Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Merlin knows is that he’s cold. The cold seeps deeper than the gooseflesh on his skin and the near painful cramping of his toes--shoes, scarf, and jacket long gone, leaving him only in his too short trousers and worn thin shirt. It is in his veins, recycling freezing blood into his heart and back to the rest of his body. It has frozen his bones to ice, sending sharp pains through his ribs with every breath he struggles to take.

As his senses start to awaken along with his mind, Merlin can feel thick shackles locked tightly against his wrists and ankles. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the darkness. Neither sun nor candlelight illuminate the room, so he summons his magic to force his eyes to see. The warmth of it in his chest swells for only a second before it sears white hot down his spine and fizzles out. 

Holding back a gasp, Merlin squeezes his eyes shut as the burn of his chains slowly eases away, leaving him without warmth again. He’d heard of cold iron before, but never expected it to be so literal.

Taking a deep breath, he tries again to open his eyes and take in his surroundings. 

A faint sliver of moonlight breaks through a ratty cloth covering the lone window high above, bringing with it a brisk wind that somehow cuts through Merlin despite how cold he already is. But his eyes finally start to make out where the walls meet the floor as well as the shapes of furniture around him. 

The room is nearly as big as Arthur’s chambers but stretches longer one way than the other--giving it the appearance of a very small banquet hall. Cobwebs are stuffed in every corner and dust blankets nearly everything, making it easy to figure out what has been used most recently. 

It is a trail of disturbed dust that leads Merlin’s eyes to a work bench sitting halfway across the long room. A stool has been dragged away from the table--filled with familiar looking tools and foreign bottles filled with liquids he hopes he doesn’t get the chance to identify up close. It takes him a bit, but he realizes his prison is an abandoned physician’s quarters.

Just as his mind starts to wander, thinking of all the reasons he’s been chained up here of all places, a figure moves into his peripheral vision. At first, with his thoughts still reeling, Merlin thinks it is a bear--large and furry, taking each step carefully forward.

Once the moonlight falls over the silhouette, he sees that it is a man, clad in a thick fur cloak with the hood casting his face in the darkest shadow in the room.

“Emrys…” 

The man’s voice is low and smooth, full of something like awe, but there is an edge to his mannerisms and tone that makes Merlin tense. The action sends another stab of ice through his limbs, but he doesn’t respond, unsure of the man’s intentions.

Lowering his hood, Merlin can tell the man is much older than him--his short beard and unkempt hair are mostly grey and his dark eyes seem to sink into the shadows underneath them. He finally lights a single candle, casting a dim light over his wrinkled face. The man has a warm, welcoming smile, but his wild eyes have Merlin inching closer to the wall behind him.

“I am grateful and humbled to be in your presence, Great One,” he says with a bow before dragging the stool behind him towards Merlin. He stops just short of where Merlin could plausibly kick out if he had the energy and sets the candle holder on the seat.

He sighs contentedly, looking over his prisoner as if Merlin were a magnificent statue or tapestry.

“I have travelled all of Albion looking for you, Emrys.” The man’s eyes stop wandering, locking his gaze on the warlock. “Searching for…” he waves his hands through the air, looking for his words. “Well,” he pauses to laugh, “for anything about this legend I heard so many years ago.”

He chuckles, as if recounting a tale with a friend instead of holding a stranger hostage. 

“You see, druids and sorcerers alike are so secretive about their prophecies and stories. But, I have found in my travels, anyone is willing to open up to an enthusiastic listener. And, my word! Some of your people are so eager to tell their stories. Pass them on, in a way.”

Merlin stares him down, not yet ready to reveal anything until he finds out what the man’s plan is. Truthfully, he isn’t sure his voice would work with how tight he feels coiled inside.

“Even so,” his tone turns mournful. “There is so little to learn about you from anyone, it seems. You sure keep your adventures to yourself!”

He takes a few steps closer, and if Merlin could melt into the wall, he thinks he would if it meant he could get away from the ominously joyful man. The man squats down next to him, patting Merlin’s knee with a large, gloved hand. He flinches at the touch, much to the dismay of his aching body and to the interest of the man--if his quick smirk is anything to go by.

