Merlin - Refuge [Part 2]
Title: Refuge
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Rating: R
Length: ~14,000 words
Spoilers/Timeline: Set post Series 3, and a bit into Arthur’s reign.
Warnings: Violence, mild descriptions of torture, and the aftermath thereof. Implied character death (off screen).
Synopsis: Ealdor is in ruins and its people slaughtered or enslaved. Merlin left days before to try to stop the massacre and now Arthur is determined to discover his fate.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
Part 1 on Live Journal | Part 1 on Dreamwidth
Arthur continued to think of an answer long past when he finished bandaging Merlin’s wounds, wrists and all. He continued while they moved on to treat the others, and continued still while they ate the meagre meal Gwaine and his companions had brought back with the water. Later, as he lay awake with his head pillowed on hard earth as he had given his blankets and bedroll away to those who needed them far more than he, he thought of a possible solution. When Gwaine gave him a knowing look as he took his turn at watch, he knew he was not the only one to spend the night contemplating the mess they found themselves in, and possible ways of remedying the situation.
“The southern fields could use more hands,” Gwaine told him as though in nothing more than idyll conversation. “Elora was trained in weaving and dying, and Jarlson claimed could take on an apprentice soon the last time I spoke to him,” he added as he tossed a few more sticks on the small fire before him.
“You think we should take them with us,” Arthur guessed. Not that it was hard to figure out. Not that it was far from the direction his own thoughts had wandered. “Can you ask them to leave their homes and everything they have ever known just for a chance to start from scratch in a strange new place?”
“Their homes are gone,” Gwaine pointed out, not unkindly. “They have to start anew no matter what; why not do so in a more protected area with more reliable resources?”
It made sense, but it would still be a battle to get the survivors to see it that way. Perhaps seeing the utter destruction of their village would sway them. Then again, if they were anything like Merlin and Hunith, it might simply strengthen their foolish resolve. Camelot could easily take in the rough dozen or so of refugees, and welcome them with open arms. But those dozen would not rest until they knew they were the only survivors. He owed it to them, owed it to the miniscule chance that someone somewhere made it out alive, to let them visit their home and seek out the closure they required.
He just feared they would find less closure and more anguish and ambush than anything else, and hoped Lancelot and Gwaine were ready for battle as, for as much as it pained him to admit it, he was not certain he could count on Merlin’s abilities this time around.
Lancelot had the final watch, which meant Arthur had another chance to feign sleep and take in the motley crew they had gathered. Some were not even from Ealdor, though the young men had spoken of attacks on their own villages and watching their families perish, so they too would need a place to stay, either in the rebuilt village or the soon to be growing Camelot proper. They were youthful enough to be untrained, but brash enough to possibly try something stupid in the quest for revenge, so he knew wherever they ended up would have to look out for far more than simply three more mouths to feed.
He eventually dozed only to awaken at sunrise with the others. Merlin was knelt at his side, bruised features somehow all the more startling in the fresh light of morning. He offered Arthur fruit that both knew had not been there the night before, but there was enough to go around so Arthur was not going to complain. Instead, he chided Merlin on returning to his old manservant ways, the jokes falling flat as neither were truly in a jovial mood.
It took another day and a half to reach Ealdor, and they made far better time than Arthur had hoped for. The people were motivated, he would give them that. No one, however, was especially talkative, something that weighed heavily over the long journey. Not that he blamed them. They had been through a horrific experience and had to know by now that the chances of finding their home in pristine condition were beyond negligible. They let their wounds be checked and treated though, and even scouted for food and ate readily enough, so at least there was that. When not enough was found, something would mysteriously appear, and an exhausted Merlin would sit and rest and pretend to nibble while he stared off towards the horizon and saw nothing at all.
The buildings were at least no longer smouldering by the time they reached them. Charred and crumbling masses were truly all that remained, and Arthur could feel their disappointment as a tangible thing. He let them have their look around while Gwaine and Lancelot kept watch for a doubtless impending attack. He knew he should be doing the same, and really was albeit only peripherally, but he felt the need to stand sentinel at Merlin’s side while he carded through the ashes of a home he had left years before.
A bowl was saved, and a small washbasin, and Merlin held them reverently as though they were the most precious jewels in all the world. Arthur wished there was something more he could say, something more he could do for his friend, but he settled for picking up the burnished piece of copped Hunith had used as a mirror, brushing off the soot, and adding it to the pile.
He opened his mouth to apologise even though he knew the words would seem trite and hollow, but was distracted by movement in the barn. He drew his sword and stalked silently over to the wooden scrap of a structure, cursing silently that Merlin had left his vigil to stand dutifully at his side though he had no weapon save for whatever he was able to conjure this time.
There was the shuffle of footsteps, and then the near silent crash of something dropped in the soot and hay. Whoever it was must have known they were discovered, or at least strongly suspected it, as there was a gasp of breath followed by the too quiet of someone attempting to stand perfectly still.
“Show yourself,” Arthur ordered.
He was not sure what he was expecting, but a waif of barely nine summers old was not it. She poked her snarled red head out from around the corner and promised, “I’m unarmed!” He stepped around the side to see she held a board the length of her arm behind her, and only raised his eyebrow when she sheepishly amended, “Well, mostly.”
“Aspith?” Merlin asked curiously, as though she was the oddest creature he had ever seen.
