this strange tale I’m creating.

P.S. I promise the feast and a real look at this new royal family is coming in the next chapter. Merlin and Arthur just had some things to work out first.

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: It has been many months. I know that, I’m so sorry. I’m also behind on review responses, for which I apologize as well. Life got busy, this chapter was hard, and I’ve been working on updating and revamping a large portion of the outline for this story. But I promise you, it’s not dead. Things just get slow in the school year. Summer is only two months away, though, and then hopefully I can make steady progress again.

So, for anyone who might still be reading this – THANK YOU! I hope you like the new chapter. And a million thanks to Missy and Lizzie for beta help and handholding.

20. Bite Your Tongue

“One cannot think well, love well, or sleep well, if one has not dined well.”
- Virginia Woolf.

*****

Arthur only waited a short while after Merlin had exited before leaving his tower room. He half expected the door to be locked when he tried it even though he knew the boy hadn’t locked it behind him. He was even more shocked to note the absence of a guard on the stairs outside, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. He shut the door to his room – a room that suddenly seemed quite warm and inviting with the fires and lingering echo of Merlin’s presence compared to the dark, cobweb-strewn stairwell – and ventured downward.

Directly below his chambers was another room, the door standing open on sagging hinges. Curious, he stepped inside.

It was dusty and cold, shrouded in shadows and neglect. Boxes, crates, and a few mice-chewed sacks sat in a forgotten pile in the center, as if the chamber had once been used for storage but even that had long ago been abandoned. Around the edges sat broken shelves and musty, old trunks. Crumbling tomes and cracked jars and pots molded on a few of the shelves and a strange sort of faded energy seemed to linger in the room, almost as if the very air had a scent.

Arthur stood there for a moment, puzzled, before it hit him – this was a sorcerer’s workroom!

He sucked in a harsh breath and took an involuntary step backwards on pure instinct.

Magic! Evil! flashed through his mind, in a voice very much like his father’s, and yet he found himself moving no farther. The room was dark and chilled and very strange – making the hair on the back of his neck stand of its own volition – yet it didn’t feel…evil. Just different – unknown – something he didn’t understand, and perhaps a little sad.

It confused him.

Still, it wasn’t his purpose in going out into the castle, so he withdrew from the odd chamber and continued down the steps.

He wandered for a while once he left the tower – partly because he didn’t know where he was or where he needed to get to and partly to test the length of his metaphorical leash. Would he gain a guard trailing him if he roamed? Would he be stopped and sent back to his room? Would anyone question him or care?

None of those things happened, however. Servants scurried out of his way and the occasional citadel guard he passed eyed him shrewdly but none spoke or left their posts. After an hour he felt confident that Alfhild had spoken truth in this thing at least – the castle was his to explore (within reason,) though he had no doubt that would change instantly if he were to step out of line. But he could work with that – he was a prince after all. He knew how to play within the rules of nobility to get what he wanted.

Rounding a corner, he caught sight of a familiar face.

“Um…Linus!” he called, having to think for a second to recall the timid servant’s name. The man jerked his head up in surprise and he froze, his arms loaded down with wood. Arthur strode down the corridor until he was facing him. “I desire to speak to the castle steward.”

“The Steward, your highness?” Linus squeaked, his face paling.

Arthur frowned at his reaction but didn’t comment because he had to maintain the public role he was trying to play. “Yes. You will take me to him,” he ordered.

“Yes, my lord,” the man replied quietly. “Just…just one moment please, your grace.” The trembling servant dashed into a door and Arthur heard a muffled clatter, then Linus reappeared, his arms now empty. “This way, my lord.”

The prince followed Linus through two corridors and down a winding staircase until they arrived at a solid oak door that gave off an imposing air.

“This is the Steward’s office,” the man whispered, as if afraid his voice might carry to the man inside and he would be found guilty of shirking his duties.

“Thank you, Linus. You may go,” Arthur said in a gentler tone now they were alone and the nervous man rushed off. He watched until the servant was out of sight before rapping sharply on the door and then pushing it open without waiting for a reply.

*****

“BOY!”

Merlin flinched and looked up from the corner of the kitchen he was scrubbing at the screech that carried across the busy room, knowing it was directed at him. That was his name now – that or slave or brat or something usually worse.

Bearing down on him, skirts swishing as her very presence seemed to part the chaos around her, was Olga – the head cook – a woman who’s tongue and wooden spoon were even sharper than Molls’s had been.

“Steward wants ya!” she snapped, invading his space. “NOW!” she screamed when his aching, cramped legs refused to start moving immediately, delivering a harsh kick to the shins. Then she turned away and hollered back into the madness, “Midge! Get over ‘ere an’ finish the brat’s chore!”

Instantly, a spindly little lad of maybe ten, pale and sandy-haired with a cleft lip, darted over. He took the grungy scrub-brush from Merlin, who had finally managed to climb to his numb feet, the child trying his hardest to avoid Olga’s flaming gaze.

“An’ don’t miss any spots like last time!” she snapped before stomping away.

Merlin gave the boy a tiny, sympathetic smile before creeping out of the room to do as ordered, clinging to the edges and keeping his head down.

The warlock had quickly learned two things about Ulethien Castle since he’d been brought there. One was that thanks to the cruel Steward (to whom the king had turned over practically all power regarding daily, domestic affairs) it was not a pleasant place to work and live as a servant. Punishments were easily earned and harshly delivered, and the people who scrambled throughout its halls night and day keeping the ignorant nobels’ lives running smoothly existed in constant worry and fear.

The second was that those very same servants had learned well the brutal lessons taught by their masters. There was an obvious and rigidly maintained tier of status in this household and that mercilessness trickled down it from top to bottom. Those with any sort of power lorded it over those with none, and rare were the ones who spoke or acted with even a sliver of kindness. The heavy, abysmal atmosphere of the castle had soaked into all of them, and even the people not inclined to cruelty had been beaten into silence, too afraid for themselves to risk a helpful word or thought toward Merlin, the very lowest of the low on that social ladder. Either way, it left Merlin to survive on his own – the others were too scared to help him or else took their own delight in his torment.

Midge was almost the only exception. Merlin’s unexpected arrival had actually elevated the poor lad’s position from rock bottom to only second lowest, and the kid was beyond grateful to have another around to share his chores, sparing him the worst of them. And Merlin could hardly blame the boy – the chores he’d been slaving at for the last four days had been truly awful.

Shivering, Merlin stole on silent, bare feet through the oppressing castle until he found himself outside the same door he’d been brought to when he first arrived, a door he’d faced often in the days since. He tried to be brave, to remember Arthur’s words to him from earlier that morning, but the curses and bruises of the rest of the day pulsed stronger, smothering them out, and he couldn’t stop his hand from trembling as he raised it to knock.

“Enter!” the source of his current nightmares ordered.

Merlin swallowed thickly before pushing on the heavy wood.

The Steward stood before the flaming hearth, leaning on the edge of the solid desk and glaring at Merlin as though he wanted nothing more than to skin him alive. Probably he did, the boy thought fearfully as he shut the door carefully behind himself – the Steward liked his privacy while doling out pain – and slunk on wobbly legs into the center of the room. He kept his gaze glued to the wood beneath his grungy toes, but he could still feel the man’s eyes drilling into him as several long minutes dragged by. And the worst part was Merlin didn’t even know what he’d done this time, what rule he’d broken or failure he was guilty of.

“What is so special about you, boy?” the man suddenly growled. “How is one disgusting, little slave worth so much fuss?”

The words were so unexpected, not at all what Merlin had been bracing to hear, that his eyes darted up in surprise.

“Never look at your betters!” the Steward raged, surging forward and delivering a harsh blow to Merlin’s face. Instantly, Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head again, preparing himself for more pain to come.

Strangely though, it didn’t. Instead, the horrible man stepped back and crossed his arms.

“Remove your tunic,” he ordered coldly.

A horrible sense of déjà vu washed over the young man but he knew better than to resist by now. With pained movements, he pulled the ragged cloth from his arms and then over his head, gripping it tightly in boneless fingers as his newly exposed skin prickled in the chilly air. As before, when he’d first come here, the man circled him, studying with satisfaction the reality of slavery, writ in red and purple on his flesh.

“You’re nothing but an ugly slave, scarred and skin and bones – one foot already in the grave! How can he even care? Why should he?” he ranted, nostrils flaring with more than just his usual fury over badly done chores. The man was vividly angry, and Merlin was beginning to suspect the cause.

Arthur.

Arthur had talked to the Steward.

Merlin blanched at the thought, silently cursing his well-meaning but stupid master.

Suddenly, one of the Steward’s beefy hands shot out and clamped down on Merlin’s thin shoulder, his sausage fingers digging purposefully into a barely-scabbed lash mark that wound across the top of it and down to mix with the others decorating his back. The boy clenched his teeth to hold back a moan of discomfort as he was dragged forward, his face shoved right into the Steward’s own.

“You will serve his bratty highness at the feast tonight, and any other feast he wishes!” he seethed, spittle flying from between his teeth right into Merlin’s eyes. “But I’m warning you, slave, if you drop anything or spill anything…if there’s even a morsel out of place… If you dare to look up from the disgusting floor you belong on, glance at anyone besides the boots of your wretched prince… If you so much as breathe the same air as my king, you will be flogged to the point these injuries will feel like kisses from a maid! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Dazed, terrified, and feeling just a tiny bit giddy for the fact that Arthur had obviously won his round with the evil man, Merlin nodded emphatically.

Just as suddenly as he’d been grabbed, the boy was released, the Steward shoving him hard to the ground.

“Wash!” he spat, gesturing to a bucket of water Merlin had failed to notice before. “When you finish, put this on and report to your mongrel of a master,” he added, throwing a faded, yellow tunic onto the servant’s lap. “Much as it pains me to see good water and cloth wasted on trash like you, I will not send your filth into the presence of the king – I’ve served too many years for that to besmirch my name! But I say again slave, you are nothing, and nothing belongs to you. You wear that only for feasts, and if I find you’ve sullied it, you won’t walk for a week!”

Knowing full well his threats were not idle, Merlin crawled hastily to the bucket and dunked his head in, shivering with more than just cold as he scrubbed at the dirt that seemed to have imbedded itself into his hair and skin. When his hands and chest were pale once more and the water in the bucket black as tar, Merlin scrambled to his feet, snatching up his new tunic in one hand and the bucket and his dirty, old one in the other, before bowing awkwardly – eyes firmly on the Steward’s boots – and fleeing from the room.

*****

The sun had long ago dipped below the mountains, and the fire in his hearth was fighting back the creeping shadows as Arthur sat waiting for Merlin to appear.

Two weeks ago if his servant had been late arriving to ready him for a feast, he would have been annoyed and perturbed, cursing the boy and his habitual lateness. But now he was just alarmed and a tiny bit terrified.

What if they wouldn’t let Merlin come?

What if he’d inadvertently landed his friend in more trouble?

What if he was forced to attend this miserable farce of a feast…alone?

He’d finally decided his servant wasn’t coming and he could stall no longer – was despondently pulling random garments from his wardrobe and pondering how one was supposed to put them all on – when he heard the slap of bare feet on the steps outside and his door burst open, a breathless Merlin rushing in.

Arthur broke into a grin – he couldn’t help it. He had no way to articulate the relief that coursed through him at the knowledge that he wouldn’t have face this ordeal alone, and the assurance that Merlin wasn’t lying beaten and bleeding somewhere because of his foolishness.

The boy skidded to a halt and crouched over, sucking in deep breaths as he braced his fists on his thighs, but Arthur thought he was smiling slightly. His hair was wet, the skin of his hands and face scrubbed clean, and he wore a fresh tunic, though nothing else about his sorry state had changed.

“You’re late,” the prince said, still smiling broadly as he crossed his arms.

Merlin’s response was to tilt his head up slightly and stick out his tongue.

Arthur laughed, feeling ten pounds lighter, and then wrapped an arm around his friend’s skinny neck. “Come here, idiot,” he said, rolling his eyes and pulling him over, attacking his dripping and already hopeless hair with his knuckles.

Merlin squirmed out of his hold, batting his hands away and glaring before glancing at the mess of clothing Arthur had created on his small bed. He turned back to Arthur with confused disbelief spread over his face as he gestured to the pile.

“I was having trouble…choosing, okay?”

Merlin looked back at the mound of formal clothing, all of which seemed to be variations on the same theme – dark maroon and black, Tharennor’s colors – and rolled his eyes. With skillful hands he quickly extracted a complete outfit from the tangled disaster and then proceeded to help Arthur dress.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked a bit later, lacing up his own tunic while watching Merlin shake and smooth the dark cape he’d dug from the depths of the trunk. He couldn’t help but notice the way the young man’s hands trembled, or how he was favoring his left arm though he was obviously trying not to show it. And he almost missed the dirt that had covered his friend, because now he had an excellent view of every cut or bruise that littered his skin.

Merlin didn’t answer. He was frowning, fingering the worn patches of the velvet and poking his fingers through a few of the holes that riddled it, glaring at the material as if the garment had personally offended him.

“Merlin!” Arthur called again, and this time the boy finally jerked his head up and around. “Are you all right?” he repeated his question.

Merlin shrugged it away, not bothering to answer, then stepped forward and pulled out Arthur’s hand for the first time that evening.

Not right, Merlin traced onto his palm. Deserve better, he added, before poking a finger through the old cape once more, his face sad and dismayed.

“So do you,” Arthur replied, sorrow stealing once more into the room as he glanced down at Merlin’s still filthy feet.

The boy curled his scabbed toes, obviously self-conscious, and stepped forward, throwing the cape around his master’s shoulders and fastening it. Then he returned to the wardrobe and pawed about for a minute before holding up an object in triumph. He stood there, twirling the thin, gold circle around his finger absently as he eyed Arthur up and down, a mock critical expression plastered to his face.

“Give me that,” Arthur groaned, marching over and snatching up the accessory that could barely be called a crown. Grumbling, he jammed it down onto his head. “So, do I pass?”

Merlin smiled for a moment and nodded, but then he sobered and tugged on Arthur’s hand once more.

What going do?

The prince sighed, feeling the weight and worry and fear he’d been trying to ignore for just a few moments settled back onto his shoulders, but he looked his friend right in the eyes as he spoke. “What my far too loyal, sometimes wise but always an idiot manservant told me to do – bluff.”

The boy nodded solemnly then spread Arthur’s fingers again. For Camelot, was traced carefully onto his palm. Arthur felt a surge of fondness and pride.

“Yes,” he agreed. “For Camelot. And thank the heavens I’m a better liar than you, or we’d be lost before we even started.”

Something unreadable flashed through Merlin’s eyes, but all he did was give a silent laugh and a little grin, before gesturing out the window to the faint stars that were beginning to shine.

“You’re right,” Arthur said, insides clenching with renewed worry. “We should get going.”

Quickly, they left the tower room and made their way down to the main castle. Arthur’s thoughts were in turmoil, and he felt a bit sick as the moral code he held so close to his heart warred with his love of and determination to protect his people. He’d already made his decision, but that didn’t stop the roiling in his gut, the second guessing, the shame and sorrow and a smidgeon of fear…

And it didn’t stop him from noticing Merlin, for the boy was changing as they strode to the Great Hall that Arthur had located earlier. With each step, as more servants and nobles and guards appeared to populate the halls, Merlin withdrew. Gone was the cheeky, cheerful manservant. Instead his shoulders rounded, his head bowed, his eyes found the castle floor and refused to rise. Worry and…something else replaced the teasing and mirth of just minutes before, and his friend dropped back, walking a pace behind him – like a proper servant should – his trembling hands clasped tightly behind his back. For the first time since this ordeal had begun, it completely and brutally hit Arthur that while he himself had been made a political prisoner, Merlin had been made a slave, an object of derision and disgust in the eyes of nearly everyone they passed.

More than that, Arthur realized, the young man was frightened. Frightened, humiliated, fully expecting some amount of pain, and about to be put on display in his worst moment in front of an entire enemy court. Chagrined, Arthur recalled that Merlin had tried to explain this very thing earlier that morning in his chambers, but the prince hadn’t listened, or understood, because he had once again failed to think of anything other than his own needs.

Arthur stopped, turning to face the servant who almost walked right into him since he still hadn’t looked up from his feet.

“Merlin, I –” he began, wanting to tell him he was sorry, or not to be ashamed because Arthur was proud to have him there, at his back, serving him, or give some other probably useless pep talk because he couldn’t stand to see that defeated and terrified look on his cheerful friend’s face, but he was interrupted before he even got the chance.

“Prince Arthur,” a firm, cool voice echoed down the hall. As he whirled, Merlin practically jumping to hide behind his cape, the prince saw King Alfhild approaching, a women and two girls as well as a passel of servants trailing in his wake.

It was obvious at first glance who the ladies were – the Queen and two of the royal princesses, those deemed old enough to attend this feast. The Queen was quiet and pale, her blonde hair done up in intricate braids that wound about her head to hold an unadorned crown in place, and she was dressed in an elegant but simple gown of brown and green. She seemed timid, rather sickly and frail. The younger girl – maybe eleven or twelve Arthur guessed – was her opposite in coloring – thick, dark hair hanging down her back in a single plait – but the same in temperament. She half hid from Arthur behind her mother, shy and uncomfortable.

Arthur noted this information in an instant, glancing over them and filing it all away for contemplation at a later time before quickly moving on to the person he was most interested in – the older daughter who had to be the Princess Bodil, his intended “betrothed.”

There was no doubt she was beautiful – blonde hair like her mother, pulled up in a lose style, wearing a dress of pale blue that exactly matched her eyes. Her features were delicate and her skin smooth. But those eyes, her face…it showed nothing of what the girl was thinking, who she was beyond her perfect appearance as a princess – her countenance a total and impenetrable mask.

If Arthur was being completely honest, he’d rather hoped the princess would be evil – cold and heartless and a little bit deranged, like her father, because that would make what he was about to do to her so much easier to stomach. But seeing her, even with her blank mask of an expression, he just saw a girl, and for the millionth time that day his certainty in his decision wavered.

And then the King stopped before him and spoke once more and Arthur’s resolution returned.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Alfhild reiterated, a sneer barely hidden in his voice as he glanced behind Arthur, eyebrow raised mockingly. “And disgusting shadow.”

The prince’s teeth ground together and he actually felt Merlin shudder behind him. The king noticed as well, laughing as he reached out to grab Merlin’s spindly arm and drag him into the open.

Merlin was shaking from head to toe, pale and sweaty as the merciless king pulled him by his injured arm, but he kept his eyes firmly stuck to the floor, posture unresisting and subservient. Once he was where all could see, the center of attention for the quickly growing throng, Alfhild released him, wiping his hand pointedly on his very fine garments.

“Standards have truly sunk low in Camelot, my dear Prince, if this is the quality of your personal servants,” said the King grinning easily to the crowd of nobles and other servants that had collected around them, attracted by the spectacle. The gathered people laughed hesitantly, as though not exactly sure how they should respond considering Arthur was meant to be their guest, and yet here was their king not-so-subtly attacking him.

Anger burned inside of Arthur, hot and terrible, but he forced himself not to react, not to do anything more than fist his hands.