“I have tried, Emrys, I really have, to learn as much about you--about your power--so that this… meeting of ours could be less straining. Less embarrassing, even.” He smiles again, shaking Merlin’s leg back and forth. “I don’t wish to bother you with so many questions,” he leans in. “There is so much about magic I do not understand. But, with your help,” he cups Merlin’s cheek in his hand, forcing him to look up, “I am eager to learn as much as I can.”

***

Gaius immediately notices Merlin’s absence, but doesn’t bother getting caught up worrying over the whereabouts of the young man. It often happened on nights the physician spent long hours in the lower town--Merlin had a lot on his shoulders not just as the King’s servant but as a great sorcerer living in secret. When he disappeared, it was best to just expect him to come home within the next day and find out what he was up to while tending his wounds.

Knowing that he sometimes goes missing out of duty doesn’t always bring the old man comfort, but it at least lets him relish in quiet pride thinking of what sort of magic he is using to protect Arthur and Camelot.

Truly, there is nothing out of the ordinary when he doesn’t come stumbling into their quarters in the middle of the night or when Gaius wakes the next morning and doesn’t find him passed out at the workbench.

It isn’t until a few days later without word from Merlin that it strikes Gaius as odd. Not that his assistant hasn’t lost track of time before, or decided that for the safety of others, he needed to stay quiet for some time. When a full week passes without any sign of him returning soon, Gaius pulls Arthur aside after a particularly uneventful Round Table meeting.

“Ah, Gaius, I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” the young King says, joyful eyes following Guinevere as she exits the hall. Once the doors shut behind her, he turns his full attention to the old man. “When is Merlin returning from Ealdor? I know he hasn’t had the time to see his mother in a while,” he frowns slightly, knowing he’s the reason Merlin has been busy. “But, if I can speak honestly,” he drops his gaze. “I am getting tired of George’s punctuality and his horrid sense of humor.”

He looks back up to see Gaius’s knowing smile and scrunches his nose. “He just doesn’t know how I like my clothes folded! Or that, at this point, I expect my dinner to be late!” The defensiveness in his tone holds no weight, and they both know the physician can see right through him.

“That is… actually why I pulled you aside, Sire,” Gaius finally speaks, smile turned into a worried frown. “I did not expect him to be away this long,” he says truthfully. “A few days at most, but I haven’t heard a word from him since before he left.”

Arthur furrows his eyebrows, searching Gaius’s face for only a moment before relaxing his face. With an exasperated sigh, he rolls his eyes.

“Knowing Merlin, he probably arrived back in Camelot a few days ago and went directly to the tavern!” He throws his hand in the air and shakes his head. “Either blacked out at the inn or thrown out to sleep with the pigs.”

Though he sounds frustrated, it’s easy for Gaius to read into his exaggerated gestures and quick glances around the room. Whether or not he believes Merlin has spent the last days in a drunken stupor, Arthur is concerned.

His eyes land on Elyan and Gwaine as the latter begins to open the door to leave.

“Elyan! Gwaine!”

They both stop, shoulders slouching as they turn around and walk back towards the center of the room.

“Meeting’s over, princess,” Gwaine huffs, crossing his arms. “Percival’s on guard rotations this week. Whatever you need, ask him.”

Elyan elbows him in the ribs, looking to the ceiling as if someone from above will grant him the patience to deal with the other knight.

“Ignore him, Sire,” he shares a look with the King. “Though he has a point. I’m meant to be meeting Gwen to discuss an outing soon.”

“I’ll make it quick then,” Arthur starts. “I need the both of you to do a sweep of the lower town. Be sure to check the tavern first.”

“Already ahead of you there,” Gwaine says, smacking Elyan’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“I’m sending you to look for Merlin, not to get drunk, Sir Gwaine.”

Both knights perk up at the mention of the servant.

“Why would we look for Merlin at the tavern?” Elyan asks, turning his attention to Gaius. “Did an illness break out?”

Before the physician can respond, Arthur answers for him. “It’s nothing like that. He’s just gotten himself lost again, and I’d wager he’s too intoxicated to know it.”

Gwaine scoffs, looking at Gaius with a disbelieving look on his face. “And why would you think Merlin of all people has gone and gotten himself in such a state?”

“Will you just go look for him?” Arthur huffs. “I don’t care what state he’s in, as long as you bring his lazy ass back here! He’s skipping on both his duties to me and as Gaius’s assistant.”

With one last wave of his hand to dismiss them, Arthur walks away as the knights hustle off to the lower town.

Though Gaius needs to dispel this unfortunate picture he’s painted for the King about his servant, he silently hopes Elyan and Gwaine do find him huddled over a pint in one piece.

***

Despite what Merlin always says, Arthur does not pace. He simply keeps his body occupied while he thinks--usually by walking back and forth in his room. 

It’s been hours since he sent his knights to search for his servant--the autumn sun now low enough in the sky that the moon can be seen visibly from his window.

He’d spent the first few hours avoiding George at all costs--checking the armory, conversing with stuffy council members, running through training drills. And when his muscles got too tired, he went back to his quarters, finally going through letters and reports, writing speeches, and sending George home for the night. Merlin would bring him dinner whether he was drunk or not.

Guinevere had been understanding about Elyan’s absence and concerned about Merlin--the emotion easier for her to show than Arthur felt he could.

The more people he tried to comfort by telling them the servant was probably at the tavern, the less he believed it.

The last bit of sunlight fades from over the hills right before there is a rough, loud knock at the door. Gwaine.

“Enter.”

Elyan opens the door for both of them, entering the room in a tense silence--and any quiet moment from Gwaine carries with it a sense of foreboding. The lack of his scarf-clad servant seems to weigh heavy on all of them.

“Where is he?” Arthur asks, hands on his hips. He clings onto the last bit of hope that maybe his men had been feeling generous and took Merlin to Gaius first. 

That hope shatters as soon as Elyan begins to speak.

“It appears Merlin isn’t in Camelot, Sire.”

Arthur slowly closes his eyes and takes a moment to center himself before responding. “Gaius said he went to see his mother in Ealdor. Did you ask any of the shops if they received any letter from him?”

“If Merlin had gone towards Ascetir, he would have passed the baker’s home-”

“And the baker said he hasn’t seen Merlin in over a week,” Gwaine interrupts him, huffing. “Every single person that lives on the edge of town said the same thing. No one has left or entered Camelot for a few days,” he pauses, looking sideways at Elyan. “Except one person.”

Before Arthur can ask, Elyan continues.

“About a week ago, the night before Gaius said Merlin would have left, a stranger passed through in the evening,” he starts slowly. His eyes shift over Arthur’s face, assessing his reaction before the King nods him on. “He entered Camelot from the east. Both the baker and cobbler described him as cloaked and large--tall even when sitting down. He came in on a small cart with what those who saw him suspected were his wares. He stopped at the Rising Sun early in the night-”

“Evoric says he spent no coin! Not even for food or drink,” Gwaine grumbles, throwing his hands in the air. He spins on his heel before pacing away and back again once. “He didn’t stay at the inn and barely spent more than an hour asking about Gaius.”

Arthur straightens his back at the mention of the old man. “Why would he ask about Gaius?”

“Seems he was trying to find a physician,” Elyan answers before Gwaine can speak over him again. “Some of the regulars said he must have been from somewhere cold with how thick his cloak was-”

“Heard it was entirely made of some animal’s fur,” Gwaine adds. 

Letting out a slow, controlled breath and closing his eyes for a moment, Elyan holds in his temper and instead keeps talking as if the other knight weren’t there. “He left, a few others outside the tavern saw him head towards the castle, but he turned off the beaten path before reaching the citadel.”

“And after that?” Arthur turns around to sit at his desk, hands folded in front of him to keep himself from balling them into fists.

“The cart disappeared near the far side of the castle.”

Elyan doesn’t need to specify--the stranger went towards the tower where both Gaius and Merlin live.

“The moon was at its highest point in the night the next time the man was seen. He headed north towards the Darkling Woods.”

When the knight finishes his report, Arthur closes his eyes and sits in silence as he tries to sort through all the information he’s been given. No one saw Merlin leave for Ealdor, the last time he was seen was before the strange merchant entered Camelot. 