“It is well Uther has sent you to us,” the contemptable man continued as the nervous laughter petered out. “That Tharennor may save Camelot from its wretchedness and bring nobility back to the throne. But let’s not dwell on filth and unpleasantness,” he said, scoffing at Merlin’s quaking form once more, and it took everything Arthur had not to launch himself at the arrogant monster, for so many reasons. “I trust we’re here for a celebration, my prince?”

There was an edge to that last question – a threat and a reminder – complete with a very pointed look in Merlin’s direction that warned Arthur his answer had better be the correct one…

“I look forward to it,” Arthur replied, truly hoping no one could tell the words that made him nauseous had been pulled from between his gritted teeth.

“Excellent!” King Alfhild cried, suddenly jovial as he turned away from Merlin like the boy had never existed. Without another word, he swept past and into the great hall, the rest of the royal family following, though Arthur noted both the Queen and Bodil threw quick glances his direction. The prince swore there might have even been a flicker of curiosity on the princess’s impassive face.

The rest of the nobles and royal servants rushed by and Arthur’s rage doubled as he observed the disgust, the sneers, the hatred with which they all looked at Merlin, steering around him in a wide berth and acting as if his presence as Arthur’s servant at the banquet was a personal affront to them.

“Curse this bloody country where even the people are frozen!” Arthur muttered, not really caring if any of the still thinning crowd heard him as his rage boiled over and he was unable to contain it any longer. Steaming, he waited until all had entered the Great Hall, then turned back to his manservant.

“Merlin,” he said quietly.

The boy didn’t move.

“Merlin,” he tried again, “please look at me.”

Eyes still firmly directed to the floor, Merlin finally responded, shaking his head quickly.

Arthur opened his mouth to insist but stopped short, his thoughts from earlier returning full force. This was not Merlin being stubborn, this was Merlin being afraid. Perhaps…perhaps the boy had been forbidden by someone holding terror over his current life from following this particular request.

“If you can’t look at me, Merlin, at least listen, okay? I’m going to go in there and grit my teeth and play along – the dutiful, happily betrothed prince – even if I’ll be picturing running Alfhild through with a rusty blade the entire time. You are going to go in there and hold yourself with honor as my servant, the only one I would ever wish to have at my side. And then, we are both going to rededicate every moment we can to finding some way out of this wretched and insanity-plagued land. All right?”

Arthur waited…what felt like ages but was really only seconds…and then ever so slowly, Merlin’s head rose, just slightly. The prince watched with not a little pride as the younger boy’s shoulders straightened faintly, his breathing steadied, and he finally lifted his head so Arthur was looking into his eyes instead of his shock of messy, black hair. Determination plastered across his still too-pale face, Merlin met his gaze and nodded quickly, then hastily looked back down.

“Good,” Arthur replied, clapping his friend gently on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

The Great Hall that they entered felt foreign and strange, not at all like home. A bank of glass windows filled one side, just like Camelot, but they were plain and frosted over from the cold. The ceiling sat lower than what Arthur was used to and the stone of the walls was a deep grey – together their effect was to leave the prince feeling as if the chamber was shrouded in darkness and shadows, despite the triple fireplaces at the front that roared with flames. Along the room’s walls hung tapestries interspersed with antlers and shields on display. It all felt old, weathered, worn-down – as if countless ages and lives had passed by in this chamber, not all of them pleasantly.

On the floor, three long tables filled the space, the head one raised slightly on a dais running across the room while the lower two followed the chamber’s length, loudly chatting lords and ladies standing next to them, waiting for the invitation to sit, while around it all servants scurried in and out, laden down with platters and dishes.

One empty spot remained at the head table, on the far left side beside the princess Bodil.

“Into the fire…” Arthur couldn’t help muttering as he steeled his resolve and stepped up to the table. Merlin disappeared for a moment as Arthur found his place behind the empty chair, waiting with the rest of the room for permission from the king to be seated. His worry spiked until he noticed the boy reappear, clinging to the shadows of the room while he kept his head meekly bowed, his hands oddly empty.

As the king stepped forward and a hush fell upon the hall, Arthur sent up a silent plea to any listening god that they both might have the strength to endure this night.

“Lords, ladies, and noblemen of Tharennor’s honored court,” King Alfhild spoke, his voice calm and cutting. “Even though the snows have unfortunately sealed our pass this winter season, our country’s bounty and prosperity remain,” he said, gesturing to the feast spread out before them. “A tribute to our great planning and foresight, as well as our wealth and prosperity.”

It took everything Arthur had not to openly scoff at those blatant lies. Unfortunate that an avalanche the king himself had ordered had sealed off their pass, isolating his country? A country that according to every lesson on foreign relations Arthur had ever studied was not actually wallowing in wealth and food and prosperity?

“And how fortunate it is that our honored guest managed to arrive before the mountains chose to isolate us! For it is my great delight to announce that King Uther of Camelot has seen fit to entrust us with his only son for the season, that he may be schooled here in a court of authentic royalty.”

Arthur forced himself to look away from the king, down to his hands that were gripping the back of the chair in a white-knuckled clasp – made himself remember promises and lives at stake and a trembling boy staring fixedly at filthy toes behind him – willed himself not to react, not to speak up, not to rush over and throttle the lying, two-faced mad-man of a king.

“And it is our hope – King Uther and I – that much more than training and education might come of this trust. That a union of both a political and personal nature will be formed, between Prince Arthur and the Princess Bodil.”

Restrained whispers and twitters floated up from the rest of the hall and Arthur glanced over to see the king smiling, an expression that only served to send chills creeping up the prince’s spine.

“Yes, it is my pleasure to announce their official courtship, with the hope of another feast in the spring – to celebrate not just the melting of the pass but their betrothal and marriage – the joining of two kingdoms.”

Knowing he was only threads away from losing his temper as King Alfhild kept talking, Arthur deliberately tuned him out, turning to study the girl next to him instead.

It unnerved him that he was unable to read her. The girls he knew were full of feelings. Morgana was a ball of fiery emotion – passionate, volatile, and a little unsteady if he were being honest. And Guinevere – sweet Guinevere – wore her heart on her sleeve and her convictions just as strongly. They were alive and vibrant, bright sparks in his life, and it made Bodil seem so cold and contained by comparison. Her father was manipulating her for his own desires just as much as he was Arthur, and yet she gave away nothing of how this might make her feel.

He might not have any intention of actually marrying her if he could help it, but Arthur realized if he was to have any hope of making this ruse work, he was going to have to get to know her, find a way to crack her shell, reach the person beneath the façade. And he supposed he might as well start that night…

*****

Merlin was trembling -- only partly from the cold – after his encounter with the king. Never in his life had he felt so helpless or feared someone so much. Even Uther – whom he hated on a regular basis – didn’t cause him such terror. His life might be under daily threat from the elder Pendragon should his secret be discovered, but he had still always known that Uther couldn’t really do anything to him unless he allowed it. His magic was meant to protect Arthur and he would do it, even to the point of protecting him from his own father.

But, for the first time in his life, his magic was unusable. He was completely at this cruel king’s mercy and totally powerless to protect either himself or Arthur. One stupid mistake – something as small as a spoon dropped on the floor – and the king could order his head lopped off and he would never be able to prevent it.

Trying to keep his fear somehow under control, Merlin trailed behind Arthur into the hall. He resisted the desire to look around, survival keeping his head bowed and his eyes on the flagstones. They moved to the head table and as Arthur took his place behind his seat, Merlin angled his head just enough to use his peripheral vision and observe the other servants.

There, at the side, was the serving table. The kitchen staff would bring food and drink to it and then those servants working in the hall would distribute it to their masters – at least that’s how it worked in Camelot. Who knew how this insane kingdom did things. Still, there were servants coming and going from it so Merlin decided it was as safe a place as any to start.

Completely self-conscious of his ragged, filthy appearance and the collar that shouted his lowly status to the entire hall, Merlin forced himself to approach the serving table.

You’re here for Arthur. Arthur needs you, he repeated over and over in his head to give himself courage.

The other servants shifted away from him as he came to the table and he had to shove the hurt down as he reached for one of the pitchers of wine, but a small hand suddenly shot out and slapped his away. Startled, he forgot his orders and glanced up, confusion plastered on his face as he met the angry and almost fearful eyes of a young serving girl.

“No!” she snapped, her voice trembling. “You won’t poor wine for my mistress!” she said, taking the pitcher herself and holding it tightly.

Shaking his head, Merlin tried to explain that he had no intention of serving her mistress, whomever she might be, gesturing toward Arthur and then himself, but the girl – little more than a child actually – still adamantly refused to let him take a decanter, slapping his hands away each time he tried.

“The king’s speech!” an older, male servant swept past, hissing at them and making desperate shooing motions. “Hurry! To your places!”

The girl turned and rushed to stand against the wall behind the royal table, and feeling lost and once more afraid, all Merlin could do was bow his head and follow, hands conspicuously empty.

Throughout the evil king’s speech, Merlin clenched his fists as he silently fumed – at the lies, at the audacity of the man, at the casual cruelty and insults toward Arthur. He wished he could look up, see his master’s face and read how the prince was taking all of it, but he didn’t dare. Finally, the monarch finished and applause broke out as chairs scraped and all the nobles were finally able to take their seats. With that cue, the servants waiting against the walls around the room stepped forward ready to serve their masters, and nervously, Merlin moved with them, though he still had no idea what he was to do.

“Merlin!”

At Arthur’s hissed call, he risked just barely raising his eyes and saw that the other young man was waiving him forward, trying to do it discreetly from below the table. He inched up to where Arthur could talk to him softly, but refrained from meeting his eyes.

“I need a goblet and some wine,” the prince said quietly, looking grumpy and perplexed.

Merlin glanced up – he couldn’t help it – and noticed that sure enough, Arthur’s place lacked a goblet or anything from which to drink. Anger flashed inside him again, cataloging one more slight against his master, but then the princess sitting next to Arthur spoke for the first time.

“Do you not wish to share with me?” she asked quietly. “It’s custom for couples and those that are courting to drink from the same glass.”

Suddenly, the little maid’s earlier insistence that he not serve her mistress made sense. Out of habit, Merlin looked over at the princess but then quickly ducked his head when she caught his eyes. Holding his breath, he waited, head low, completely unsure what would happen, what she would do to him, for this most heinous crime of looking royalty in the eye. Arthur’s stumbling out an apology saved him, drew her attention away, and he gratefully retreated when the prince waved him backwards to safety again.

Merlin withdrew, but his thoughts were churning. The princess seemed innocent enough, but that didn’t excuse the fact that Arthur was being deliberately set up to fail. The customs for a feast in Tharennor were apparently very different from those in Camelot, and multiple people had to have known this but no one had bothered to inform either Arthur or himself about anything. This whole charade was simply another way to make Arthur look the fool – the backwards and uncultured prince with only a clumsy, ignorant slave to serve him.

It would continue like this all night – Arthur tricked into one cultural insult or personal embarrassment after another, with no one to help him except Merlin who was limited to glaring at the blasted floor – unless Merlin stopped it.

Taking a deep breath, the boy made a choice. To help his friend survive this evening with dignity intact, he would have to deliberately disregard the Steward’s threats. It wasn’t even a hard choice – Arthur’s needs would always come before his own – it was just a costly one. So, fully knowing that he would pay for it later, he squared his shoulders and raised his head, determined to observe everything and ease his master through this outrageous experience.

It wasn’t easy. He still stumbled, he still messed up, and he was well aware he drew the disgust and contempt of many of the servants working around him. At one point, he caught a glimpse of the Steward himself, standing in the corner overseeing his scurrying kingdom of frightened workers. The promise of extreme pain and punishment he read in the scowl the man sent his way almost made his resolve falter, but he forced himself to ignore it. Merlin was motivated and he was stubborn – he had to be – and so he continued his work and his observations, trying to push the fear to the back of his mind.

In Tharennor, he learned, guests washed their fingers between every course in little bowls of water that sat before each place, and it was his job to replace Arthur’s bowl with a clean, freshly filled one as soon as the previous had been used. And there were plenty of other odd customs no one had told them about, besides the sharing of goblets by couples and a need for sparkling clean fingers. Each course was begun with a moment of silence and thanks – Merlin earned some particularly evil glares when he dropped a dish during the first one. He also quickly learned that here no dish or piece of cutlery was to be used for more than one course. Before the feast was halfway through Merlin felt like he’d traversed the length of the hall a thousand times bringing dishes to Arthur and taking soiled ones away.

Still, it did help that Arthur was so obviously trying to adjust as well, not poking fun at him or laughing at his clumsiness as usual. The prince was doing everything he could to divert the attention of the hall, to the point Merlin realized his master had been mostly silent, forgoing banter and conversation.

When he was supposed to be pretending to court a princess…

Merlin sighed, resisting the urge to bang his head against something. That would just cause a bruise, and he was fairly certain he had enough of those coming from the Steward after he escaped this travesty of a celebration for flaunting the man’s orders. No need to add to them himself.

So the next time he approached the prince, bringing Arthur his fourth course – boiled turnips and onions in some sort of strange sauce – Merlin purposefully bumped up against his friend.

“What?” Arthur whispered, jaw tense and posture ridged in a way that told Merlin exactly how much he longed to be anywhere else.

Merlin nudged his head just a fraction in the princess’s direction as he placed the plate before him, but Arthur just gaped at him dully.

Talk to her, you dunderhead! Merlin shouted in his head as he nodded again, more exaggerated this time.

“Oh…” Arthur muttered. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes – he was going to be in enough trouble – Merlin bowed his head and returned to his job, gathering up the soiled finger-water and dishes from the last course.

Arthur cleared his throat and Merlin felt him shift toward the Princess.

And then Prince Arthur, master of courting eloquence, opened his mouth and started his wooing with, “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

21. Silent Prayers

“Don't pray for lighter burdens, but for stronger backs.”
- Budda

The servants’ common room was dark. Only the faint glow of a fire that had burned down to embers pushed at the blackness, but it was in vain. Outside the poorly constructed half-stone, half-wooden building a storm raged, wind whipping snow up into icy weapons it hurled at the roof and walls and drove through any crack or hole, sucking away all warmth just as the night had claimed the light.

In one corner of this cold and deserted place stood a boy, beaten and bloody, head and posture slumped in misery and pain. Only the unforgiving, wooden frame he was trapped in stopped him from collapsing to the floor, but it still took every bit of willpower he had left to keep his wobbly, injured legs beneath him so he wouldn’t fall and choke.

A lose board on the roof banged, caught in the icy fingers of a power beyond even kings, and Merlin shifted in place slightly, gritted teeth only barely holding back a deep groan as his head drooped farther, the clank of the chains binding his wrists swallowed up by the roar of the storm.

Well, there was one thing, Merlin thought bitterly – the Steward was a man of his word. As promised, the warlock wasn’t sure he would even be able to crawl after the flogging and beating the man had given him, let alone walk when he was released from the stocks.

All because he dared to glance up from the floor – look at the other humans breathing in the same room as him – assist his master like a competent servant.

The exhausted boy shuffled his bare, bruised feet again, trying to ride out the anguish. As a distraction, he raised his aching head slightly and looked around the room – at least what little of it he could see with the miniscule light.

Being a servant wasn’t exactly a glamorous position, no matter where one was employed. Service was hard, drudging work – Merlin had learned that first hand – with low pay and long, dirty hours. But at least in Camelot, servants were treated as people – human beings with needs and feelings. Camelot housed its servants who didn’t have their own homes to return to in four large dormitories – two for men and boys and two for women and girls – firmly within the castle walls. It wasn’t the height of luxury by any means, but there were beds for everyone and decent meals in sturdy rooms where the fires were kept lit for warmth.

It was survival, but it was also a life and a…home.

Ulethien Castle was anything but.

It was a place of pain and torment, for everyone but the very elite.

The wind howled louder outside, making the rickety walls tremble, and Merlin gave up trying to see through the gloom, hanging his head and closing his eyes. A few tears – reactions to the pain he couldn’t hold back – trickled down his face but he didn’t care. There was no one there to see it now.

Unlike earlier.

He supposed he should be grateful that he was on display in the indoor stocks of the common room, at least there he avoided the certain death of exposure to the elements that would have come from the stocks outside. Though it sickened him to the core, that this country even had indoor stocks, set up right in the room where the servants cooked and ate, washed their clothes and…lived during their precious few hours of downtime.

Merlin was a gentle soul, someone who tried to always look for the good in things and to do good in return, not someone prone to malice or hate…

But oh, how he hated this kingdom!

Hated the ramshackle wooden buildings that huddled up against the castle proper, the places where the people who served and labored for the nobility were forced to live, lest they sully the real castle by mingling with their betters.

Hated the king who had captured his master and forced him into this farce.

Hated the Steward with his whip and his heavy stick and his eyes hungry to cause torment.

Hated that barbaric cruelty which had taught the other servants to live lives of fear and pain, and then turn around and inflicted it on others, because even the small comforts of the pitiful servant quarters had been denied to Merlin. Share meals with a slave? Bed down beside a creature that low? The disgust in their eyes and voices hurt almost as much as the Steward’s lash.

Hated the way he’d been forced to give up all dignity, become a shadow – eating the scraps off plates to survive and sleeping in dingy corners when he finally collapsed.

Hated that –

“You alive?” a timid voice whispered from the dark, breaking into his thoughts, just as a cold hand brushed his bare arm.

Merlin’s eyes shot open. He jerked his head up, only to bash his neck painfully against the rough wood of the pillory, grimacing at the anguish that flared back to a fiery agony all down his back and legs and jabbed up through his brain.

“Sorry,” the voice said morosely.

Midge stood before him, barely discernible in the dark, shifting from foot to foot and throwing nervous glances over his shoulder every few seconds. He was looking at Merlin with unreadable eyes.

“Steward licked ya good,” the child muttered sadly.

Merlin wouldn’t have known what to say to that even if he could speak, so he just nodded dully.

The little boy was silent again for a long while, twitching as though torn between a need to say something else and a deep sense of self-preservation that told him to quickly scurry back to a safer corner. Finally, he turned with a jerk and Merlin squinted at him as he walked off, assuming the strange encounter was over, except Midge didn’t disappear into the black doorway that lead to the sleeping quarters, but instead went to the cooking area. Quiet as a mouse, he withdrew a ladle from a wooden bucket and then carefully retraced his steps until he stood in front of Merlin once more.

Shocked, Merlin gratefully drank the cool water the little boy tipped into his mouth from the dipper.

“’Nother?” Midge whispered.

Merlin nodded.

Two more times Midge filled the water ladle and brought it to him, and Merlin savored each drop. The child would have done it again, but after the third Merlin shook his head no when asked if he wanted more, afraid of what would happen to the boy if someone entered and witnessed his kindness.

Thank you! he tried desperately to convey with his eyes.

Midge paused, empty dipper still in one hand, and stared hard at Merlin, his eyes again ages old and unreadable. Suddenly, he dug a grubby hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small wad of dry bread.

“Don’t die, ‘k!” he pleaded, then he shoved the remains of his own dinner into Merlin’s astonished mouth and turned and ran off.