If the man had simply been looking for help, he could’ve gone directly to Gaius or even petitioned the King. Instead, he had-

“He kidnapped Merlin.”

Arthur’s eyes snap open, looking up at Gwaine who has just spoken his thoughts aloud. He turns his gaze towards Elyan who nods his agreement.

“Then we need to find him.”

Chapter Text

A physician. Merlin has to laugh, despite how much it makes his ribs hurt. 

This makes the man pause, tilting his head to the side as he studies his latest experiment from his stool.

No matter what Arthur might think, Merlin is no fool--he knows that is exactly what he is to his captor: a creature to push and observe. 

Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim candle light, he quickly scanned the room for a way to get out of his chains and for exits since his magic didn’t seem to be an option. While looking for the first, he found stacks of crates covered by red-stained cloth and what he could only imagine were remains of various animals that definitely didn’t belong in a healer’s quarters.

On top of the horrible decor, layers of dust, and crumbling stone of the walls, he can’t imagine the “physician” is helping anyone get better, let alone keeping them alive.

As far as exits, Merlin only found the lone, high window the moon still shone through and two doors. One was at the far end of the room with the workbench between him and it, small in size and easily recognizable as an entrance to the servant hallway--well, at least easy for a servant. The other exit, large double doors, told Merlin that the man had made use of some abandoned throne room for his makeshift torture chamber. 

Given the kind of meetings Merlin had sat through at Arthur’s side in Camelot’s throne room, he figures it isn’t too far-fetched.

Truthfully, the man’s ramblings about wanting to learn magic and how his traumatizing childhood has stunted his ability to connect to it aren’t anywhere near as painful as some old noble’s report on why he needs more land. At least Merlin can empathize when the physician recounts watching his father die.

“I sometimes feel as if I will never live up to his legacy,” he says quietly, eyes searching Merlin’s face. “So you see, that is why I need magic, Emrys. To make people better. To make beautiful things.”

He abruptly stands up, nearly toppling the stool over and making Merlin jump. His body has warmed slightly since he woke, but the ever present sting of cold stabs through him.

“Now,” he claps his hands together, spinning around to walk towards a shelf on the far wall. 

He grabs one too many bottles, juggling two in one hand while swirling some horrible green liquid around in the other. Dropping the empty ones on the table then gently setting the third next to them, the physician picks up a small knife.

When he starts walking back to his prisoner, Merlin sits up straight, pulling his shoulders back. He ignores the pain as his feet helplessly try to push him into the wall to give him some guise of support.

“And what exactly are you planning to get from me?” he asks, hoping he can buy some time by getting the man to start rambling again.

He does pause for a second, an excited smile spreading across his face. “There are so many things that can be improved with magic, as you well know,” he gestures with his hand, slicing through the air with the blade. “What I am trying to understand is how.” 

“You could have asked,” Merlin says, shoulders tense. “I’m sure we could have a decent conversation about how to better the world with magic,” he lowers his voice, “even though you kidnapped me.”

“You misunderstand me, Emrys,” the physician comes back to kneel in front of him. Merlin lifts his chin, trying to feign strength he doesn’t have, but he’s unable to stop himself from glancing between his captor and the knife. “I should have explained better,” he apologizes. “I’ve spent many years imagining countless tragedies that could be mended by magic, injustices,” he hisses the word, “righted by it. 

“As the list went on and on, I was forced to figure out which of them were even possible to achieve--narrow down my options to only the most important ones.” He hums, a wistful look on his face. “So many projects I’ll never be able to finish, miracles I can never create.” Looking back to Merlin, he continues. “You see, I need to know how to make magic work in the exact way I need it to. To make these things perfect. And, as it is, I cannot do magic.” He looks down to the floor between them for a brief moment before locking his eyes onto Merlin. “But that doesn’t mean magic cannot be used by me!”

There’s no more of a warning before the knife is buried deep into Merlin’s bicep. He gasps, flinging his head back and hitting it hard against the wall. He tries to pull away, but between the chains and the physician’s now tight grip on his shoulder, he can only grimace as he begins to bleed.