Merlin clamped his lips tight before the stale hunk could tumble back out, staring after the kitchen boy. Hunger won over shock, however, and so he stood there painfully in the dark, eating awkwardly without the use of his hands, grateful the night kept him from seeing what he was actually chewing.

His thoughts whirled – hatred and hope, kindness and exhaustion – while he simply endured.

Outside, the wind still howled all night.

When in a room and a bed, Arthur was usually a deep sleeper who had issues with waking up in the morning, something he was sure Merlin would heartily corroborate. But apparently, captivity had the power to change what twenty-three years of nurses and servants had been unable to put a dent in, because as soon as the prince sensed someone moving about in his shabby chambers, his eyes popped open.

“Merlin,” he muttered from his cramped and rather uncomfortable corner bed, and as the word slipped from his lips he realized why he’d slept so lightly and poorly. The servant boy had started the feast last night cowed and hiding, but Arthur had watched that change. As the prince – who’d felt like a horrible fish out of water, one on public display – had floundered and stumbled Merlin had purposefully stepped up to help. His friend had refused to let him face the embarrassment alone, but as a result Arthur had gone to bed worried the young man would pay for his stubbornness. To hear him puttering silently about eased his heart.

“I hope you brought a better breakfast than yesterday, Merlin,” he teased. His friend had drawn the curtain across the front of his bed before he left the night before, telling Arthur it would help keep him warm in the drafty tower room. Now he threw it open and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. “It really was –”

He trailed off as he caught sight of the timid servant removing clothing from the wardrobe. “You’re not Merlin,” he stated, frowning.

“No, my lord,” Linus said quietly.

“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur demanded, standing and running a hand through his hair. “I was told he would continue to serve me.”

“I…he’s…the Steward…,” the man stuttered. “I was just told to come, your highness.”

Arthur sighed and snapped his lips shut, worry returning tenfold but knowing he’d get nowhere with the frightened servant. He allowed the man to dress him, then ate the food Linus had brought up while the other man made his bed and straightened his room, and then the servant took the dishes and scampered away after a hasty bow.

The door shut and silence covered the room as Arthur just stood there.

Now what did he do?

It was early morning and he was fed and dressed and ready for…what? He had no meetings to attend, no training to run, no patrols to lead. He was a prisoner with an unlatched door and a missing friend, and his only impending activity was the fake courtship of a princess.

He walked to the window, gazing out. A storm had blown through in the night and everything was blanketed in a deep carpet of white snow. In some places, where the wind had whipped around the walls and turrets of the castle, the drifts were as tall as a man. It was pristine and beautiful and altogether uninviting.

A winter kingdom with no escape…

No! he suddenly thought, clenching a fist as he shook his head. No one built a kingdom or a castle with only one way in or out! It was insane. There had to be an escape route, another exit, a second pass. And Arthur was going to find it even if he had to personally examine every stone in this whole horrid castle!

And then when he did, he was going to find his infuriatingly loyal servant and get them both home!

Though, he might start with finding said servant, because, while he would normally vehemently deny it, he was worried and Merlin was scared and wearing far too little for such cold weather, and…

Yes, he had a battle plan. Explore castle. Find Merlin.

He strode to the wardrobe and rummaged around for a bit before he found a leather coat that only had two mostly hidden holes in it. He yanked it out and pulled it on, then left his tower room, trying once again not to dwell on how naked he felt without a sword at his side.

Camelot’s castle was old; many generations of rulers having come and gone inside its walls, each king leaving his own mark on the design and shape of the fortress. There were old sections and newer sections, and though Arthur had spent his entire childhood exploring it from top to bottom, he was still sure that there were secrets he had yet to discover.

But the castle Arthur had grown up in was nowhere near as rambling and confusing as Ulethien castle was. The place he was now forced to call home was oppressive and smothering, it’s dark, stone walls narrow and high and appearing much more ancient than Camelot. It had obviously been added to through the years, like his own home, but not with the same care. It was as if the builders just started going, without any sort of plan, and by the time they realized things wouldn’t line up to meet correctly it was too late, so they just kept plodding along and cobbled it all together the best they could.

The result was a plethora of oddities. There were places with uneven floors, steps up or down to get to rooms technically still on the same level, and rooms tucked here and there in available but strangely shaped spaces. Some windows opened into hallways because the outer walls had been moved years ago. In some passages Arthur had to crouch to keep his head from scraping the ceiling, and in others, there was room for almost another person to stand on his shoulders. And the whole place was a mess of odd corners, nooks, and passageways.

Arthur wandered for several hours, spending much of that time going in what felt like circles as he tried to fathom out his large prison, intent on examining every inch for a possible escape route. It felt like he was clambering through a stone maze without a map though, and the prince was almost jealous of the servants he saw scurrying here and there through the labyrinthian layout as he passed the same doorway for what he was sure must be the twelfth time. By sheer luck he found the lower levels, passed rooms for laundry and mending, storage and cleaning. He stumbled upon the kitchens – two enormous rooms that billowed smoke and steam, loud voices and dozens of smells pouring from them with such force that he didn’t dare try to enter.

“You ain’t s’posed ta be here, yer highness,” a grating voice suddenly said from behind Arthur. “You lost?” the voice continued as he turned around to find a rather insolent looking servant boy, probably a few years younger than Merlin, standing in the corridor with a basket balanced on his shoulders.

“No,” Arthur answered firmly, something about the youth instantly putting him on edge.

“Lookin’ fer that brat, ain’t ya,” the boy drawled, a sadistically gleeful look on his face.

Arthur decided he really didn’t like the kid. “Do you know where he is?” he pressed through gritted teeth.

“Workin’,” the servant answered. “Prob’ly wishin’ he weren’t,” he finished with a laugh.

“Can you show me where?” the prince asked, using all his training in negotiation not to pummel the boy.

“Nope. Slaves ain’t ta be seen.”

“He’s my servant!” Arthur spat, negotiation be hanged.

The youth just grinned snottily and shouldered past him, purposefully bumping Arthur with his load as he walked away, still laughing.

Arthur stood there for a long time after he left, fists clenched as he fumed in the empty corridor, anger, worry, and infuriating helplessness overwhelming him. Finally, having no other option, he stomped off in a random direction.

He wandered aimlessly all the rest of the morning, having nowhere to go but unable to sit still doing nothing. The wind outside the castle walls had once more started to wail and he found himself shivering, wishing he’d worn a warmer coat as his breath misted before him in the often tomb-like passageways. Occasionally he passed people – servants, nobles, a few guards. Most barely acknowledged him, brushing past as though he was part of the woodwork. It made him angry, and also strangely…homesick, longing for his familiar castle full of people who wanted him.

“Mereow?”

The tiny, unexpected noise caused Arthur to pause and glance down. At first he saw nothing, but once he crouched lower he noticed a small ball of orange fur huddled in a corner.

“Oh,” he said softly, reaching out to gently stroke the kitten, not even caring that on a normal day in his normal life he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to an infant cat. It was the first friendly creature he’d seen all day.

“Merrrrreow!” the little thing squeaked louder, uncurling and leaning into his fingers. “Merrrreow!”

“Merlin would love you,” he said quietly, his spirits increasingly morose as they once again turned toward his gentle-natured servant – his missing servant. The fleeting thought crossed his mind to steal the little cat away to his chambers, just so he could see the delighted look on his friend’s face the next time he was allowed to come…but he squashed it quickly, knowing it would never work. Instead, he patted the kitten for a few moments longer, then reluctantly stood to continue his aimless journey.

Halfway down the dark corridor, he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Hey,” he said sternly to the kitten determinedly following him. “Stop that. Stay put.” He stepped away, and the little cat ran toward him. “Look,” he said, not even caring that he was trying to reason with an animal, “they won’t even let me keep and protect my own servant. I can’t take care of a mangy cat. You’re better off without me. So…shoo!” He stomped his feet and clapped his hands, making hissing noises and the little kitten squeaked in betrayal and fright and scurried off. For half a moment, he felt guilty, almost feeling Merlin’s disapproving eyes on him, but he shook his head and walked off, knowing it was for the best.

He spent more time walking, thinking, and generally hating the lack of viable escape plans he was able to come up with, until he heard a familiar sound. The ring of sword-play was suddenly bouncing off the stone, pulling at him. Arthur followed until he came to an area of the castle that opened up slightly. Finally, he turned a corner and found himself in an indoor arena.

It was obvious that the place had once been open and outside, but the castle had grown around it and swallowed it up, creating a medium-sized, indoor training area that was currently filled with Tharennor’s knights and soldiers who were engrossed in exercises.

The prince stepped forward to obtain a better view, but suddenly found his path blocked by an armed guard for the first time that day.

“You are not to be here, young prince,” the man said forcefully.

He started to protest, to argue that no one had cared about anywhere else he’d roamed, when another voice called from across the room.

“Henrick, let the lad through.”

Sir Einar was striding toward him, wiping sweat from his graying hair and beard with one hand while a practice sword hung loosely in his other.

Arthur glared pointedly at the guard, who reluctantly stepped back and let him pass.

“Your Highness,” the enemy knight said, giving a small bow as the prince met him at the side of the arena. Arthur started a little; the greeting had sounded neither mocking nor terrified, which were the only two options he had come to expect in this horrid kingdom. “What brings you here?”

Boredom, his inner voice groused, but he did manage to bite the remark back. “I was looking for my servant,” he finally said, left with no other excuse.

Something flashed behind Einar’s eyes, but it was gone before Arthur could get a read on it. When the knight spoke, he was as collected as usual. “You are welcome to join us, should you wish to keep abreast of your own training.”

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, something along the lines of “thank the gods, yes, I was about to go spare!” but the words caught in his throat as his mind suddenly whirled to life.

He was a captive in enemy hands. These men might be fellow warriors, but they were not his friends. He had fought some of these men in battle – wounded several, killed a few of their brothers-in-arms. He couldn’t trust them, nor could he give himself away. Men who trained together learned each other’s technique and style, revealed and shared their secrets. Arthur couldn’t afford that, as it was almost certain he would face these men in battle again someday.

Still, he did desperately need a way to keep up his strength and his skills, and he really was going to die of boredom long before he found a way to get himself and Merlin out of the wretched country… It was a question with no good answer and he didn’t know what to do.

“I thank you, Sir Einar,” he finally said carefully, nodding slightly to be courteous. “Your offer is most gracious, but I shall have to ponder for a while before I can accept or decline.”

The look of increased respect the old knight gave him was unexpected. “Of course,” he answered, playing along with the polite farce of a dance as he bowed. “In the meantime, feel free to remain and watch as long as you like.” He bowed again, then returned to his men.

Arthur wandered to the side of the arena, watching the exercises and trying to push the deep longing to join in – to once more hold a sword securely in his hand – aside. He’d been raised to play politics, to know how to say the right things and act the right way, always keeping his true self and thoughts locked back behind a coy and calculating smile. He was learning that here in Tharennor, it was a game he had to play every waking moment just to survive, and it was wearing him thin. He could do it – and would – for as long as it took to secure freedom for Merlin and himself, but oh how he hated it, longed for the chance to drop the façade and be simply Arthur again.

And he missed the one person who never let him lose himself in the politics and pretenses.

He really, really missed Merlin.

Merlin finished scrubbing the last stone in the corner, his raw fingers barely able to grip the small brush as he raised a trembling arm and let it fall into the pail of dirty water with a plop. That small sound seemed to deflate him, and his exhausted, agonized body collapsed, the sheer stubborn will that had kept him moving through the hours of tortured anguish deserting him as his cheek sank to press against the still-wet flagstone and his eyes closed.

He hurt.

So badly.

Both physically and emotionally, worse than he ever had at any other time in his life. The wounds he’d suffered during his punishment, the long torturous night in the stocks after, and the following day of back-breaking labor had left him trembling and broken.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t survive this kind of constant agony, plus the cold and the hunger and the humiliation.

He couldn’t do it; he just wasn’t strong enough.

Tears leaked from his closed eyes as he lay there on the floor of the dark and abandoned kitchens, unable to hold back his fear and suffering any longer.

Why? he couldn’t help whimpering in his mind. Why was he having to endure this? He’d tried to be a good person, but somehow he must have angered the gods because otherwise, he just couldn’t understand why?

He lay there for a long time and just cried, the cold of the stones leaching into him through the rags he was forced to call clothes even as the wounds from his lashing that had been reopened during the day continued to bleed sluggishly.

He wanted to live. He really did. He didn’t want to die as a slave, broken and powerless and bleeding. Arthur needed him, there were people who loved him and would want him to live, to try to come home, but he just wasn’t sure he could do it. They’d taken everything he had, thrown it away, and then come back for more.

He had nothing left.

Opening his eyes, his scabbed fingers crept up to his neck, grasped the collar that left him caged, gripped it with sudden anger.

How could something so small, so…utterly stupid, trap him so completely? Enraged, he pummeled it with magic – pure, unfiltered, instinctual magic. The kind that flowed through him and needed no words or spells, the kind he’d been manipulating and controlling since his cradle. He drew deep within and just shoved.

The metal flared hot, burning his neck and causing him to jerk his poor fingers away, the collar momentarily ringing with power…

And then it was gone, leaving Merlin even more drained than before, and with the sudden, horrific realization that – just like in the forest the first night he’d tried to break the wretched thing – he had somehow, in his rage and desperation to escape, greatly reinforced the very thing that kept him prisoner.

His hands fell limp in defeat – all energy exhausted. He couldn’t escape the collar – it was beyond his knowledge and power. And at that moment, he didn’t even have the strength to lift his head let alone crawl off to his cold nest of rags for sleep. Besides, morning would come soon enough and then they would just kick him awake to start it all over again.

He was caged and beat and powerless.

Please help us! he prayed to the gods, knowing as he did that they were probably laughing at his pitiful existence, but there was no one else left to turn to. Please! he begged even as his eyes closed against tears once more and he just lay there, letting sleep – or maybe unconsciousness – claim him. Please…I can’t do this…

Author’s Note: I’m back! Hopefully to stay! Now to see if anyone remembers this poor little fic.

Chapter Text

22. A Gesture of Kindness

“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”
- John Bunyan

*****

Arthur didn’t sleep well that night; there was too much on his mind and he was still too worried about Merlin. He gave up and rose before dawn, managing to dress himself this time, though the action left him fuming.

Clean laundry had been brought back to his room at some point and he noticed that several of the garments seemed to be in even worse repair than they had when he’d worn them last. His selection of formal wear – all in shades of maroon and black, colors he was coming to hate with a passion – was rather extensive, if still worn and threadbare. But his choices for everyday wear were limited – several pairs of trousers, a few bland tunics, two jackets and the leather coat, all in a state of shabbiness that most of the servants back in Camelot wouldn’t have been caught dead sporting.

It was just another mark of Alfhild’s hypocrisy and cunning madness. At feasts and big events, Arthur was to look the part of honored guest. But during daily life the clothes were meant to show him as poor, lacking in taste, and struggling. Very few people knew that Arthur was a prisoner and that the clothes he was wearing weren’t ones he’d selected and brought of his own choice. It was an insult to Arthur while playing right into the king’s ruse that Camelot was an impoverished, backward country whose king had sent his son to make a much-needed alliance with a better kingdom where he could be educated and enlightened.

It was just one more thing that rankled in a list that was miles long.

The servant that eventually arrived with breakfast and to straighten his room was neither Merlin nor Linus. His actions were just shy of actual insolence as he slapped a sparse breakfast onto the table and grunted a greeting. Crumbs he hadn’t even bothered to brush off his tunic told Arthur where the missing portions of his food had disappeared to, but both parties knew there was nothing Arthur could do about it.

Arthur sat and ate, glaring at the boy as he tugged apathetically at the bedding and scraped a few of the ashes from his grate into a bucket, managing to make an even bigger mess than before.

Princely-anger and prided flared up in Arthur and he stood, pushing the empty tray away. He was tired of inaction, tired of taking all their crap. He might not have one ounce of power or control, but he could at least act like he did. He was still the Crown Prince of Camelot after all.

“Boy,” he said firmly, coldly. “You will deliver a message for me,” he ordered.

The kid picked up the tray, sneering in his direction.

“Sorry, ain’t got time. Things to do an’ –”

“It wasn’t a request,” Arthur said, stepping forward menacingly and grabbing the boy’s wrist to hold him in place, squeezing threateningly. “You will deliver a message to the Princess Bodil, informing her that I will call for her before the mid-day meal, do you understand?” He squeezed tighter and the boy gulped and nodded, finally showing some fear.

“You will also find my servant and tell him I request his services this evening – his and no one else’s.”

The boy nodded again.

“And finally, should I find out you did not follow these orders, I will make sure you regret that choice.” The boy blanched, the smug look completely washed from his face. “Understood?” he asked again, pushing the servant away hard enough he barely kept hold of the tray.

“Yes, my lord,” he stammered, nodding quickly. Then he gathered up his bucket of ashes and practically fled.

With a sigh, Arthur sagged against the table and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long time since he’d acted like that with a servant and he hadn’t enjoyed it.

By the heavens, he missed Merlin.

00000

Merlin was running late.

He was supposed to have emptied and cleaned all the chamber pots in the lower, east wing before mid-morning but his battered body refused to move with any sort of speed and his hunger and exhaustion had left him light-headed. It didn’t help that one of the other servants had stopped him about an hour ago to deliver a message from Arthur, and in retaliation for having to speak directly to the slave, had kicked over his bucket. At least it had been the one that held the water for washing the pots, not the one in which he dumped their contents. Still it took extra time and effort to mop up and refill it, making him even later.

“Yer master wants ya serving him tonight,” the boy had spat. “If ya can still walk!” he’d finished with a nasty laugh, kicking over the pail.

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to go serve Arthur, he thought as he wearily set the heavy buckets down for just a moment, only to catch his breath. He never would have dreamed that serving the prattish prince of Camelot would loom like a beacon of safety and peace, but it did and he longed for it. If only he could just slip away, off to Arthur’s tower and –

“BOY!” the voice Merlin dreaded most suddenly cut through his thoughts even as a meaty fist to his back sent him sprawling. Pain roared back to life like a wildfire and he fell flat on his face, his arms too weak to catch him. “Lazy scum that’s worse than the crap it’s supposed to be carrying! Think’s it can take all day! Apparently, one beating isn’t enough for such a stupid, brainless slave like you to remember how to work!”

Merlin didn’t bother to look up or try and protest. He simply lay there in defeated agony and waited for the blows to start, almost certain that this time he was going to die before it was over. The Steward’s whip whooshed through the air and gouged first into his left hand. Tears crested his eyes as he heard the evil man ready his next stroke and –

“Stop!” an angry voice suddenly interrupted before the second blow could land. Blearily, Merlin fought through the pain to crack open an eye. Sir Einar stood between him and the Steward, his expression dark and disapproving. “What is going on here?”

“The slave is lazy and slow, taking forever to finish it’s chores. I was just providing a bit of motivation,” the Steward answered, glaring at the knight.

Sir Einar cast a pointed glance down at Merlin, then looked back at the other man. “You mean to tell me that the boy who is almost dead at your feet is moving slowly?” he asked in a dangerous voice. “Imagine that.”