“I just… need-” he pulls the knife to the side, widening the wound with each word, “to figure out,” he pulls the blade out, blood running down his arm, “how.”

While Merlin grunts at the onslaught of pain, the physician watches the pooling blood as it soaks through his shirt and drips onto the floor. After a moment of him staring mesmerized, he goes to grab the bottles he left behind.

In his absence, Merlin can feel his magic responding already. He’s in danger, and if it hadn’t been obvious before, his body is desperately trying to tell him now. He holds it in, knowing the cold iron will burn if he tries. He hesitates, too, with the sinking suspicion that using magic in front of this man might make him more eager to carve into him again. 

Once back on the ground, the man brings one of the empty bottles up to the wound, ripping away the fabric that now sticks to Merlin’s skin to allow the blood to spill into the glass vial.

Raising an eyebrow, the warlock searches the man’s face to find him concentrated solely on his task. He doesn’t speak a word, seemingly unbothered by Merlin’s ragged breathing breaking the silence.

When he’s satisfied with the contents of the first, he begins to fill the second bottle, squeezing around the cut to push more blood out. Merlin inhales sharply, trying to pull his arm away from his tight grip. 

Despite his horrible medical practices, he gives a very Gaius-like huff as he readjusts his hold on Merlin’s shoulder, nearly digging his thumb into the joint.

“Stay still,” he says in his low voice.

He sets the last bottle with the strange liquid between him and Merlin’s legs, then produces a new blade from his cloak--this one smaller and with no handle. It’s unlike any knife or tool he’s ever seen Gaius use. If he had to compare it to anything, it reminds him of the sheers Gwen uses when cross stitching, but only one blade instead of two.

Dragging the sharp edge through the wound, he takes a small amount of blood and flicks it into the substance. As it turns from green to brown, an awful smell comes from the mixture as it bubbles and pops.

The odor lingers after he gets up and takes his collection back to the workbench, once again swirling the disgusting bottle as the bubbles gather at the top. Merlin gags as the scent clings to the air around him, invading his lungs in a way he’s not sure he can ever purge.

His eyes sting from it, tears threatening to spill as he coughs up a non-existent blockage in his throat. He doesn’t know how long the man studies his potion, but Merlin hears the floorboards creak as he comes to stand in front of him again.

“You cannot fathom the excitement I have to see how you will change my creations, Emrys,” he says, voice filled with joy. 

While his vision is still blurry, Merlin feels a sharp pinch right above his collarbone on the opposite side of his wound. He hisses at the pain as whatever digs into him plunges further through his skin.

His eyes snap open, turning to find something like a long sewing needle sticking out of him. He looks up at the physician, anger and fear gripping him in a way he hasn’t felt since Morgana left him to the serkets.

Merlin clenches his teeth, trying to block out the pain as a second is jammed into the other side. “Wh- what are you-”

“I hear there are some sorcerers who can heal themselves with their magic,” the man speaks over him. “I know you are quite powerful,” he slowly backs away from Merlin, revealing his cloak has been replaced with a stained apron tied over his dark clothes. “But seeing as you have yet to take care of that cut, I wonder,” he pauses, taking another spike out of his apron pocket, “just how much pain your body can take before you must heal yourself.” 

***

In hindsight, Arthur thinks they should have taken a moment to come up with some sort of plan. His closest knights had wasted no time, agreeing with little to no complaints, and followed their meager lead towards the north to find Merlin. 

At the time, Gaius’s concern about his apprentice’s whereabouts, while justified, seemed overblown. A merchant had kidnapped Merlin, supposedly. After the initial shock wore off of his disappearance, Arthur had to wonder if his servant hadn’t gone willingly. 

Would it be so unusual if Merlin had encountered a man desperate for a physician and gone without a second thought to help? That seems very Merlin-like. Just as it is very Arthur-like and knight-like for them to drop everything and go after him. Although, in their case, a number of people at the castle know of their departure. 

But something in Gaius’s voice when he warned Arthur to be careful and to keep his eyes open, and when he told Leon carefully what each potion in the healer’s kit would help with--and made the knight repeat it back to him--had the young King on edge.

As they head towards the Darkling Woods, Arthur can feel the same tension between the others. Gwaine keeps quiet, but keeps riding ahead of the group as if trying to pull them all along quicker to get to Merlin. Whereas Percival tries to keep conversation easy, occasionally reminding everyone the servant is more than capable of handling a frantic patient. Elyan keeps looking down, searching for answers on the path their friend must have taken before them. 

And as much as he might wish for Leon to be at his side--even if it were just to keep Gwaine’s angry looks off him--the oldest of their group hangs back, keeping their pace steady if not a little slow. When Arthur looks back again, he sees the tight grip the knight has on the satchel thrown over his shoulder while he looks everywhere but in front of him. 

With the forest now in view, and on the edge of Camelot’s northernmost border as the sun sets beside them, the King signals his men towards the village nearby. As the trees get thicker and the weather turns colder, towns and settlements grow thinner, and Arthur decides he needs at least one night in a real bed to figure out how to rally his knights. He deems it best to pick the last village in his own kingdom before crossing into unclaimed territory, where he feels he has some semblance of control even though they wear no colors. 

After leaving their horses in the stable at the only inn, Elyan and Percival nearly sprint inside. Arthur furrows his brow, absentmindedly brushing dirt and leaves off his steed and watching after them. He looks to the sky, wondering if they’ve seen a storm brewing he missed, but when he turns to ask Leon, he finds the trouble immediately.

Gwaine searches through his bag and keeps shooting pointed looks at the other knight, now looking anxiously at the treeline.

Letting out a long breath, Arthur shakes his head, surprised it took him this long to snap.

“Gwaine,” he says, pulling the knight’s attention to him. “With me.”

His eye twitches. “What do you possibly need me for, princess?” He tries to tease, but his usual light tone is long gone.

“We need to get lodgings.”

Arthur moves towards the inn, but Gwaine stays in place, staring daggers into the back of Leon’s head.

“Gwaine. That’s an order.”

With a grunt, the knight finally heels to his King, leaving the older man to contemplate the road ahead. Arthur has a lengthy lecture on the tip of his tongue--the journey has barely begun and the knight’s behavior is already causing a rift among his companions--and it’s his job as King to address the problem swiftly and directly. When he looks over at Gwaine, though, and sees his eyes shimmering with unshed frustrated tears, he abandons his original approach.

“We all want to find Merlin just as much as you, Gwaine.”

The knight ducks his head, shielding himself with his hair for a quick moment before tossing it out of his face. “Then why is he slowing us down?” he grumbles.

Letting out a long breath, Arthur opens the door to the inn and enters in front of him. “You’re going to wear out our horses, and we don’t know how far north we are going to travel. Do you want us to walk home? And if something has happened to Merlin-”

Gwaine flinches at the idea. “Okay. I understand.” He doesn’t say anything else before going around the King and right up to an older woman wearing an apron at the counter.

Without too much trouble, they end up with enough rooms for them to share, and with the help of an extra gold coin or two, any resemblance to the reigning King of Camelot is swept under the rug.

Arthur decidedly directs Gwaine to the farthest room with Percival and Elyan while Leon joins him in the one closest to the tavern. 

The night passes with dreamless but fitful sleep. When they’ve all awakened with the rising sun, the group of knights go back to the large room to get a hearty meal before their journey continues. While waiting for the food, Elyan turns to the nearest customer and starts a conversation before bringing up their mysterious merchant, using the description the townsfolk had given of him. 

“You ever see a man like that this close to the forest?” he asks, taking a cautious sip of his drink.

“That physician from the north?” the innkeeper huffs as she drops the plate on the table in front of Gwaine.

“Physician?” Leon says aloud, but from the look on his face, the sound of his own voice seems like a surprise to him. His eyes find Arthur’s, and they share a curious look between them. 

“Comes through every few years or so,” she continues, setting the other plates down much gentler. “Never stays in town, that’s for sure,” she complains. “Didn’t offer to help my poor husband when he got sick and I had to run this damn place.”

She leaves them with that, tending to other customers and finishing the cleaning from the night before. 

“Why would a physician travel all this way to find another physician?” Gwaine wastes no time posing questions. 