The Steward puffed up with rage and Merlin curled back farther on the floor. “It’s deserved! The creature is insolent, daring to look up at its betters even when explicitly ordered not to!”

“I would think he’d have to look up to properly serve his prince, which I remind you the king has ordered he be allowed to do.”

The portly man now seemed only a step away from actually exploding as he narrowed his eyes at the knight. Merlin didn’t know whether to silently thank Sir Einar or curse him. While it was so very nice to have someone other than Arthur stepping in on his behalf, he knew once the man left the Steward’s rage would be murderous and he would be the only one left in its path.

“I run this household and I serve out discipline as I see fit,” the Steward hissed dangerously. “You’ve no right to interfere with any of my workers, Einar.”

“And tell me, Steward Braggan, exactly how much work do you get out of a corpse?”

“It’s not dead,” he spat.

“Yet,” the knight pressed, stepping toward the fuming Steward, still making himself a shield between the man and where Merlin lay on the ground. “But I have no doubt if I hadn’t stopped you just now, he would be. Do I have to remind you that the king needs this boy alive? I have orders to see to it that he remains that way!”

“It’s a filthy slave with vile magic!” the other man spat, spittle flying from his mouth. “It doesn’t deserve the food we give it!”

“What food?” Sir Einar asked, glancing up and down Merlin’s trembling body once more. “It doesn’t appear to me that you’ve give him any.”

The Steward’s eyes narrowed with a calculated gleam. “Don’t think I don’t understand, Einar. Don’t think I can’t see it. The same hair, same lanky build, same vile…talents.” He literally spat out the last word as though it was a curse. “I can see right through you, and I think the king would be most interested to hear about your traitorous desire to coddle the filthy slave. The last person who disappointed him lasted how long again? I think it was a mere two days, wasn’t it?” The evil man beamed with smug victory, stepping forward to move past the knight, his whip already raised.

On the floor, Merlin simply closed his eyes and waited for the end to come, but he was instead startled for the second time in the last few minutes by the very familiar ring of a sword leaving its scabbard. He cracked his eyes open to see the enemy knight standing ridged, his face furious as he steadily held the tip of the weapon to the Steward’s fleshy neck.

“And how interested do you think the king would be to know that his Steward dines from the royal stores? That he fills his bulbous gullet with venison and soft, white bread? Shares the king’s own exotic fruits to tempt his kitchen wench mistress? Perhaps I should suggest he take an inventory of the wine cellar, see exactly how many bottles of the Royal Vintage have gone inexplicably missing in the last few years?”

First the first time, the Steward took a step back, actually looking rather pale. The knight followed him, stepping forward sword still pressed, threatening with both weapon and words.

“How often do you meet with the king, again? Once a month? You do remember that I report to him daily… I wonder if you would even live to make your next report and beguile him with your tales of my supposed coddling, should I decide to let slip your secret.”

The Steward said nothing, but everyone in that hall could tell he was beat by the paleness in his face and the slightly mad gleam in his eyes that Merlin knew promised his own death at the first opportunity.

The look wasn’t lost on the knight, however. He leaned toward the Steward, weapon still drawn. “This boy might be a slave, but there is absolutely no use in a dead slave, or even one that is only almost dead. So, you will let the lad live – on orders of the king. You will allow him to serve his master Prince Arthur whenever required – again on orders of your king! And you will cease trying to beat the boy to death for any and every fault you can possibly make up – on threat from me. Should I find him in this condition again I will not hesitate to act on my threat, and I can assure you the king will find the plundering of his royal stores a much greater offence than preventing the death of his own property and accusations of acting out of remembrance of the past. Am I understood?”

With gritted teeth, the Steward jerked his head once in something that almost resembled a nod.

“Good. Now, do you not have a household to run?” the knight asked, a dismissal so clear the other man couldn’t even argue, but was instead forced to turn and stomp off, quivering with rage.

Stunned, Merlin just lay there, watching him go, until Sir Einar sheathed his sword and turned around, stepping over to crouch down next to his trembling form.

“This is not keeping your head down, lad,” he said with a sad sigh, before reaching out and slowly, kindly helping Merlin to his feet. “I knew the Steward to be a cruel man and you to be a stubborn lad, but I did think you’d manage to last more than a week,” he chided gently.

Merlin looked away, down to his dirt crusted toes, his mind too confused to think straight. On the one hand, this man was the one who had captured him – enslaved him and ordered the crippling collar placed round his neck. He had kidnapped his master and friend, brought them to this horrible kingdom… But, this man had also saved his life – twice now – and despite everything had never once spoken to him with disgust and malice. Merlin had no idea what to make of it and no way to actually ask any of the questions bombarding his mind. He couldn’t even utter a simple thank you.

Instead, he attempted a suitably subservient bow, so unsteady on his feet he almost toppled right back over, and then, still not looking up from his feet, limped painfully back to his buckets and tried to heft them again.

Calloused hands stopped him. “Leave them, lad. Someone else will finish this chore. You will come with me.”

What could he do but follow – wobbly and in agony? He was just a slave after all.

Wondering what chores the knight would have him do but figuring they had to be better than anything the Steward would fill his day with, he followed Sir Einar through several hallways he hadn’t yet traveled then out into a bitterly cold courtyard. The snow burned like fire on Merlin’s bare feet and he instinctively glanced up, hoping that where he was being taken wasn’t far.

Then he saw the building the knight was striding toward – just ahead – and no amount of freezing feet could keep him from instinctively pulling back, his right hand unconsciously moving over to protectively cover the still healing burn on his left arm.

No, no, no! Please no! he wailed in his head as Sir Einar continued to make for the blacksmith shop. Not again! Please not again! And suddenly he could smell the smoke, mixed with the scent of his own burning flesh, and the cold against his feet became fire and his head was whirling and the flames were climbing and his skin was peeling away and…

“Lad!”

Sir Einar’s voice cut through his terrified panic and he realized the knight was standing before him, a hand under his arm helping support his weight since his legs had decided it was time to collapse, and had obviously been trying to get his attention for some time.

“Come,” he urged gently, and tugged him forward while still holding him up. “Not much farther.”

At the end of his ability to tolerate fear and pain and humiliation, Merlin let himself be moved. He had nothing left to fight with – not for himself, not even for Arthur – and so simply gave in. Whatever torture the knight was bringing him to, he simply went along.

But Einar didn’t take him through the main entrance and into the shop where the smoke billowed and the sound of the hammer on the anvil clanged. Instead, he guided him around to the back where a simple wooden door stood.

He knocked sharply on the aged wood. It took several moments, but eventually the big, scarred blacksmith pulled the door open. He took one look at the two of them, and though his face registered shock, he quickly ushered them inside.

“My lord,” he said, bowing slightly and tugging off his sooty apron. “What brings you to my home, if I may ask?”

The word home finally pierced the daze surrounding Merlin, and he chanced a glance up as Sir Einar eased him to a crumpled heap on the floor next to a small but crackling hearth. The room was little – almost tiny – but instead of menacing tools and hot, angry metal the boy saw it held a bed in one corner, a table and stools, two trunks, and a chair.

Sir Einar had not brought him back to the shop to be branded once more, but for some unfathomable reason had brought him to the blacksmith’s home instead.

Perhaps he was to be put to work with the smithy after all and Sir Einar needed to discuss it?

“He’s injured – quite sorely – and in need of a physician, but given his status as a slave and precarious position I cannot take him to the castle healer. If word reached the king that the same man who treats the royal family had touched a 'filthy slave…'” He trailed off but his grim expression left no doubt what he implied. “I am not unaware,” he continued, gazing squarely at the man whose face was marred by such frightening scars, “that you possess a small understanding of herbs and wounds and that though you don’t advertise it, a servant or two has been known to slink off to you for help when Steward Braggan has been particularly brutal in his punishments.”

The blacksmith looked down at Merlin, his eyes full of pity, before he nodded. “It’s true, my lord,” the smith replied, bowing again. “And of course, I’ll do what I can for the lad.”

Merlin was barely aware of the conversation going on around him by that point. He was reeling from what Sir Einar had said.

The man had brought him there as a kindness, to receive some help and care, not to do more work! For the first time since he’d arrived at the castle, he felt hope flutter back to life in his chest, though it was accompanied by so many burning questions.

The knight nodded in thanks to the blacksmith, then crouched beside Merlin once more, and though his expression was a careful mask, his eyes were kind.

“I cannot completely stop the steward and his sadistic cruelty,” he told him softly. “It’s a sad fact of life for any who are unfortunate enough to serve in this castle, but I believe I have spared you another beating such as this one, at least for a while. Still, you really must, whenever possible, keep your head down and stay out of his path.”

He went to stand, ready to leave and continue his day, but something snapped in Merlin, the raging questions too much for him to bear, and he recklessly reached out and grabbed the older man’s arm, halting him.

“What – ” the knight started to say in surprise but Merlin was already crawling on his knees closer to the fire and the layer of ashes that stretched out beyond it.

WHY? he wrote, turning pleading eyes on the man, begging for answers. WHY HELP?

Sir Einar looked at him with unmasked shock, before allowing a different emotion to fall across his features – sorrow. In the background the blacksmith – Merlin suddenly remember that his name was Juno – was moving around his small home, quietly gathering his supplies.

“I…had a son once, a long time ago,” the knight finally replied, and for the first time his voice sounded hesitant. “You bear a passing resemblance to him, lad,” he finished. “And he also possessed some of your same…talents.”

Einar had had a son, with magic? That thought opened up too many other questions and Merlin knew he would never be able to ask them all, so he slammed the mental door shut, focusing instead on what he had to know.

Why now? Not before? he wrote, then pointed a trembling finger at his collar to make sure the man understood.

Sir Einar sighed and stretched to his feet, his face once again masked and the mantle of duty back on his shoulders. He looked at Merlin for a very long time, as if decided whether or not to even answer. At long last, he spoke.

“This kingdom needs your prince,” he said carefully. “And I believe your prince has need of you. I had very strict orders to either kill or take as slaves any who were accompanying the young prince. While I had only observed you for mere moments before I had to make a decision, I saw how the two of you interacted, and I also believed I saw in you a stubbornness of will. I made the choice that, no matter the circumstances, you would want to live. Was I wrong?”

Merlin thought about everything he had endured in the three weeks since they had been taken from Camelot – all the pain and humiliation and fear – and yet he couldn’t deny that what the knight said was true. Despite it all, he did want to live. He gave a tiny shake of his head.

“Remember, lad,” the man said, “slavery is a condition that might eventually be changed. Death, however, is very permanent.”

Merlin ducked his head, waiting to hear the man leave, but he stayed where he was.

“You’re educated,” the knight said, the surprise back in his voice. “Did your master teach you?”

Merlin scoffed, almost giving a rare smile at the thought of Arthur having enough patience to teach anything that didn’t involve whacking others with dangerous objects, and shook his head again.

Mother, he wrote in the ash instead. Arthur’s servant, also physician’s apprentice.

“Hmmm,” the knight muttered, looking thoughtful. “Can you read and write more than just the common tongue?”

The boy couldn’t help wondering why the man would want to know, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to ask or resist, so he just answered the best he could.

Latin, some Greek. He hesitated, but then realized that the collar was glaring proof that the two men in the room already knew his huge secret, so he added, old tongue, to the list.

Sir Einar said nothing more, just retreated to the door with a nod to Juno and a maddeningly unreadable expression still gracing his face. Merlin stared after him, hating once more how everything in his life now – even the ability to ask questions – was out of his control.

“Up you get, boy,” Juno suddenly said, pulling Merlin to his feet as though he weighed nothing more than a feather. “Over to the table…now sit…no there on the stool. There’s a good lad.”

Still numb with shock and the ever-present pain, Merlin offered no resistance as the big, weathered man urged his tunic up and over his head. He gave a low, shocked whistle followed by a muted curse.

“Braggan and his whip are enemy to all who work in the castle, but I’ve never seen anything… Poor lad.”

For the next half hour, Merlin gritted his teeth while the big blacksmith worked away at his wounds, eventually even forcing him to lie down on his own bed so he could get at the injuries hidden away beneath Merlin’s trousers. His hands were huge and calloused, but also surprisingly gentle and skilled. At one point the boy even tried to ask a written question, but Juno shook his head.

“Can’t read, lad. Sorry.”

Merlin tried again with gestures later, once he was sitting wearily back on the low stool, his hurts soothed slightly by salves and bandages. Some of the medicines had a tiny, extra tingle that pulled at power that was currently locked deep within the warlock and he couldn’t hide his surprise. That time, the big man seemed to read the question on his face.

“My father was the blacksmith,” he said, wrapping a strip of fresh linen around the ugly brand on Merlin’s arm. He’d left it for last and the guilt was plain to see on his face, though he made no comment about the wound or its cause. “My mother was the healer, and she insisted I learn both trades. Her potions were known throughout the land as extra special…” He smiled at Merlin, though it pulled his scars into something more of a grimace. He patted the bandage carefully, then stood back, grimly surveying his work.

“Eat,” he ordered abruptly, placing a tin plate with what Merlin suspected was his own dinner in front of the boy. “I’ve got to go bank the forge,” he explained, then disappeared through an interior door.

Three weeks earlier, Merlin would have protested taking another man’s dinner, but that boy was long gone. The instant the other man had left, he tore into the bread and cheese, his hunger so strong and all-consuming that he hardly bothered to chew as he inhaled the food. It was only after he’d shoved three huge mouthfuls down his throat that he was able to remember his physician’s training and slow down before he made himself sick. Even then, there was only the smallest nibble of cheese left when Juno returned. The big man nodded, albeit sadly, and set a mug of cold, clear water on the table, urging him to drink with a jerk of his head.

“Another storm’s commin’,” Juno said, sitting on the other stool so he faced Merlin. “Be here sometime in the night.”

Merlin shivered involuntarily and reached for his grungy tunic, pulling it on with great difficulty. He needed to be going…needed to get back to work. There were still so many chores to do before he could go serve Arthur that evening and then collapse in his heap of rags. He glanced down at himself, grateful most of the bandages were hidden by this clothing – if he could keep this punishment from Arthur, he would. His friend didn’t need to shoulder the burden of any more guilt.

“Hold up a second, lad,” the blacksmith said when he tried to rise, pushing him back down. The man then reached out and grasp his right foot and started slathering it with something slimy. “Axel grease,” he said in response to Merlin’s disgusted expression. “Helps with chapped, split skin, especially in the winter.”

He finished coating the boy’s whole foot, then took yet another roll of bandages and began winding it round and round. “It’s as least some protection,” he muttered darkly as he worked the bandages to cover the entire foot, tied off the knot, then quickly repeated the whole process for the left foot.

Merlin stood, testing them out, and found to his relief that the bindings did help. He smiled, his only way to say thank you.

“My door is always open if you need it, lad,” the big man said. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

The servant started to nod, but suddenly froze as a horribly glorious thought just occurred to him.

Juno was a blacksmith.

Juno had a little bit of magic, or at least an understanding of it – Merlin was almost sure of it.

Juno could remove the collar! Set him, and by extension Arthur, free!

Eyes wide, Merlin lurched forward, grabbing one of the blacksmith’s hands frantically and jerking it up to his neck, pressing against the collar.

Please! he thought desperately as he let got of the other and tugged at the horrible ring himself. Please take it off! Please, oh please! He begged with his eyes, tugging on the collar again before pointing toward the door Merlin now knew led to the forge.

“Oh, lad,” Juno sighed, sorrow filling his whole body as he sank back down onto one of his stools. “I can’t.”

In desperation, Merlin fell to his knees, still begging with his whole body. Please!

“No, you misunderstand. I can’t take it off, not because I won’t, but because I do not know how. Sorcerer thrall rings are resistant to my fire or hammer or tongs.”

Merlin crumpled to the ground, the sudden rush of elated hope followed by utter devastation too much for his injured body. Hands reached down and once more helped him to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” the man said sincerely. “I would remove it if I could. I promise.”

Feeling limp and all used up, Merlin nodded.

The big man squeezed his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, then nudged him toward the door. “Come back when you need me again,” he said, and Merlin sighed, acknowledging he’d said when and not if.

Still, all afternoon as he slaved away, scrubbing walls and carrying buckets of ash, Merlin couldn’t feel anything but grateful for the two men. He only passed the Steward once, and while his glance was murderous, he offered no blows. The other servants weren’t that kind, but with his wounds tended to – he could already feel that there really was something just a little special about Juno’s ointment – and food in his belly, it was bearable. For the first time since the night of the feast, Merlin started believing that he might just be able to survive, at least for a little while longer.

Author’s Note: Oh my goodness! I love you guys! You have blown me away with your comments and love and support! Seriously, it is beyond my wildest dreams! THANK YOU! You can never know how much your support means! Your response to this story coming back is a huge reason I'm back so soon with the next chapter! THANKS!

Chapter Text

23. Small Talk

To hear, one must be silent.
Ursula K. Le Guin

(Follows directly after the beginning scene of the last chapter.)

Arthur paced. Back and forth between the window and his fireplace, over to the circular study in the corner of his tower cell, back to the other side to stare at the strange tapestry attached to his wall, then over to his bed where he finally flopped down on his back with a groan.

He had to court a princess.

In just a few short hours.

A princess he didn’t love.

And he had no idea what to do.

In hopeless frustration, he ran both hands through his hair while staring up at the ceiling.

Give him a battle against a deadly opponent with horrible odds and he’d be just fine.

Tournaments, games of strategy and court, even roughhousing with the knights – he knew his role in all of those situations.

But matters of the heart? Wooing a woman?

He would never admit it out loud, to anyone, but he knew nothing of that. His father had him raised to be a prince and a warrior – the heir to his kingdom. An heir who would marry the girl the king one day chose, so there was no need to be educated in the ways of courtship and love. All he’d learned of the topic had been gathered from tales overheard from the knights – mostly Leon if he was being honest with himself – and a few embarrassing conversations with Gaius.

There was a reason he made Merlin write the notes and pick the flowers to send to a lovely blacksmith’s daughter who made his heart flutter in indescribable ways whenever she looked at him.

With a growl, Arthur jumped to his feet. Thinking about Gwen was not helpful in the least right now. This was not a romance – this was war, cloaked in courtship, so he would approach it as such.

The first thing to do in a war was gather intel.

Well, he’d done that, as best he could over the last few days with his wandering.

Next, devise a battle plan.

That was trickier. He had no Merlin to write a note for him, nor paper and quill to write with anyway. Any flowers were buried under three feet of snow. That left him Leon’s advice, or Gaius’s.

Well, considering Gaius was older than anyone he knew and still not married, he settled on Leon’s.

And finally, once plans were in place, dress the part.

He walked to his wardrobe and threw open the doors, but once again he was reminded that the only half-decent clothes he’d been supplied with were in Tharennor’s colors.

Anger flared through him again and he slammed the cupboard’s doors shut. He wouldn’t wear them, not any more than he had to. He would court this princess dressed as he was, in clothes no better than what a common peasant wore, and she could think whatever she desired.

Resolve hardened, he marched from his room.

“I need a chicken,” Arthur announced loudly, voice ringing with all the authority of a crown prince who’d been giving orders since he could talk.

All motion in the crowded, smokey kitchen ceased as every eye turned to stare at him, too shocked to yet show insolence or disdain.

The prince squared his shoulders in the face of his enemies and pressed the advantage of their surprise. “I need a chicken – roasted – in two hours, plus bread, sides, and wine for two. And several of you will come with me now and bring linens, candles, dishes and cutlery. When the meal is prepared, it will be brought to the same location as the rest.”

He finished his announcement and waited, entirely unsure what would happen next. In all likelihood those in the room would laugh soundly at him – poor little Camelot Prince, thinking he could give orders – and send him away. He had no idea what he would do then; he had no backup plan for this awkward endeavor and there was nothing to do in this gods’ forsaken castle.

Seconds ticked by, but then years of being what Merlin liked to term a prat finally paid off and one of the women bowed just slightly. “Of course, sire,” she simpered, thinly-veiled disgust clinging to the way she said his title. Arthur glared back at her, already disliking her mean face with pinched lips and the way she brandished the ladle in her hands like a weapon. “Midge! Hana!” she screamed as she turned. Two filthy servants who were nothing but starving children dropped what they’d been doing and scurried forward. “Git the prince what he wants an’ follow him. Hurry up! NOW!” As she screeched the last word, she took a vicious swipe at the girl with her ladle.

It took everything Arthur had to bite his tongue, but ten minutes later when the three turned a corner and left the kitchens behind, the prince himself stepped up and took most of the load from the staggering children.

Arthur had to admit to some satisfaction as he surveyed his work.

He’d found the strange sort of half room during his wandering over the last week, in the older part of the castle where hardly anyone went. In a former life it must have been an office or study. There was a fireplace at the far end, a few forgotten chairs and crates stacked in the corner, and one tapestry still clinging to the wall though it was so faded the design was now unrecognizable. But the strangest thing was that it was no longer a true room. During some past renovation of the castle it had lost half of its walls, becoming a sort of extra-large alcove off the passageway.

It wasn’t close to a proper hall or banquet room, but he had no doubt he was forbidden to use the real ones, even to court the princess, and he could hardly invite her to dine with him in his tower room/prison. So alternate place it had to be, and it was the fireplace that had caught his eye here – at least they would be warm during this farce.

All that morning he’d worked to transform the small space. He’d righted the chairs and turned several of the crates into a passable table. With the help of the young servants who’d been sent with him, they managed to clean and dust, and now a dinner for two was ready in the makeshift dining hall, the fire crackling somewhat merrily.

It was perfect.

If he was a peasant wooing a farmer’s daughter in the back room of her father’s house…

Gwen would have loved it, he thought, a pain like a sharp knife shooting through his insides. For just a moment, he imaged leading her to it. She’d laugh with delight, that gentle sound he loved so much, and then turn to him with so much pride in her eyes.

“Oh, Arthur, it’s perfect! You did all this – for me?”

And he’d smile back, then take her hand and lead her over. Before he helped her into her seat, he’d reach up to brush a hair from her cheek, and she’d gaze at him with those lovely, brown eyes, and then he’d –

Arthur shook his head, forcefully pushing the images away as he felt a traitorous burn in his eyes. He quickly swiped a hand across his face.

Gwen was not there.

The prince heaved a sigh but then squared his shoulders and headed toward the Princess Bodil’s chambers. There was nothing else he could do.

A young serving girl opened the door when he knocked, bowing slightly before silently ushering him into the outer room. The girl – barely in her teens – couldn’t hide her disdain as her eyes gave him a quick once-over before she turned to alert her mistress.

Sudden nervousness rose up in Arthur and he shifted on his feet, reaching up to try and flatten his disheveled hair and brush some of the dust from his dull-brown tunic. Maybe he should have worn those finer clothes after all, hang his pride.

Bodil entered the room, dressed in a green, wool gown that accentuated her figure in all the right places, her hair done up around her head again in a mess of braids that would have put Morgana herself to shame. She glanced at Arthur and for just a moment he caught the flicker of slight confusion and disapproval that crossed her face, but it was only there for a breath before royal upbringing replaced it with a measured calm.

Yes, he very much should have worn the other clothes, he thought grimly. This was why he needed Merlin.

“Prince Arthur?” Bodil spoke pointedly, and Arthur realized that he’d just been standing there lost in thought.

“Oh…erm, yes. Princess. Princess Bodil. I’m…um…here.” He mentally slapped himself. Curse his tongue and its inability to work properly! How could a woman be more unsettling than a battle?

“So you are,” the Princess replied coolly. “Is there a reason behind your visit, perhaps?”

“Yes,” he muttered, then cleared his throat and tried to bolster his nerves. “Yes, of course. Princess, if you would care to follow me.”

He led her through the winding corridors and hallways back to his personally crafted lunch nook. He only had to backtrack once when he went left and should have gone right, and he was grateful she was gracious enough not to mention it.

They turned the last corner and he gestured grandly to his humble set-up. “I know it’s not a formal banquet, but at least I got the chicken.”

For a long moment, Bodil just stood there, her beautiful face unreadable, as usual. Arthur was beginning to suspect that no emotion was the standard for the princess of Tharennor. Maybe she was as cold as her frozen kingdom.

“Chicken?” she finally repeated, glancing at him with the first glimmer of real personality the prince had seen.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, ushering her forward and helping her into a chair. “So we can begin the courtship properly.” He circled around the crates-turned-table and took his own seat.

“What does a chicken have to do with us courting?” she returned, and she seemed so genuinely puzzled Arthur felt his insides start to squirm with the whispers of doubt even as he gestured the two young workers forward to begin serving the meal.

“Because you’re always supposed to gift a chicke…well, that’s what he told me…said it was what was done…”

Both her eyebrows climbed toward her hair.

The boy – Midge - poured a generous measure of wine into the single goblet they were to share and Arthur grabbed it, downing it as his ears began to burn. “I was informed by one of my…erm…knights, my lady,” he finally tried again, “that no courtship could begin without the gift of a…a chicken.”

The girl stared at him, her blue eyes not betraying anything. It was uncanny, the way she could do that, as though there was a constantly drawn, impenetrable veil between her real thoughts and the world. Finally, she blinked and looked away. Delicately, she picked up a fork and speared a small piece of meat. She chewed, carefully and thoroughly – swallowed – and then set the fork back down.

“So, this knight,” she said after several long minutes. “Was he also the one that taught you to begin your first conversation with a girl by asking about the weather?”

“I’m gonna kill him, Merlin. No question about it, we ever get out of here, Leon is dead. Single combat, to the death. Or forget that, maybe I’ll just lop off his head.”

Merlin grinned at Arthur’s dramatics as he laid out the prince’s supper. On the bed, said prince flopped over onto his back and pulled a pillow over his face. “I can’t believe I actually thought what Leon told me when I was twelve was true! That you had to give a woman a chicken to start a courtship! I should have taken Gaius’s advice instead.”

Merlin set the goblet on the table with a clang to draw Arthur’s eyes back out from under the pillow, then vigorously shook his head no. He’d sat through Gaius’s courtship lecture himself, complete with detailed texts and diagrams.

“No, you’re right. That would have been far worse, trying to charm her with the various properties of obscure flowers.” Arthur groaned and flung his hands out to his sides closing his eyes.

Carefully, slowly, Merlin walked to the side of the bed. Thus far, Arthur had been so distracted by his disastrous first attempt at wooing the princess, he’d failed to notice the extreme pain his servant was trying to hide, something the boy intended to keep up. He tugged on his friend’s sleeve to get his attention, then pointed at his clothes and wrinkled his nose skeptically.

“Yes, Merlin, as I have already told you, I really did wear these clothes to dine with the princess!”

Merlin shrugged, ignoring the pain the motion sent ripping through his back, and held up his hands. There’s your problem.

The Crown Prince of Camelot chucked the pillow at his head.

Come on, prat, Merlin thought with a silent laugh, tugging a little harder at his friend’s arm. Dinner.

Arthur rose and wandered to the table. While he ate and continued to rant about Leon, the Ice Princess Bodil, Leon, the stupid cold and snow and whole kingdom of Tharennor – plus Leon – Merlin closed the shutters and turned the bedding down for the night. Then he went to the wardrobe and extracted a new outfit, as shabby as the one Arthur was already wearing, just in case he couldn’t get away to help his prince in the morning.

“Those are new.”

Merlin started out of his thoughts and glanced up. Arthur was looking pointedly at the bandages wrapped around his feet. Self-consciously, Merlin shrugged and turned away, adding more wood to the fire for the night.

“Does it help?” his master asked, all teasing and jokes gone from his voice now, a resigned sadness in their place. Merlin looked up, caught Arthur’s eyes that were so full of failure, and quickly nodded.

“Are you okay, Merlin?”

Merlin gave another vigorous nod, employing all his skills at hiding the truth, but still Arthur appeared skeptical.

“Where’ve you been these last two days? What have you been doing?”

Merlin stacked the last of the wood beside the fireplace, hoping it was enough to keep his friend warm through the night, brushed his hands on his trousers, then stood carefully, trying his best to make it look pain-free. Arthur held out his hand without prompting this time as Merlin stepped up to his side.

Tavern, Merlin wrote on his palm, flashing a grin.

“Ha!” Arthur barked, eyes lighting up as a real smile split his face for the first time in ages. “I knew it! I knew that’s where you always go!” The prince reached up and ruffled his free hand through Merlin’s grimy hair before shoving him playfully to the side. “Now, tell me the real truth. Where’ve you been?”

Chores, the boy answered quickly, knowing his friend wouldn’t be sidetracked again, then pointed at the prince, turning the questions back to him.

“I’ve been wandering, exploring this castle, looking for a way out.”

Merlin couldn’t help the hopeful rise in his eyebrows, but Arthur shook his head. “No, nothing. I haven’t found anything yet,” he said and the boy’s shoulder’s slumped. “But I will. I’ll never stop looking, and you should look, too, when you can. You probably have access to places they will never let me in,” Arthur stood, stepping into the middle of the floor to pace, a nervous habit that somehow made Merlin feel just a little at home. “There has to be another way out of this castle and kingdom. No one has only exit – that’s suicidal!”

I’ll look, too! Merlin promised with his eyes, pointing at himself and nodding in the hopes that Arthur would understand. His mind was already busy thinking of the different places in the castle he’d been sent on chores but hadn’t been given the time to fully explore. Because Arthur was right, there had to be a way out, and if there was one thing he’d learned in the last two years as a servant it was that contrary to popular royal belief, the servants usually knew more about the castle than their masters ever did.

“Thank you, Merlin. Just…don’t get in trouble.”

He shrugged absently as he started to gather up the remnants of Arthur’s supper. He certainly didn’t want to get caught, but he also really wanted to go home, so he wasn’t going to make any promises that would curtail his efforts to help with that.

Arthur had hardly touched his food, and the heavenly scent of the pork and vegetables, boiled eggs and applesauce… It was making him lightheaded.

“I mean it, Merlin,” Arthur pressed, continuing the conversation. The prince was suddenly back at Merlin’s side, a hand on his aching shoulder that made the servant clench his teeth as Arthur spun the boy to face him. “You are to stay safe! This is not the time for your casual interpretation of orders!”

Merlin glared at his master. The starved-for-any-kind-of-human-goodness part of himself clung to the implied care, while his stubborn side had a small rush of annoyance, but mostly what Merlin felt was exhaustion, overwhelming hunger, and a growing nausea of pain as Arthur squeezed the lash marks on his shoulder without realizing it. He was trying to figure a graceful way out of the situation without making a promise he knew he couldn’t keep, when his stomach let out a loud moan.

Arthur’s eyes jerked down, then over to the leftovers, then up to Merlin’s flushing face. An almost stricken look flashed through the prince’s eyes before his posture went ridged and he glanced away.

And then the young man was shoving Merlin gently into the chair he’d recently left, sliding the barely-touched meal in front of him, and half-heartedly pushing his head down toward the food with a splayed hand.

“Eat, idiot,” he ordered quietly, then stepped away to pace again, his actions suddenly much more silent and withdrawn.

Merlin didn’t need to be told twice, pride long gone, but that didn’t keep his ears from burning with shame.

Eventually, Arthur sighed and stopped his pacing, dropping into the other chair at the table and gazing off over Merlin’s shoulder with troubled blue eyes. It was the look he got when he was thinking hard, making connections, having some kind of unwelcome epiphany, and Merlin did not need that right now. The prince had to be focused on the deadly political dance he’d been forced into, not worrying about a serv – no a slave, so the boy reached out and flipped his hand over.

Princess? he wrote, trying to distract his friend. What like?

It worked.

“I dunno. She was…blank,” Arthur answered, his face scrunched up in confusion as though he couldn’t quite find the word he wanted. “There was this one time, right at the beginning of the…whatever that thing was today…when I almost thought she was making a joke, but then it was gone.”

As he listened, Merlin dug into the prince’s untouched applesauce – Arthur hated applesauce – with gusto.

“She’s…cold, aloof…”

Merlin reached out and captured one of Arthur’s gesturing hands.

Trapped?

His friend paused, thinking. “Maybe. But it’s more like she’s…just holding everything back.”

Merlin had only seen the princess once, on a night that ranked as one of the most stressful and humiliating of his life, but he had to agree with Arthur’s assessment.

Evil? he asked next, cutting to the most important question. A threat?

Arthur thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but…I just don’t know.” He shook his head then pointedly pushed the bread Merlin hadn’t gotten to yet a bit closer. “At any rate, she’s about as warm as her frozen kingdom.”

A log broke in the fireplace and Merlin’s head snapped up, realizing just how long he’d been in Arthur’s chambers. Alarmed, he stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and then leapt to his feet, haphazardly stacking dishes back on the tray.

“I ran into Einar,” Arthur suddenly said from behind him and Merlin nearly choked. He forced himself to chew and swallow as he reluctantly turned back around.

Did Arthur know what had happened? All this time? Had the knight told him about Merlin’s punishment?

“He invited me to train with Tharennor’s knights.”

Merlin’s aching shoulders sagged with relief and he turned back to his chores.

“On the one hand, I’m going to go spare without something else to do! And I do need to keep up my skills…”

The servant balanced the tray full of dishes on his unbranded arm before miming a rather rotund belly with the other hand, shooting Arthur a significant look.

“I am not fat, Merlin!” the man growled as Merlin laughed silently. Then he sighed. “But, you’re not wrong. I won’t be fighting fit for long if I’m not training. Still, I don’t know if I should….”

Merlin had served Arthur and watched him training his knights for long enough to know what he wasn’t saying. It wasn’t just the physical danger of training with enemy soldiers Arthur had to worry about – it was the danger of giving away tactics and secrets that might be needed later in battle, the lost element of surprise and the unfamiliar.

But that also went both ways. For everything Arthur would be giving up, he would be learning their captors’ weaknesses in turn.

And the other truth was irrefutable – Arthur would plunge deep into the depths of irritability and basically being a Not Nice Person to Be Around if he was forced to go for too long without some sort of prolonged, harmful-to-life-and-limb physical activity. Merlin set the tray with dishes down on the bed and came back over to Arthur, who stuck out his hand.

Train. Need to.

Be careful. Smart. Spy.

The more words he wrote, the slower he had to go to make sure that Arthur understood them all, but when he was finished, the prince caught his eye and nodded. Then, on impulse, Merlin traced out a few more words before he could stop himself.

Smack Basil and Gerard with swords, please.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Are they the ones…did they – ?”

Got to go, Merlin interrupted quickly and then dropped his friend’s hand. He dumped the whole loaded tray into the basket he’d used to bring up firewood and then picked up the lot, slipping from the room and onto the stairs before Arthur could react.

Merlin breathed a huge sigh once he shut Arthur’s door and the prince was out of sight. For someone who currently couldn’t speak, he’d sure said and given away far too much in there. The instant he was out of the room, however, the agony he’d been denying seemed to return tenfold. Shaking, he tripped down a few more steps, the pain he’d worked so hard to hide in his master’s presence taking his breath away, but he barely made it to the room beneath Arthur’s before he knew he was going to collapse. He stumbled inside, dropped his basket with a jumbled clank, and dropped to his knees before a dusty bench, where he let his head fall to the wood.

For a long time he just stayed there, arms clutching the wooden seat and chest heaving – willing the pain-induced nausea back under control and the food Arthur had given him to stay in his stomach.

Eventually, the pain receded slightly allowing the stomach-turning nausea to settle and he felt it was safe to carefully raise his head.

He was in some sort of old study. It had obviously been used as just another storeroom in the not-so-distant past, but one corner had a rickety desk shoved into it, and the walls were lined with shelves that still held ancient looking tombs and a lot of other curious and rather dodgy looking items.

Merlin untangled himself from the bench he’d been grasping like a life-line and haltingly climbed to his feet, his curiosity piqued despite his anguish. He stepped up to the closest shelf and pulled off a random book, skimming its contents. His eyes widened in shock.

It was a book of magic!

Quickly, he yanked another one off, paging to the middle. More words of magical knowledge met his eyes.

With a gasp, Merlin turned and really looked around, using both his eyes and his other senses. And then he felt it, in the back of his mind, the warm tingle and buzz, just like in Arthur’s chambers.

This was a sorcerer’s study! Or at least it had been, many years before.

The fact he could feel the magic, tickling at his mind and soul, made him pause, and he shuffled back to the bench and sank onto it, the books forgotten in his hands.

He felt better in this room – stronger somehow. His hurts pained him just a little less.

It was the same in Arthur’s room, he realized now. It hasn’t been quite as hard to hide his injuries there as it was elsewhere in the castle. He’d chalked it up to necessity – he had to keep his punishment from his master – but now he thought there might be more. The bits of leftover magic recognized his own and offered help.

Just because the collar cut him off from using his magic, didn’t mean it wasn’t still there inside of him.

Of course it was.

He’d suffered more hunger, brutality, and exhaustion in the last weeks than he’d thought was humanly possibly…

Was his magic helping him, even though it was trapped. Healing a bit, sending out trickles of strength, sustaining when there was absolutely nothing else left? Was it his magic making it possible for him to keep clinging to life, keep slaving away when he should by rights roll over and die?

Was he grateful?

He honestly couldn’t answer that last question.

Merlin glanced back down at the books he was unconsciously clinging to.

They’d shut off his magic, but not his brain. Just because he couldn’t actively use the power that flowed through his veins, didn’t mean he stopped understanding it. And not everything in sorcery required actual power to be useful.

With renewed determination, Merlin labored back to his feet. He dumped the books in his hands into the basket, hiding them beneath Arthur’s dirty dishes, then picked up his load with a silent groan.

Both Gaius and his mother had always assured him that knowledge was power. Well maybe the key to their escape and survival could be found in the musty pages of these forgotten books of magic. At the very least, it couldn’t hurt to look.

For a long time after Merlin had left, Arthur stood there staring at the door, his thoughts in turmoil.

Merlin was hungry – starving was more like it – and in great pain. Arthur had been a warrior his whole life, he knew the look of a man hiding his agony behind pride and determination.