“Maybe he needs help with healing someone?” Percival offers, taking another bite of the tasteless porridge. 

“Surely, there are others closer than Camelot?” Elyan says. 

Gwaine’s eyes light up, looking to Arthur as if to say “See?!” 

“It does seem… odd,” Leon says, looking down at his untouched food. He lifts his head to see the others staring at him. “I don’t like it.” 

Just as Gwaine opens his mouth, Arthur raises his hand to stop him. “This conversation can wait until we are moving again,” he lowers his voice, leaning forward. “I don’t want to start stirring up concern over something we don’t have enough information about.”

The knight huffs and sits back harshly in his chair, but drops it.

Once they’ve eaten as much as they can and leave to prepare their horses, the innkeeper gestures for Arthur at the counter. Leon waits at the door for him, but the King gives him a nod of permission to go on without him.

At the front of the tavern, out of the way of the other customers, the woman gives him a slight bow. “I thank you for your patronage, your majesty,” she says quietly. 

He smiles in response. “Thank you for a place to rest before our journey continues.” 

As he turns around to leave, she lays her hand on his arm to stop him. Looking back, she wears a serious look on her face.

“I don’t think you need me to remind you that the land ahead has no king,” she whispers even quieter than before. “And thus no loyalties. Not to you or anyone.”

Arthur furrows his eyebrow, but nods. “Yes. I know this-”

“There are no laws in the north, sire. Be careful.”

After another bow of the head, she lets him go and returns to her work as he returns to his knights. 

With his horse saddled and the others ready to go, Arthur leads them onward.

***

Days pass, Merlin knows it, he’s just not sure how many. Every day follows a similar routine, though he thinks that word might be giving the physician too much credit. There’s no rhyme or reason to the times of day he’s given strange potions with varying effects, or when he comes around to knives drawn across his skin or needles pushed into his muscles. 

Once, he shut his eyes for only a couple minutes, trying to control his breathing, and opened them because of the smell of something burning. It took him much too long to realize it was him.

By the time he woke after finally getting some sleep, it was bright outside--something he usually would be quite thankful for but the light only burned his eyes and made it easier to see the destruction around him.

From the giddy way the physician clapped him on his sore shoulders and the faint heat coming from his wrists and ankles, he could only guess his magic had decided he had had enough. There is still warm blood seeping into his clothes and wounds half closed up and down his arms where the sleeves had all but been torn completely off.

The man had been in and out many times, bringing in new vials with more off putting liquids to mix with Merlin’s blood. For now, the torture and the potions don’t seem to be related--when Merlin passed out even for a few minutes, he’d wake to find the man staring hard at the bottles with a deep furrow in his brow and stacks of parchment to his side. But as the sun began to set again, the nearly empty container of his blood that had first been taken from him stared back as an omen of what awaits him.

Keeping his eyes mostly closed, Merlin tries not to look directly at the fading sunlight blocked mostly by an unseen tower or at the bottle. If he has to guess, he thinks it’s been three days since he first woke in the strange castle. Before that, however, he has no indication of how long the journey from Camelot was.

He has vague memories of waking in a very bumpy cart, but most of them are fuzzy around the edges, with sounds and magic muffled by whatever tincture the man kept forcing down his throat. 

Merlin slightly shudders at the thought of the horrible tasting medicine, then freezes when he remembers he could be watched.

The physician either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that he’s awake now--content to scribble notes in between watching his concoctions brew and fiddling with little wooden pegs. Merlin had noticed the little pieces he twirled around his fingers a couple times now, wondering just what they meant. 

At best, he figures, they’re just something to fidget with--he’d seen Arthur often do the same with his rings, and Gwaine with the leather of his arm bracers.

At worst, well, Merlin just hopes they don’t end up inside him in one way or another.

When the shadow stretches past the window, leaving only a pale grey sky as the last bit of daylight withers away, the physician stands without even casting a glance at Merlin, turning towards the servant’s door and leaving him alone. 

A heavy silence fills the room, barely disturbed by Merlin’s labored breathing. It’s the first time he’s been conscious enough to take stock of his condition while the man is away. As if knowing he’s in the safety of his own company, his magic swirls inside him. 

Like slowly submerging himself into a warm bath, he lets it expand over his body briefly, easing some of the pain without fully healing anything. Though he knows he’s risking infection, he doesn’t want the man to find him with only scars where there were gaping wounds. When he escapes--and he prays that happens before anyone finds him like this--he can release his magic and return to health. It just might… take longer than it would with full access to his power now.

Reminding him of his limitations, his magic reaches for his hands and feet, causing the cold iron to burn him once more.

He lets out a hiss, pulling his magic back towards his chest. It took a couple times earlier, while the physician tore into him, to hold his power back--to use it in such small amounts not even his eyes would glow. He knows it worked because the physician was fascinated by the golden glow and commented on it every time. When he remained silent, Merlin knew he could still outsmart his opponent.

As he tries to settle back against the wall, now tacky with his own blood, the sound of the door creaking open makes Merlin stiffen. He shuts his eyes, hoping the man will choose to keep ignoring him. He can hear him moving around the workbench, not bothering to stop at the table he’d left his notes at. Something is picked up from the side of the room--he thinks it is the small step stool the physician had favored for his more intricate sessions. 

His breathing picks back up, giving himself away, but he refuses to open his eyes. Surely the man knows he needs real sleep at some point. 

Something soft and wet caresses his jaw, and Merlin flinches away so hard, he bangs his head against the wall.

“Oh, I am sorry, Emrys. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The voice that speaks to him is new--not the old, yet joyous tone of the physician.

His eyes snap open to find a man still older than him or any of his closest friends, but much younger than the physician. His face is smoother, but Merlin instantly takes note of the soft pink scar curving over his ear and down his cheek. His eyes are two different colors, but they look at him with gentleness and concern.

“Who-” Merlin coughs, throat dry from holding back as many screams as possible over the last few days. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He looks down at the wet cloth in the man’s hand, dirtied by the grime and blood he’d wiped from Merlin’s face. A massive burn trails down his arm, and when Merlin glances to the other--seeing a small, familiar healer’s kit sitting between them--he finds the same burns that end where the flesh has been severed and sewn closed just past his elbow.

Looking back to the man’s eyes, he finds a knowing expression on his face. 

“An accident when I was just a boy,” he explains without having to hear the question. “My-” he chokes on his words and looks away for a moment. “The physician saved my life.”

Merlin scoffs, unable to stop himself.

The man sighs, then gives a slight glance to the door before reaching forward again, careful to move slowly and let Merlin see his movements. 

“I thought I could repay him for his service,” he continues, speaking so softly Merlin isn’t sure he’d be able to hear him if they weren’t only a foot away from one another. “But we traveled so far away from home…” he trails off, hand shaking as he dabs gently at the first and biggest cut on his arm.

Merlin keeps his eyes focused on the man in front of him as he cleans his wounds as best he can. When he moves to pick up the needle and thread, Merlin nearly gags at the sight of the sharp metal tool.

“Those wounds need tended to, Emrys. Please, I know,” he pauses, looking into Merlin’s eyes as if to convey his thoughts with only a frown. 

Merlin breaks eye contact, unable to let himself sympathize with him, even though the man’s kind gesture and the underlying fear make him want to comfort him.

“This is all I can do for you,” he whispers. “I- I can’t disobey him.”

“Why not?” Merlin’s own voice is barely above a whisper, already accustomed to not using it to speak.

“I am the physician’s assistant, Emyrs,” he drops his shoulders, defeated. “I owe him my life, and he has taken full advantage of that.”

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Merlin knows he can’t argue with this man. He doesn’t have time to try to inspire confidence in him--they’ve only just met and he’s clearly so scared. Instead, he gives him the only thing he can and relaxes a bit.

“Just… tell me when you’re done,” he says, turning his head away from the gaping wound and allowing the man to move in closer to stitch him up.

“Thank you.”

When the needle first pricks through his skin, Merlin has to fight the urge to squirm. Even before the physician had tortured him, he’d always been squeamish about having his skin sewn shut. He half expected to see Gaius’s raised eyebrow of disapproval as he flexed against the needle.

As he thought of his mentor, Merlin wondered if he had yet to realize his own assistant was missing from his home.