And the way his servant had looked at Arthur’s leftovers…and how long it had actually taken the prince to notice.

Arthur slumped over to his bed and sank down on the edge of it, his head falling forward into his hands.

That wasn’t the worst bit, though. It was the sudden moment of clarity Arthur had been given when he’d finally noticed and insisted the boy eat.

That aura – of hunger and hidden agony and quiet suffering…

It wasn’t new! It had shrouded his servant many times in the past, long before they were ever dragged to this nightmare. Never to this extreme, but still. This was not the first time Merlin had been in pain and hid that fact from him! Not the first time he’d been hungry! And that knowledge – that sudden understanding – it was like an actual blow to Arthur.

The prince reluctantly thought back to the fiasco that had set this whole mess in motion – the missing cloak pin and his rash accusations. He’d instantly assumed Merlin had stolen the pin because he needed it, because he was hungry and cold and unable to make ends meet.

But what did that actually say about Arthur; who was responsible for paying said servant a living wage?

The younger man was skinny as a stick, everyone knew that, but was there an actual reason Merlin was a lightweight? Was Merlin often hungry, stomach growling as he stoically served Arthur at feasts and grand parties?

Did he shiver in the cold not because he had the constitution of a maiden but because he honestly had no warm clothes?

Could he and Gaius always afford wood for a fire at night?

Was he always exhausted and falling asleep because his own master worked him too hard?

Shame flooded Arthur, pouring in on top of the guilt and deep worry he was already nursing.

Had he been turning a blind eye to the needs of his friend because it was just easier that way, it was just how things were? A part of him must have noticed for the idea to jump so quickly to his mind when the pin had gone missing, and yet he’d never had a follow-up thought of his part in it all until just that moment, when his friend who’d been made a slave, had gazed longingly at his half-eaten left overs.

He'd spent days cursing Alfhild and Tharennor for what they’d done to Merlin, the agony and misery they continued to inflict on the boy – but what of Arthur’s own guilt?

Because he understood something now.

Arthur believed that Camelot was the best place on earth, the grandest kingdom and he did honestly try to be a just and worthy prince, live up to his role. He loved his home and his people.

But even in Camelot, Merlin had suffered and been hurt, and been afraid to tell his master.

Even in Camelot, Merlin had been cold and alone.

Even in Camelot, the heart of Arthur’s beloved kingdom, Merlin had been hungry and exhausted.

And Arthur had never even noticed.

Why had Merlin never told him?

“You shouldn’t need to be told to think of someone other than yourself; you’re not a child.”

Gwen’s rebuke from many months ago suddenly rang in his ears again, stinging harshly. She’d told him, bravely spoken some hard truths he hadn’t wanted but needed to hear.

And he’d listened – for all of two days – and then gone blithely back to his comfortable and privileged ways.

It had taken seeing Merlin reduced to slavery for him to remember.

For many hours, long into the night, Arthur just sat there, the failure burning deep into his soul. If he could so quickly forget the honest advice of the woman he loved, miss how much the man he considered to be his best friend was suffering in his own home, what kind of prince and leader was he? How many of his people were in need while the royals sat happily in their white citadel and ate their feasts?

Author’s Note: “Destiny and chicken” is probably one of the best loved lines in the Merlin fandom, but as I was trying to write Arthur starting this fake courtship, it occurred to me that Arthur is really very terrible at wooing ALL the time. And he seems to have a strange fixation on chicken, because he tries the same chicken trick on Gwen as well. Anytime he tries to do anything romantic without Merlin’s help, there’s chicken. So, what if that’s because he thought it was needed? And then bang, this happened.

I should also probably apologize to Sir Leon, who I threw under the bus. Sorry, Leon.

Chapter Text

Author’s Note: It’s been way, way too long. I know, and I’m sorry. The last two years have been extremely hard, and surviving real life has beaten my creativity down to nothing. I’m trying to get it back.

I would like to promise I’m here to stay, the updates will be regular, etc. But I can’t. I hope that’s true, but we’ll see. I do promise this – this story is fully outlined. If there comes a time I don’t feel I will be able to complete it, I will at least post my outline so everyone can see what was supposed to happen.

Also, in trying to find my muse again, I did a full re-read of this story to get back in the groove, and boy is it full of typos and errors! I’ll be going back as soon as I can to try and fix all of them.

Thanks for sticking with me, it means the world! And if you read this and like it, I would love to hear from you. Feedback is excellent muse food.

24. New Secrets

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”
- Roald Dahl

Twenty-first Year of King Alfhild, Fourteenth day of Gormánuður

“The Camelot Prince has arrived. It is a strange thing to be courted by a young man who appears to be completely uneducated in our ways but who has come here for this explicit purpose. Despite his comely appearance, it seems his personal wealth is small. His clothes are no better than a servant’s and he retains the use of a slave!

Yes, Father has allowed a slave into the Castle! I have never been more shocked and do not understand why, other than it seems to be connected in some way to the Prince. I suppose Father is trying to ease him into his education and our customs. Hopefully he forces the Prince to dispose of it soon!

It is infallible proof that Camelot must be even more backwards than was thought, something I have gleaned for myself as I reflect upon his own demonstration of courting customs. I am led to believe that Camelot is so poor a land as to place great worth upon poultry. The offering of a fowl was the first clumsy attempt that this handsome, yet hapless prince has made in our courtship. Aldis and Amma do better when playing at courtship with their dolls!

Still, he was…kind.

Mother is ill again. She declined our ride for the second day in a row. She thinks I do not know the cause, but I am not that blind. It worries me…

Father, of course, filled the time with extra lessons.”

- Bodil

It took Merlin five exhausting trips up the tower stairs in the morning to get everything to Arthur’s room. He left it all sitting outside the door until he’d completed the last climb, allowing himself a moment to sit panting on the top step with the breakfast tray balanced on his knees, before forcing himself back to his feet and entering the chamber.

To his surprise, Arthur was already awake and sitting in a chair he’d pulled in front of the nearly dead fire, still in his sleep clothes and lost in thought. With his tousled hair and a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, it struck Merlin how incredibly young and vulnerable the prince seemed. It made his heart hurt.

Quietly, he slipped into the room and laid the breakfast tray on the table, then turned to retrieve more from outside the door.

“Do you think Guinevere believes me dead?” Arthur asked, his voice a thick whisper that broke the silence, stopping Merlin in his tracks. The servant changed course, coming to stand at his friend’s side and gripping his arm. It took a moment for Arthur to look up at him, but when he did, Merlin shook his head in the most emphatic denial he could manage.

Gwen would never give up on you! he wanted to scream. She will hold out hope longer than anyone, than even the king!

“I allowed her into my heart, Merlin, against every better judgement,” the prince said, looking back at the coals. “And now my hand must go to one while my heart belongs to another.”

Merlin flipped Arthur’s hand palm up.

PRETENDING! he scribbled so fast he wasn’t sure Arthur even understood. For Camelot! WILL escape!

Arthur closed his hand into a loose fist, stopping Merlin’s words. “Doesn’t matter. Even back in Camelot I wouldn’t be allowed to be with her. I must marry for political stability, not love. I guess I have more in common with the Ice Princess than I thought.”

Even if he’d had a voice, Merlin didn’t know what he could say to that. So many people touted the privileges of royalty, but very few ever realized how heartbreakingly restrictive it could also be. Instead, Merlin grabbed his friend’s hand and tugged him out of the chair.

It had never been clearer that his master was in desperate need of smacking people around with painful objects. He was becoming too melancholy – too lost in thoughts. Not that Arthur didn’t have a brilliant (if sometimes oblivious) head on his shoulders, but he was a man of action. Too much deep thinking put him out of sorts. Good job Arthur had decided he would take the risk of training with Tharennor’s knights…if Merlin could get him presentable enough to shove out the door.

Eat, he thought at his friend as he pushed him toward the rapidly cooling breakfast he’d set on the table. Gotta bring in more junk.

He hurried back out the door and was attempting to lift the heavy basket of wood without reopening the wounds on his back when he realized he wasn’t alone. Arthur was there, guiding his trembling arms away and hefting the basket himself.

Merlin literally felt his jaw drop in shock. It was a full five seconds before he kicked into motion and grabbed two of the buckets of water before scurrying back into the room, just in time to see Arthur throw the last log on top of the replenished pile by the fire. He set the buckets down with a slosh, staring at his master but Arthur walked past him and back out the door, returning a few moments later with the last pail of water and collection of cleaning brushes.

Who are you and what have you done with Prince Arthur? Merlin wanted to cry. The last time he’d suggested Arthur could possibly help him carry things, he’d ended up mucking out the stables – for the second time in one day.

His shock wasn’t over, however, as Arthur finally sat at the table. “Come here, Merlin,” he said firmly, pointing to the other empty chair. “Sit. Eat,” he ordered, then proceeded to divide his own breakfast in half.

Merlin was frozen, though to his embarrassment he felt tears cresting. After a few bites, Arthur looked back to find him still stuck in place to the floor and the prince sighed. “If I’m going to escape, you are going to come with me. I’m not blind, Merlin. I know they aren’t feeding you, or letting you rest. I know you’re wounded and working far too hard. I also know your own sense of pride will never let you tell me these things – which I respect. But Merlin, you’re the only real friend I have, and it will be a cold day in hell before I let them kill you off if I can stop it. So get over here and eat with me, because if I ever have to say any of that out loud again…”

Smiling through his tears, Merlin sat. It was moments like these, when the Once and Future King managed to shine through Prince Prat, that the servant boy was so very proud to call Arthur his master and friend.

A sword rushed towards Arthur’s head and he quickly spun out of the way, turning the maneuver into a counter thrust of his own. With a clang that echoed throughout the indoor arena, his weapon was stopped by that of the knight – Wendell maybe? – he was sparring, and they both grunted before breaking apart.

Despite the chilled, winter air, sweat dripped from Arthur’s hair and made his tunic cling to his back and chest. His breaths came quick and fast, leaving puffs of moisture hanging in the air before him and his out of shape muscles groaned and ached.

But it was still amazing! For the first time in weeks, Arthur felt truly alive.

He twirled his sword around, a slightly arrogant habit that not even Sir Leon had been able to get him to set aside, and had to work hard not to grin as he and the enemy fighter circled each other.

Arthur attacked first and the match continued, the prince relishing the feel of his own sword back in his hand. But even as they parried and thrust, blocked and attacked, Arthur knew he couldn’t completely give in to the rush of adrenaline and excitement. The knights and soldiers of Tharennor were watching. Not outright – Sir Einar had put a stop to that right at the onset, sending the curious men who had threatened to turn into spectators of this match off to their own tasks with a snapped order - but they were still observing, as was his current opponent, and especially Sir. Einar.

Sir Wendell was young and fit – a good swordsman. Arthur could have beaten him, but he didn’t dare. Einar’s men were skilled and well trained – in battle they would be formidable foes – and he didn’t dare give away the tricks he would use to secure such a victory.

But Arthur Pendragon also really hated losing. He just couldn’t bring himself, as his first act while training with men who loathed his very existence, to throw the match and purposefully lose. Consequently, it dragged on.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Both warriors were tiring, and Arthur knew he was going to have to swallow his pride soon and let the other man win or it would become painfully obvious to everyone that he was holding back.

A bell suddenly clanged and gradually the men finished their last exchange or exercise and then lowered their weapons, shaking out tired limbs. Chatting and talking, they moved to the sides, some handing off weapons to waiting servants while those without rank sat on benches to care for them on their own. Arthur’s sparring opponent gave one last weary jab with his sword accompanied by an angry glare, then jerked out a small bow and retreated.

Left standing awkwardly alone in the center, Arthur let his blade drop, muscles twitching and jerking from exertion, and reached up to push his sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.

This was when Merlin would normally appear, loping up to grab his sword and offer his own however ignorant critique of the prince’s performance that day.

But there was no Merlin.

And he highly doubted the weapon in his hands was his to freely keep.

As if his thoughts had somehow summoned him, Sir Einar approached across the field, a teenage boy following on his heals.

“Prince Arthur,” the weathered knight greeted. “My squire Hiroc will take and care for your sword.”

Reluctantly, Arthur held the weapon out by the hilt for the boy, feeling all the familiar helplessness return as the lad took it and rushed away.

“Merlin usually cares for my weapons,” he said bluntly, but the knight simply ignored both the topic and the implied jab. Instead, he gestured for Arthur to walk with him.

“That was an excellent spar with Sir Fendrel,” the older man said once they were inside one of the old, grand hallways. It was huge and empty, their footsteps echoing on the stone. “You showed much skill.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, still guarded. And he knew he hadn’t heard that knight’s name quite right. Fendrel, not Wendell.

“Though, not as much skill as I remember witnessing in the forest several weeks ago,” Sir Einar added, ceasing to walk and turning to pierce him with a knowing look.

Arthur’s jaw dropped slightly as he stared at the man, his temper flaring.

All that work and worry, what to hide and what to let show, how much to give…and it had been for nothing? One day in and Sir Einar was already calling his bluff?

And suddenly, the senior knight laughed. A genuine sound that was so unexpected Arthur’s flummoxed expression deepened.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness, the secrets you are so desperate to keep are still safe with all but myself. But I have trained too many young men and survived too many battles to be so easily deceived.”

Artur crossed his arms, finding he was embarrassed and angry at the same time.

“Your men – ” Arthur started to say but Einar cut him off.

“You have agreed to the King’s terms, my lord. In a matter of months, they will be your men, sire.”

The embarrassment fled as anger won and the prince leaned forward, his face hardening. “Men I’ve met in battle. Men whose brothers and comrades I’ve killed.”

“Men who are knights and warriors, just like yourself. Come, Prince Arthur, you know as well as I that men who must meet in battle are not necessarily enemies, but simply warriors for different kings.”

“And you know as well as I, Einar,” Arthur snapped the knight’s words back at him, blood rising, “that I did not come willingly to this land and have not renounced loyalty to my king for another! You would have me give my skills and trust to the very men who keep me here!”

“A snow-blocked pass keeps you here, Arthur. All these men did was bring you – following orders they could not disobey.”

Both men stared hard at one another for a long moment as the cold wind of the corridor chilled Arthur’s sweat-soaked clothes and hair before the older knight stepped closer, his voice dropping low. “You have nowhere to go, my lord, and many long, cold months ahead. You can spend that time angry and fighting, or perhaps you can choose to open your eyes and use that intelligent mind I at least am well aware exists. If you do, you might find out that Tharennor has great need of you, Prince Arthur.”

With righteous anger, Arthur drew himself up to his full height. “I am the Crown Prince of Camelot, Sir Einar, and I have given my heart and soul to my country and her people, in life and death. If you know me as well as you claim, you should know that without any doubt.” Then, clenching his fists to keep the swell of confusing emotions at bay, he turned to walk away.

“You can have the boy attend you at training.”

The older knight’s voice stopped him short, the unexpected change of topic catching him off guard.

“What?” he asked, turning reluctantly back to gaze at Sir Einar who remained where he’d been a few paces down the corridor.

“The boy – your servant. You can request he serve you at training. I know you may not think it, but you are still a prince, Arthur, and all save the king himself must obey your commands. If you want him here, you simply have to request it.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the man who had the unnerving ability to pull his emotions back and forth like a child yanking on a toy. “Why are you telling me this?” he finally asked.

The old knight sighed, and for the first time Arthur glimpsed weariness and what might have been a small measure of regret. “You care for the boy.” It wasn’t a question, and once again Arthur kicked himself for giving that weapon to his enemies, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “You need to know exactly how much his life and safety depend upon you.”

And without warning, something Arthur had been fighting for days broke loose.

“You think I haven’t figured that out after you dragged him here in chains to be a slave?” He snapped, harsh and loud, headless of the way it echoed and anyone close might overhear. Suddenly all the feelings of helplessness and fury at his inability to keep his one true friend safe came spilling out. “After the king himself told me it’s his head on the line if I don’t play the part of good little prince? When every time he shows up at my chambers, he looks two feet closer to the grave!”

The force of his anger surprised both of them and the old knight actually took a step back, but Arthur found once he started, he couldn’t stop.

“I’m trying to keep him alive! Trying to control my temper and not throttle this whole bloody country who think it’s acceptable to treat anyone like this, let alone a boy that has barely seen nineteen summers! Trying not to add too much to his already insanely large work load! Trying to feed him with my own food since no one around here seems to think of giving him any! Your country has stripped him and beat him and worked him almost to death, so don’t you dare deign to suggest I don’t know how much Merlin’s life depends on me! If you’re so bloody worried about his survival, why don’t you try doing something about it!”

Shaking from both cold and vivid fury, Arthur turned and stomped off before Sir Einar could even reply.

Later, after he’d found the knights’ bathing rooms and some nameless servant he didn’t know was pouring steaming water into a wooden tub, he was loath to admit that the tremors stemmed more from terror than from cold.

The things he had said – shouted for anyone to hear – were enough to get them both killed. Were enough to ruin all plans.

Still, as he scrubbed the filth of training off his body, he knew he would never, ever regret any of his heated words. He would do many things to try and keep them both alive in this blasted country, but pretend to accept what had been done to Merlin was not one of them.

The laundry chamber was dark, dank, and cold – the heat of the last fourteen hours quickly leeched out by the chilled stone all around. Merlin shivered violently as he slowly dragged the small bucket of water to the corner. A single candle flickered where he’d left it on the floor, casting everything in deep shadows and reminding him that he was the last living soul in the massive room.
Or half-living, at least.

Sometimes lately, as his endless days passed in a haze of pain and humiliation, he wondered if he really was still alive. Maybe he’d died and been consigned to hell for all the lies he’d told, doomed to spend eternity in never-ending torment.

Except hell at least would be warm.

He fought back a deeply weary sigh.

All day the stone room had teemed with life - people shouting, steam billowing, things pounding and clanging - but now it was deserted, only the slave left behind without a thought to finish the work of cleaning up. So, with legs and arms that trembled from exhaustion and pain, he’d stored the tools, rolled the huge tubs to the side, turned the drying clothes, and now he could finally steal a few moments to care for himself.

Care. Merlin inwardly scoffed. Because scrubbing oneself in a frozen, dark corner from a bucket of cold water was the pinnacle of care.

The day had been a Great Wash – the quarterly day when more than just daily linens and clothing was washed - and all servants who could be spared were pressed into duty. For days, Merlin had been collecting the urine from the chamber pots he emptied each morning and pouring it into large jugs to cure. And now he had just spent the better part of twelve hours stomping up and down in a large tub full of it, working it through load after load of dirty clothes.

The light flickered, shadows dancing on the ceiling with his movements and, as they had done all day, his tired thoughts went wandering again, back to home.

Not Camelot – but Ealdor, his little village.

The Great Wash had been a staple of his childhood as well, though only once a year. When the snows finally melted and the air warmed enough to peel off the layers that had kept people alive through the cold, the village would gather in the square with every blanket, article of clothing, and all the linens that they owned. The big tubs would be rolled in, the fires lit, and together everyone would laugh and sing and celebrate another season survived as they worked. The children would take turns stomping the clothes in the fuller’s tub filled with urine, squealing at the smell and taking bets to see who could invent the best stomping dance. Old Man Wilkins played his whistle, the women would gossip as they beat, scrubbed, rinsed and repeated it all, washing away the filth of winter to usher in the hope of spring. After the all linen and cloth was clean and drying in the bleaching field, and the children had rinsed off the smell of days-old urine by a dunk in the stream, everyone would gather for a meal of pottage and rye bread.

His mother had made the best bread.

Mother made the best everything.

It all seemed a lifetime ago – Ealdor, laughter, people who loved him…

What would his mother think if she could see him now? See what had become of him, how low he’d sunk…

What he wouldn’t give to be wrapped in her arms just one more time….

Which would never happen again.

Thoughts depressingly back in the present, Merlin kept one shaking hand on the wall for balance as he stepped clumsily out of his ragged trousers.

There’d been no singing and laughing as he’d worked today – at least not for him. The smelly task of stomping the linen, usually shared equally in Ealdor, had been happily left solely to the slave, hour after hour of it. Now the clothes and linens were clean, the room righted and the other servants off for a few hours of well-earned rest.

And I smell like a cesspit.

It was freezing and he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his corner for sleep, but there was no way he was going to arrive in Arthur’s quarters in a few short hours smelling like a chamber pot. His self-worth was beaten nearly into nonexistence, but he still had enough pride left for that.

Keeping his death grip on the stones of the wall, he shucked off his tunic, grimacing as the motion pulled at his barely healed wounds. Then he slid down to sit on the damp floor and carefully unwound the bandages from his feet. Naked except for his smallclothes and shivering violently, he pulled the bucket over and proceeded to wash as quickly and thoroughly as he could. Once he finished, he picked up the rags he called clothes and washed them out, scrubbing the cloth against the edge of the bucket to try and remove as much of the smell as he could before ringing them out over the drain in the floor. It took everything he had to regain his feet, dump the bucket and stack it with the others. Finally, he gathered his wet clothes and bandages, the stub of a candle, and hobbled to the rag pile in the corner.

He stared at it for a few very cold minutes, warring with himself.

He could be punished, even killed, if caught.

Because wet clothes in winter all night long wouldn’t hurt him at all…

Most likely, no one would notice…

Did he really even care if they did? Could they actually make his life any more miserable than it already was?

Screwing up his courage, he reached into the pile and dug around until he found another ugly, worn-out pair of breeches and a torn tunic, which he determinedly pulled out.

He’d spent a lot of time in the laundries lately, and he’d been watching. For the most part, the rag pile was untouched. Things were left there when considered beyond repairing, but no one kept an inventory or account of what was actually in it. A maid had cut her hand once and a cloth was snatched from it to stem the bleeding without thought. Midge grabbed a bit from the top to wipe his nose and no one scolded him.

Merlin had noticed that the rags the Steward had callously tossed at him that first day didn’t look any different than several other pathetic tunics and trousers buried in the depths of the pile. Surely no one would notice if he took a spare set, so his could dry. And if he liberated a piece of that torn sheet to tear into strips and re-wrap his cracked and frozen feet.

Quickly, he pulled them on before he toppled over – heart pounding - and then sat on the floor and rewrapped his feet. Then he painfully stood again, gathered up his stubby candle and sodden bundle of clothes, and slipped out the door.

The corridors of the castle were dark and deserted – almost hostile – just like everything else in this hated kingdom. Shadows danced around every corner and Merlin swore he felt the eyes of dozens – living or dead he wasn’t sure – boring into him as he scurried through them. It sent chills up the warlock’s spine.

There was magic in this place. It was old and the living had mostly forgotten it, but the magic had not forgotten them. Nor had the dead. The collar kept his own magic prisoner, but he could still feel the remnants of power, wafting through the chilly walls, especially at night when the winds howled and the shadows danced.

And he was utterly helpless.

Just get back to your corner! he scolded himself, pushing himself faster. It was only a nest of unwanted rags in the corner of a storage alcove, but at least there he could see what was coming at him before it got there.

He hurried around one of the last corners and then suddenly his foot collided with a furry, unseen shape. Merlin grabbed the wall to keep from ending in a sprawled heap on the floor and literally bit back a scream.

On the floor, the little object limped over to the corner, letting out a chorus of pitiful mewls.

Not a ghost then.

Or a monster.

Or the Steward.

The boy calmed his breathing, then lowered the candle for a closer look.

A kitten!

Probably orange in the daylight, but right now it was just dirty, shivering, frightened and holding one paw up off the ground.

It looked pitiful, and Merlin’s heart broke.

He knew exactly how it felt – to be hurt and forgotten, lost and kicked around, dirty and hungry and abandoned.

Slowly, so he didn’t frighten it more, he eased himself to the ground and set the candle on the stone, then he reached out and carefully picked it up.

Shh, he soothed in his head as he brought its shaking body close to his chest. Shh. I won’t hurt you. Softly, he stroked it over and over until the little cries and trembling ceased, replaced gradually by a tiny purr. Once he was sure it wouldn’t bolt, he leaned closer to the light to examine its leg.

He was worried he’d hurt it when he almost stepped on it, but the bloody wound he found near the top of the leg looked at least a day old and couldn’t have been caused by his bandaged feet.

Poor thing, he thought, wondering what had happened to it. The injury looked painful, but probably not life-threatening if it was cared for and kept clean. I know how this feels, too, little one, he whispered in his head, thinking of the wound on his own leg that had almost killed him on the journey to Tharennor, but had at last faded to be just another angry, red scar in his quickly growing collection.

Despite his weariness, Merlin’s fingers were gentle as he took his still damp tunic and washed off the wound. The kitten’s purr stopped, but it didn’t start crying again, almost as though it knew he was trying to help. He washed the injury several times, then held it back into the candlelight.

“Good job, my boy. I’m glad something of my teaching has stuck between those overly large ears of yours.”

Gaius and Arthur both in his head. Who was next? Gwen?

Merlin smiled.

That wouldn’t be so bad.

Now, to bandage the kitten’s leg somehow.

After a moment of helpless looking around, Merlin unwrapped the top part of the bandage on his left ankle, tearing off enough cloth for him to use. It left his shin and ankle exposed to the cold, but at least his cracked, aching feet were still somewhat protected.

Holding a squirming kitten while trying to dress its leg was much harder than Merlin expected and it took him several tries to get the little wrapping where he needed it and tie it tight enough to stay, but not enough to hurt the poor thing more. Finally, he held the tiny animal up so he could see its face.

You made that much harder than it needed to be, he scolded gently.

The kitten simply blinked.

And now what do I do with you?

He couldn’t keep it. No matter how much he may want to, long for some living creature that didn’t hate his very existence, he would never dream of trying. He didn’t have enough food to keep himself alive; there was no way he could provide food for a kitten.

And he didn’t even want to imagine the fate of the little beast if the Steward found out. Or his own fate for that matter.

No, keeping it was out of the question.

But he also couldn’t just leave it there in the empty corridor while it was injured, to starve or get kicked around by the next person who came upon it.

Arthur.

Arthur would know what to do.

He’d keep the kitten just for one night and then sneak it to the prince in the morning, begging for his friend’s help. Between the two of them they’d –

His thoughts broke off abruptly as he heard the sound of a door opening much too close to his location, followed by light footsteps.

“Meone!” a little voice called quietly. “Meone, where are you?”

Panic swept through him and he stuffed the little animal down his tunic, trying to grab up his bundle of wet clothes, climb to his feet, and snuff out his candle all at once. He only made it to his knees with the soaking clothes and was reaching for the flickering candle when the glow of another appeared at the end of the hall, held by a little girl.

“Oh, hello!” she whispered happily, waving at him a little shyly.

Merlin froze, eyes as wide as saucers, completely unsure what to do.

He was a slave, and the notion that he was Not To Be Seen had been very painfully beaten into his soul, but he’d also been expecting terror – loud voices and swift kicks – for daring to be out at night and instead here was a girl who couldn’t have been more than six, dressed in a nightgown, fur cape and slippers, and not running away from him in horror.

“I’m looking for Meone,” the girl went on, taking a few cautious steps forward. “What are you doing?”

His mouth dropped open and his brain ground to a halt, but the girl went on without waiting for the answer he could never give.

“He’s very naughty and been missing for days and I want him back so much! He’s orange and small and just a baby and he needs me, but I can’t find him. I’m not supposed to look at night, but I was dreaming of him and the warm feeling Hilda doesn’t like me to talk about woke me up. And so I was following the blue light even though it is a little scary and then I found you! Have you seen Meone?”

Merlin might still be frozen, head whirling from the girl’s rush of words, but the little kitten in his tunic had no plans to stay motionless. It pushed its head up through the neck opening and shook it, looking around.

“MEONE!” the girl squealed and the sight of her lost kitten made whatever hesitancy she had about Merlin being a stranger in a dark corridor at night vanish. She rushed at him and tackled him with surprising force. With a thud, Merlin fell back on the stone floor on his rump as the girl snatched her kitten from his tunic and buried her face in its fur.

“You found him!”

The little girl plopped herself on the ground right next to him, set down her candle, and procced to hug her kitten tightly. From this close Merlin could see that her hair was dark under her nightcap, her nose upturned with just a smattering of freckles scattered across it on her pale skin. Her clothing was fine and warm, marking her of noble blood.

Exactly the kind of little girl he was most certainly not supposed to be seen by, let alone sitting with in a deserted corridor at night.

But somehow, he found himself unable to leave.

Abruptly, the girl held her kitten out in front of her, looking at it sternly.

“You are very naughty, Meone! Running away! No milk for - Oh! He’s hurt!” Her little fingers gently brushed the bandage Merlin had applied as she once again held her kitty close. “Poor kitty,” she cooed, rocking it slightly, her face sad and worried.

Merlin stared at her, transfixed. For weeks he had known nothing but cruelty and pain, seen nothing but evil. He had decided there was barely anything good in Tharennor, hardly anything worth saving.

The girl next to him was proof that was wrong.

At that moment, she seemed to remember that Merlin was sitting there. “Did you fix him?” she whispered.

In a daze, the boy nodded.

“Will he be okay?”

Merlin nodded again, more gently.

The little girl shifted her kitty to one side, then reached out with her other hand and grasped his raw, chapped one. Before he could pull away, she brought it to her forehead.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said very seriously, obviously imitating something she had seen the adults around her do. “Thank you for – ” She halted as the back of his hand touched her skin, surprise in her dark eyes.

“Oh. OH!” she whispered fiercely, dropping his hand and scrambling to her knees, still clutching her little cat. She leaned close – her face excited. “You have it too! The warm goodness! What Hilda says not to talk about! I can feel it! You have – ” she leaned over to whisper right in his ear – “the magic!”

Merlin’s eyes widened in shock and he tugged his hand away, the spell that had him transfixed broken. He was a slave. She was a little noble girl. It was night and he had many, many chores in just a few short hours.

She had magic!

And she could feel his!

He needed to leave!

He started to clamber to his feet just as rushed footsteps sounded again, followed by a third pool of light and another, older girl.

“Luta!” she whispered angrily. “You are not to leave the nursery at night! What if Mother or Martha had seen you?”

Merlin’s heart stopped.

He knew this girl! He’d seen her only once, but the moment was seared into his bank of horrible memories. She was one of the princesses! The younger sister of the one Arthur was forced to court!

He had been talking to one of the little princesses!

Oh, he was going to die! And it would probably be slow and painful! They would tell their father, and the mad king would stick his head on a pike!

He jerked to his knees and away from the little one, swiftly bowing his head.

The older girl, seeing him for the first time when he moved, stopped short in alarm as she subtly shifted her right hand behind her night robe, but the younger one didn’t seem to notice.

“Hilda, I found Meone!” the little girl whispered rather loudly. “Well, he did. My new friend. And guess what? He has the magic!” she drastically lowered her voice for the last part, grinning at her sister. “Just like me and you! I felt it!”

Merlin risked a look up, his blood pounding in his ears as not only his life but his deepest secret lay in the hands of two little girls. The oldest – Hilda – met his eyes, her own wide with confusion, before she looked swiftly away.

“Luta, you must not speak such things! Come with me now!”

“But, he’s my new –”

“Luta! Now!” Merlin swore he heard fear in her voice. And this time she didn’t wait for her sister to obey, but marched over and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. She started to tug her off, Luta holding onto a squirming Meone, but suddenly stopped and turned back to Merlin.

“She’s just a little girl. She doesn’t know what she says.”

She was trembling. And this time Merlin was certain. There was as much fear and desperation in the older girl’s voice as he was feeling himself. He was the slave, yet she was scared of him.

“Please!”

Hesitantly, Merlin nodded, reaching up to gesture that their secret was safe with him. The young princess stared at him a moment more then, dragging her little sister who was still holding her kitten, turned and fled.

Merlin lay in his corner, curled tightly to try and stay warm.

He should have been sleeping. The night was almost over and he needed rest. But he couldn’t stop his mind from thinking, turning over and over the encounter from earlier as his stomach twisted up in knots.

He’d interacted with two of the young princesses.

Would they tell the king?

Would he rise to another horrific beating?

Would tomorrow become his last day on earth?

The little one might tell – she was only five or six after all. Children that age didn’t always know what they were saying. She could easily say something on accident about her new “friend” that would put his life in jeopardy.

He didn’t think the older one would, though. And she seemed to have taught her little sister the importance of certain secrets. Merlin hoped she would stress the life-or-death importance of keeping this one.

Which brought him back to the other topic his mind wouldn’t let go of – two of Tharennor’s princesses had magic!

He had no idea how much or how powerful they were, but there were others in the kingdom with magic. Magic that wasn’t bound!

Could they help him?

Would they?

Should he tell Arthur what he’d found? This might be vital information that could make a difference in their escape. Arthur would more than scold him if he held back something this important.

But…he’d promised not to.

He’d seen the fear and desperation in Hilda’s eyes. More than that, he knew that fear – had lived it for so long.

He opened his eyes to stare at the darkness around him, lost in painful memories.

No, he decided. No matter the cost, he couldn’t tell their secret. It was a line he wouldn’t cross, not even to save his own life.

Besides, if he was going to be spilling secrets to Arthur, shouldn’t he start with his own?

He shifted his aching body on the hard floor, giving up on sleep and trying instead to just keep his temperature a little above freezing.

On the one hand he was terrified Arthur would find out his deepest secret while they were captive, while he was a slave. The prince was the only thing keeping him alive right now. It would break him if his friend found out and rejected him, turned him away, and he had no voice to even try and explain.

Honestly, he was a bit surprised no one had told Arthur. It obviously wasn’t a secret to anyone in Tharennor that the collar stole his voice because it also stole his magic. The only thing he could think of was that it was such a non-secret that everyone just assumed Arthur already knew so there was nothing to tell. And they were all too busy tormenting his master with a million other things to worry about the fact his former servant had magic.

It was all one big, precarious rope they were walking and Merlin had no idea how long it would hold.

On the other hand, Merlin’s magic was their best hope for getting out of Tharennor. Maybe if Arthur knew, he could help find a way out of the collar. And Merlin couldn’t even express how much he wanted out of both the country and the collar.

He just didn’t want it to happen because his best friend personally lopped off his headf.

With a silent groan, Merlin gave up on sleep and dragged himself to his feet. He had more chores than he could possibly accomplish and he was warmer if he was moving anyway.

The personal chambers of Lady Beornwynn sat directly off of Tharennor’s royal archives, exactly where she wanted them. Unmarried and childless, the scrolls and tomes of the library were her life’s work, and she had made preserving the history of her beloved country her mission years ago, when her brother had been king. It was still her mission, even if now that sometimes meant preserving its history from the current monarch. She’d loved her nephew in his youth, but he’d grown rash and arrogant, drunk on his own power.

Such thoughts were dangerous, though. Even for family.

Especially for family.

“Is there anything else, my lady?” her maid’s voice broke into her musing and she looked up at the girl, realizing she’d been staring at the same page of the manuscript that she was reading for at least ten minutes.

She glanced around. The fire roared cheerfully in its grate, a warm cup of tea sat beside her on the table, and her bed was already turned down, a lump at the bottom where the warmer had been placed.

Thorough and efficient. Just as she expected.

She nodded with approval, giving the girl a small smile. “All is fine, Marianna. You can –”

A knock at the door abruptly cut her off.

Her maid gave her a startled look, asking with her eyes if she should answer, but Lady Beornwynn simply nodded, rising to her feet. The girl slipped out to the outer chamber, there were a few hushed whispers, and then she returned, a weathered knight following.

Lady Beornwynn’s eyebrow rose.

“You may leave, Marianna,” she said in dismissal. The girl curtsied and quickly obeyed.

“Einar,” she finally greeted her guest coolly, leaning back against her table as she crossed her arms.

“Wynnie,” he replied, his voice bringing back memories as he used the old nickname.

“Are you here to explain why you went along with Alfhild’s insane plan?”

“No. And you know both why I did it, and that I had no choice.”

She scoffed but didn’t argue. “Well, if you aren’t here to talk treason, why are you here?”

He laughed, a rare sound. The one she remembered from when they were young and he was married to her best friend with a little lad that toddled after his every step. “You never change, do you, Wynnie.”

“And you have changed too much, Einar. Now, what do you want?”

He sobered, stepping closer. “I need a boon, my lady.”

“A boon?” she said incredulously.

“Yes. There’s someone who needs your help.”

Chapter Text

25. Threats and Promises

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

*****

Wearing only his sleeping trousers, Arthur stood in his chilly room, bare arms crossed as he stared at the faded tapestry on his chamber wall, deep in thought.

Had Morgana been found yet? Was she safe? He hoped so. He felt such guilt at having let her down – not being there to continue the search.

Was Camelot protected? Was his father’s health holding? No one had wanted to mention it, but the loss of his ward had been a great blow to the state of the king’s mind. Arthur was incredibly worried what his own disappearance had done to his father. Who would hold the kingdom together if that was the case?

Had magic attacked his home? It seemed to do that with alarming frequency, and if his father was indisposed and Arthur himself wasn’t there to defend Camelot from such evil… Did he even still have a home to return to?

He stepped closer to the tapestry, reaching out impulsively to brush calloused fingers across one of the woven images. In it a dark-haired youth appeared to be using magic, but not to destroy but rather to make crops grow.

Could magic really do that? Make things grow instead of burn them down? Would any magic user want to?

He glanced at the next image. The same youth now appeared to be healing an old woman.

Healing – not cursing. Providing comfort – not pain.

It made no sense and set his head spinning. Magic was evil! He had been taught this. He knew this first hand!

But…

But…

Could magic also do good?

He stared at the images – the skinny youth reminding him of Merlin – Merlin who was suffering so much in this cursed kingdom. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. Images swam in his mind – his servant trembling from cold, hunger, and exhaustion – gravely wounded yet trying so hard to hide it and pretend all was fine. Pretend for Arthur’s sake.

The thought entered like a traitor in the night, and yet he couldn’t push it aside once it was there.

If…if he was offered a chance for magic to save them – save Merlin – would he take it?

Would it be evil if he did? To let magic save the life of his only friend – a skinny, insignificant servant boy?

“Blue light,” he suddenly muttered, jerking his head up and opening his eyes. “The blue light.”

In the cave, when he’d gone for the flower and almost died, the blue light had saved him, and by extension Merlin. That light had been magic.

Was it evil?

Was he already guilty of –

The door to his chambers suddenly burst open and his abused manservant stumbled in, juggling a bucket of water, pail of ashes, and collection of brooms and brushes. Half of it clattered to the floor as he looked at Arthur, his eyebrows climbing in a silent question.

“I was just thinking,” the prince answered defensively, rolling his eyes as he stepped away from the damning tapestry and toward his friend.

The corner of the boy’s mouth turned up in a smirk.

“Stop insulting me in your head, Mer-lin,” Arthur groused as he passed him, lightly punching him on the shoulder. “You still can’t speak to me that way!”

Arthur stepped out of the room onto the landing, gathering up the tray of food that lay there along with various toiletry items.

“Where’s the wood?” he asked when Merlin joined him. His servant pointed down the stairs and then turned to go get it.

“Hold it!” the prince ordered, and for once Merlin froze. “I’ll get it, idiot,” he scolded, shoving the things he held into his startled servant’s arms.

By the time Arthur returned with the load of wood and second bucket of water, Merlin had his breakfast laid out and was just finishing with his bed. The prince dumped the wood in a pile near the hearth as the boy picked up a brush and started to kneel in the ashes.

“Hey!” Arthur stopped him again, dragging him gently back to his feet. “You’re not very bright, are you? Eat first,” he ordered and steered him to the food on the table.

This was new for the prince – this caring for someone else’s needs before his own and wanting it so desperately he was willing to go without. It was emotional and uncomfortable and once more against everything he’d ever been taught, so he tried not to think too much about it. But there was no way in hell Merlin was starving to death on his watch, so he purposefully gave Merlin the biggest portion and pretended not to even notice the grateful glances.

Arthur was glaring daggers at his part of the fried cakes, thinking of having been reduced to an emotional girl and what would his knights say, when Merlin tapped his arm.

The boy tilted his head toward the tapestry, his question obvious.

“Nothing. Just bored. And wondering why my servant was late, as usual,” he teased, swallowing his last few bites, and standing up to avoid any more questions.

Merlin took his cue from his master and finished shoveling his portion of the food into his own mouth with grubby hands before standing, too. The boy brought one of the buckets of water to the table then turned his attention to the ashes in the hearth once more.

Trying not to look like he’d been caught thinking treason, Arthur half-heartedly washed up in the bucket of water while his servant did the other chores. The silence in his room was expected now, but he still missed the sassy prattle of his insolent servant more than he could ever express. He scrubbed at his ears and neck, and allowed his thoughts to drift to what he planned to do next. It was a risk – could backfire spectacularly, causing his friend even more pain – but everything they did in this horrible country was a risk. His gut was telling him this one was worth taking.

Once he was as clean as he could get with a mere bucket and cloth, he allowed Merlin to push him down into the chair and quickly shave him, his hands gentle and skillful despite how they trembled from exhaustion, pain, and the cold.

“Your turn,” the prince ordered as he stood and toweled off, voicing their new normal. Merlin didn’t argue, plunging his whole head into the bucket and then rubbing at his face and scalp. Arthur noticed that his black hair was rough and choppy – the young man must have taken a knife to it in an attempt to keep it out of his way.

Arthur shuddered. The thought of Merlin gripping a knife, hacking at his own hair…it brought back the memory of a solemn night and a sharp razor glinting at a pale throat…

Merlin was finished with his hasty cleaning so Arthur pushed his servant into the chair and grabbed the razor himself. The prince trusted Merlin with his life without question, but he no longer trusted the boy with his own, trusted he wouldn’t do something desperate in his despair.

The traitorous thoughts of before returned like whispers in the night as he played the part of servant to a boy who’d been turned into a slave. What was worse? A prince contemplating magic or a servant contemplating death?

He fought back a growl of utter frustration and set down the razor, tossing Merlin the towel.

“You look like a girl again, Merlin,” he teased to hide his true thoughts. “A really ugly girl.” His friend glared at him as he rose, wadding up the towel and throwing it back, missing Arthur’s head by a mile.

The prince laughed, then moved by the bed. “Come on, then, Mer-lin. Get me dressed or we’re going to be late.”

*****

As soon as Merlin realized where Arthur was purposefully striding, he abandoned the armful of empty buckets and brushes he’d been fighting and latched onto the older boy’s arm, tugging hard.

When the prince finally stopped and looked at him, panic was coursing through his aching body, and he knew his eyes were desperate as he shook his head rapidly.

Please don’t! he begged with every silent form of communication he had. I can’t hurt like that again! I don’t have that much of me left!

Something of his thoughts must have been written on his face because Arthur sighed, reaching up to grip his shoulder gently.

“I won’t let him hurt you, Merlin,”

How can you stop him? he wanted to shout, but all he could do was stubbornly keep shaking his head “no.”

“Sir Einar told me I’m allowed to have you attend me at training. I’m a prince, Merlin. The Steward will do as I say.”

And take it out on me later with his whip and hours of extra chores, Merlin thought, but all he could do was let his whole body sag in defeat. After a moment, he grabbed Arthur’s hand, flipping it palm up.

Really need me there? he wrote, expressing his confusion. Arthur had no armor for him to polish or chainmail to mend. He highly doubted he would even be allowed to touch the sword that Arthur would use, let alone sharpen it. And he really, really hoped his friend was smart enough to realize that using him as a practice dummy right now just might actually kill him. What would he do for him at training?

“I don’t need you there, other than the fact it would be nice to have an ally in the ranks, but you need to be there.” The prince sighed, dragging a hand down his face and Merlin was struck once again with how tired his friend looked.

“Merlin, I’m not an idiot. I…I see you each night and each morning, see the life draining from you a little more each day. And the only thing I can do, only measure of protection I can even offer you is my presence, trying to keep you at my side. The more time you’re with me, the less time you’re at the mercy of them. So I’m going to press that advantage as much as I possibly can, even if it means you sit there bored stiff while I train.”

Arthur was doing this to try and protect him? Merlin was touched, but still – it would never work.

He shook his head, protesting, starting to trace more words in the prince’s hand, but Arthur pulled away, grabbing Merlin by the upper arm and continuing on his previous mission.

“Come on, you. I am doing this so you might as well keep your complaints to yourself.”

They stopped outside a door that Merlin had come to associate with utter doom. Knowing there was nothing he could do to stop his master, the servant boy just sucked in a fortifying breath and ducked his head, staring at the floor while Arthur raised his hand and knocked.

*****

With a satisfied grunt, Arthur let the staff fall to his side and stepped back from his sparring partner. The other man gave him a cool nod, then turned away. The prince ignored him, moving to the side of the indoor training field and rolling his shoulders, just grateful for the physical activity. Already his muscles felt less stiff than they had the day before.

A hand touched his arm and he turned to find his servant at his side, holding out a ladle of cold water.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, leaning his staff against the arena fence before taking the dipper and draining it. He avoided looking at Merlin, afraid of the accusation he might find lingering on his pale face.

The earlier confrontation with the Steward had not been pretty, and though he’d gotten his wish, Arthur greatly feared he’d cost the boy more future pain. Still, he’d do it again because what other choice did he have? He needed Merlin where he could see him, and he had to trust that Sir Einar’s warning held weight. Somehow, this would be better for Merlin – it had to be.

Chapped fingers pulled his left hand up and spread it out.

Feeling better? his friend wrote, and Arthur finally glanced up enough to catch the smirk on the boy’s face as he tilted his head toward the weapon at Arthur’s side.

He barked out a short laugh – his servant knew him too well.

“Yes, actually,” he answered, wiping the sweat from his eyes with his tunic sleeve. Though he wasn’t about to tell the boy who he’d been pretending to bash with the staff.

Off to the side, Sir Einar called out new orders to the tired men.

“Back to work,” Arthur told Merlin, returning the ladle, and grasping the staff once more. His friend squeezed his arm, offering silent encouragement, then shuffled back to the edge of the arena and his own pile of work.

Arthur had hoped to buy Merlin a morning of mostly rest, but while he’d won the battle to get his servant there with him, the Steward had given the boy a reminder that he was still only a slave under his complete control. He’d sent him with two bags of wool and orders to have it carded by the time he returned – or else.

The prince ran fingers through his longer hair and sighed.

He needed a haircut.

And to focus.

Sir Einar was eyeing him pointedly. Battle was not the place to be distracted contemplating his many failures, even a mock battle.

He cleared his mind and threw himself into the exercise, concentrating on improving his skills without giving too much away to the enemies that surrounded him.

Arthur had always enjoyed training, even the physically and mentally draining aspects of it. It was satisfying in a way not many things in his life were – to work through something with pure sweat and determination and know that his accomplishments were entirely earned, not just bestowed because of rank and the privileges of birth. When he was fighting it was as if everything in his body was in complete harmony, working seamlessly together, and he relished the feeling.

He wasn’t quite there today. Too many days away from practice had left him slightly rusty, and the stress of his current situation was affecting his motions, but he accepted that as just another challenge and threw himself into working around it. Consequently, the verbal abuse that cut through his concentration caught him off guard.

“Worthless sack of bones,” a voice taunted from off to his left.

“Should throw it in a river and drown it,” another voice said acidly.

A staff swung toward his face and Arthur, distracted by the cruel insults he was hearing, barely managed to block the blow. In frustration, he let his guard slip and instinct and skill took over. He countered with a strike of his own that swept his partner’s feet from beneath him, sending the man crashing to the ground. He used the moment to look for Merlin, still sitting with his bags of wool.

The boy had his head lowered so far that all the prince could see was his mop of ragged hair, but the young man’s shoulders were hunched and his body was tense as a bow-string. Before him, two soldiers leaned casually against the railing, looking at Merlin with unbridled glee.

“Get up, little slave!” the blond one ordered, slapping the railing with a gloved hand. Merlin flinched so hard Arthur thought he might jump out of his skin. “Come polish our boots!”

“It can clean them with its tears,” his dark-haired friend added with a nasty laugh as Merlin reluctantly got to his feet to obey. “I remember it had enough of those as we dragged it here.”

Arthur forgot all about training, about his sparring partner who was quickly regaining his feet, and about the need to keep his head down and play along in this dangerous country. The staff was solid in his hand as he started for the two enemy soldiers, righteous fury burning through him.

Merlin had just dropped to his knees before the two men when a piercing whistle cut through the noise of training, followed by Sir Einar shouting, “Good work today, men!”

The two soldiers glanced up in obvious annoyance as the senior knight gestured for everyone to gather, but then the dark-haired one noticed Arthur, smacked his friend on the shoulder to point this out, and the men hastened to follow the knight’s orders.

Arthur reached his servant moments later, the tremors running through Merlin’s skinny body as the boy still knelt on the dusty ground fanning the flames of his rage.

He had done this.

He had brought Merlin here, to training, insisting it would be safer.

It was because of him, Merlin was even in this bloody country.

This was all his fault.

“Are you okay,” he asked through clenched teeth, gently pulling his servant to his feet.

Merlin nodded – an obvious lie.

Most of the men had gathered in the center of the arena now and Arthur knew he should join them, but he didn’t care.

“Go back to your chore,” he ordered Merlin softly, pointing to the sacks of wool and then planting himself, staff still in his hand, at the railing as a silent, glowering guard.

He caught snippets of what Sir Einar was telling his men, the words drifting in through the prince’s rage without really registering in his brain. After a few minutes, the training session broke up, men chatting together as they scattered in many directions.

Arthur was still scowling, arms crossed as he leaned back against the arena railing, the staff clenched in his hand, when Sir Einar approached him.

“Are all knights here in Tharennor without honor?” Arthur accused before the older knight had even stopped walking let alone opened his mouth to chastise the prince for not gathering with the rest. Arthur’s eyes and voice were hard – his anger completely evident.

Einar stopped, for once looking slightly unsure. “My lord?” he asked, reaching for the staff in Arthur’s fist.

Arthur thought about fighting to keep it, but knew there was no point. “Your knights,” he pressed instead as he let go of the wooden weapon. He gestured across the arena to where the two men who had harassed Merlin were laughing together. “They have nothing better to do than pick on helpless servants?”

Einar shot a glance over at Merlin, then toward the men Arthur had pointed out. The older man let out a sigh. “They aren’t knights, Prince Arthur. Merely soldiers.”

This information was strange enough to knock some of the fury from the prince, and he wrinkled his brow up in confusion.

“Not knights? Why are they training with your knights and squires then?” Uther and Arthur didn’t exactly see eye to eye on how to build up a force of elite men, but the prince was shocked to think Tharennor would be so forward in its thinking, allowing commoners into the ranks. Not much in this country had struck him as “forward” at all and class seemed to hold even more importance here than in Camelot.

Einar hesitated for a moment, and then it was as if he made some kind of internal decision. “Tharennor is not large, your highness. Our landed nobility are small in number. In Tharennor, a man who can pass the trials of knighthood but does not possess the lineage necessary to receive the title, is given the rank of Soldier. These men are taught not only battle skills, but basic reading, writing, and figures. Birth does not determine a man’s willingness to fight for his country, Prince Arthur. Our people are hearty and hale, and winters are long here with very little to do except train. Do not be deceived by our lack of knights; our army is strong and well-taught. You will find that even the castle guards must join us five or six times a month, as their individual schedules permit.”

“And in all that teaching, you didn’t think to include a few lessons on basic human decency?” Arthur shot back, still very angry.

“There are also many traditions and ideas that are entrenched in Tharennor’s history. It’s not easy to erase them. Perhaps, when you are Prince of Tharennor and they are your men…”

Arthur bit back the response he wanted to say to that comment. Besides, hell had pretty much already frozen over, so at this point, it was really tempting fate.

“If they touch him again, I will show them how I teach respect to my knights. Do we have an understanding, Sir Einar?”

The old knight held his gaze for what felt like minutes before he finally gave a barely noticeable nod.

The prince waited a moment longer, to make sure he had driven home his point, then turned back to his servant.

“Are you almost done?”

Lips tight, Merlin gestured to one of the sacks that was still half full of uncarded wool.

“Right. Well, I’m just going to run through some footwork. Carry on,” he said, trying to act like he wasn’t stalling, wasn’t trying to keep his servant from another beating. Anger still simmering, Arthur picked up a wooden practice sword one of the squires had probably forgotten on the edge of the arena and stepped away from the railing.

He worked through the basic positions he’d known almost as long as he could walk, slowly at first and then faster and faster. As he moved, all the pent up emotions of captivity, helplessness, anger, and frustration that had been bottled up for weeks jostled loose, and he finally let them out. He was lost in eviscerating imaginary enemies with brutally quick moves when he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

“Merlin!” he yelled with a frown after having nearly bashed his friend’s head in when he whirled around. “What have I told you about interrupting a knight in training?”

The young man had the good grace to look slightly sheepish, before holding up his bags of wool to show that he’d completed his task.

Arthur rolled his eyes as he chucked the practice sword to the side. “Next time, get my attention some other way. I’ve put too much work into keeping you alive to kill you by accident myself.”

Merlin grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and nodded. The false grin sobered Arthur up instantly and he glanced around, noting they were alone.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, stepping closer to the boy. Merlin looked away, shaking his head quickly, but Arthur thought back to the words he’d overheard. “They didn’t hurt you today, but they have hurt you before, haven’t they? On the journey here.” The servant refused to look at him or give any sort of answer, but he didn’t need one. He’d known the answer before he asked the question.

Arthur stepped closer to his friend, taking one of the bags of wool from him. “I meant what I said, Merlin,” he stressed quietly. “If they touch you again, they will know the wrath of a knight of Camelot.”

Merlin reached up and scrubbed a hand across his face, then finally looked at him with a false smile. He reached for Arthur’s hand, who gave it willingly, turning it palm up out of habit now.

You stink.

Bring up bath.

His servant, who was trembling just standing there holding a bag of fluffy wool, thought he was going to carry a full bath up to Arthur’s tower room?

“Over my dead body,” the prince growled, rolling his eyes. “There are chambers for the knights’ to bathe; I’ll simply use those. Now go get your other chores done so you aren’t late – again – to prepare me for dinner.”

Merlin graced him with a much more real smile of gratitude, then grabbed the sack of wool back and ran off. Lost in dark thoughts, Arthur followed much more slowly, making his way to the communal baths the knights shared as his mind raged.

*****

Merlin’s day to day existence, when he wasn’t with Arthur, had narrowed down to pretty much just two things: scrubbing and hauling. He scrubbed the chamber pots and hauled away their contents. He scrubbed the fireplaces and hauled off the ashes. He hauled firewood and laundry and vegetable peelings and water and straw until he thought his arms or back would break and he’d collapse. He scrubbed pots and pans and floors and laundry and turnips and potatoes and walls until he couldn’t remember what it was like to have hands that weren’t cracked and bleeding.

He never prettied anything anymore – decorated a hall, set a table. He was a slave, and slaves were dirty, just like everything he touched.

And so he just scrubbed and hauled with trembling arms and bleeding hands.

Sometimes he had a shadow in the form of Midge, who blathered on without stop, too grateful to have company to care that said company couldn’t answer back.

“Did ya see the pudding Cook prepared for tonight? Five different layers. Don’t ya wish we could try just one?”

“Ol’ Mother Meg says her bones is so full a’ aches that this winter’s gonna last two extra months fer sure!”

“Boy, look! It’s Cat! He disappeared forever an’ I thought sure he was dead, but then poof, he’s back. I’m glad, ‘cause sometimes he sleeps on my feet an’ it’s nice to have ‘em warmed up.”

It didn’t hurt as bad when Midge called him “Boy.” It was the best of the names Merlin now had to answer to that the little servant could have picked. And when it came from his mouth, it wasn’t meant as an insult. It was just his name. He was Boy, just like Cat was Cat.

More often than not, though, Merlin was left alone as he toiled away at his chores. He was the slave – invisible and forgotten – just another piece of the dirt he was cleaning.

During these hours of solitude, when he wasn’t too exhausted to think at all, his mind turned invariably to home.

Gaius was cooking his favorite stew. He could smell it, see it bubbling in the pot over the fire…

Gwen laughed at the handful of little purple violets he gave her. “Only you would risk the royal gardener’s wrath to bring me flowers, Merlin…”

“Merlin, join me to break our fast this morning,” Leon called, patting the bench near the training field he was sitting on and then holding out a hunk of bread and cheese. “I know Arthur has had you up since before dawn, as well…”

Gentle, kind arms filled with love wrapped around him and pulled him close. “Sh, my boy, I’ve got you. It will be all right…”

Thoughts of his mother always brought him crashing out of his daydreams and back to bleak reality. He couldn’t think of her; it hurt too much, knowing he’d never see her again.

But he prayed, with any bit of him that still believed in the gods, that someone would take care of her.

By the time Merlin made his way back to Arthur’s tower in the late afternoon to help ready his master for dinner with the royal family, he couldn’t even put into words how tired he was. But he plastered on the smile he knew Arthur needed to see, and pulled himself wearily up one step at a time.