“Merlin!” she enthused, dropping her board in the process. She ran over to him, disregarding the armed man at his side as she wrapped her arms around him, grubby fingers and all. “You’re here! And alive! And came for us!”
Arthur watched as Merlin carefully extricated himself from the girl, wincing openly in the process when her hand brushed against what he knew to be a fair sized wound beneath the layers of torn fabric. Merlin crouched down to her level and folded her hands in his own and asked, “Aspith, what are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to find some of the apples we kept for the horses,” she answered as though it was obvious enough. “We’re running low on food and I know I’m not supposed to be here but it’s close enough to the woods and I thought I could sneak and, really, there’s no horses to eat them,” she said all in a ramble. Arthur was beginning to wonder if it was an affliction of those from Ealdor, at least those of fair health and possibly the young.
Merlin did something Arthur had not seen for far too long, and offered her the barest hint of a smile. “It’s fine, you’re not in trouble,” he promised as he let her go. “Mum would have wanted any food to go to good use,” he added with more than a hint of sadness.
Aspith looked at him wonderingly as she pushed a knot of red away from her face. “Of course she would,” she declared as though that much should be taken for granted. “Why else would she tell me where to look?”
She started to saunter back to what Arthur saw now to be a small barrel hidden in the muck, but Merlin grabbed her wrist just as her words hit Arthur full force. “She told you?” Merlin asked, nearly choking on the words.
Arthur really hoped it was not a child’s simple over-generalisation of a promise made at the start of a harvest to indulge an urchin and keep her occupied. Aspith nodded slowly though, as if Merlin were the child and she the elder in the conversation. “Last night she said, ‘I wish I had thought to bring those apples, even they would be welcomed now,’ and then I asked her where they were and she told me but then she told me to forget about them for now but how can you forget about apples when they are here and you are there and you’re so very hungry and...”
“Last night?” Merlin verified, sussing out the important bit to all her rambles. He was still crouched to her level and his legs gave way completely, leaving him not much more than a lump in the dirt and ash. He looked up to Arthur, tears in his eyes, and repeated, “Last night.”
“Aspith,” Arthur said, his turn now to duck down to her height. He realised his sword was probably not doing anything to earn her trust, so he tucked it away and asked, “Where is Hunith?”
“With my baby brother and the others,” Aspith called over her shoulder, free now as she dug through several rotten apples to find ones worth eating.
“And that would be?” Arthur prompted. He wished for a sense of patience he knew he did not have, or possibly for Lancelot or Gwaine to deal with the child instead. Lancelot would inspire her to tell all by being all gracious, and Gwaine would charm the information out of her. Arthur had none of those things, but needed an answer, for Merlin’s sake if not his own.
She tucked a couple of the fruits into the pocket of the pinafore she wore and shrugged. “The usual place. No one ever finds us there, but it’s kind of boring - all rocks and hiding and no sun or playing and definitely no apples.”
“Can you show me where this is?” Arthur asked, perhaps too hopefully if her expression was anything to go by.
“I know,” Merlin blurted. He sounded more like himself than he had since Arthur had found him. With a newfound hope clearly shining in his eyes, he turned to Arthur and said, “I know where it is.”
It was easy enough for Merlin to lead them there, and another villager nodded and commented that yes, this place was the safest of those they used but no, not even rescuers had been able to find it in the past so it does have its drawbacks. Not everyone knew of it though, and they passed several open caves along the way that were likely closer, easier to find, and already swept by the slavers.
The place itself was old, likely used for shelter long before Ealdor existed, and consisted of the barest sliver of an opening in a rise more than half covered by overgrown trees and brambles and rather hard to get to let alone see in the first place. It was defendable as attackers would have to enter single-file but, unless there was a hidden stream within, it may have been short on actual resources and could not have been used long-term.
Merlin stepped forward, hand raised slightly for balance on the less than stable slope. He stopped suddenly and if Arthur had not seen something similar previously, he would have missed the barest hints of a golden sheen against Merlin’s hand. His friend’s hand passed through it easily enough, but he made no move to go any further.
Aspith would have none of that and walked right on through, the ward lighting around her faintly as she passed. From the depths of the shadows, Arthur heard her announce, “I found something!”
There was the sound of shuffling, and then a voice, echoing and whispered and oh so wonderfully familiar chided, “I told you not to go! Mouldy apples are not worth your life, sweetheart.”
Merlin’s shoulder’s hitched in a near silent sob, his entire form trembling when he managed a choked, “Mother?”
“Oh dear-” Hunith’s voice came forward, so much stronger than before. There was the sound of rushed footsteps and then she appeared, dirty and obviously tired and with streaks of grey in her hair that betrayed her age and yet still beautiful as she stopped at the edge of the wards and took in the scene before her. “Merlin?” she breathed as if she doubted her own eyes.
“Mum?” he asked, but was unable to get out anything else as he was now wrapped in his mother’s arms.
Hunith hugged him tightly and Arthur knew it had to hurt just as he knew Merlin probably did not feel a thing right now. She pulled back the tiniest of bits and eyed her son critically, only to wrap herself around him again. From the comfort of her son’s arms, she peered out at Arthur and spared a quick glance to those around him before she focused on him once more and mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”
“Better than apples?” Aspith said cheekily from behind her.
Hunith tried to free herself but found her son quite adamantly holding on so she half turned and simply shook her head at the girl’s antics before she agreed, “Very much so.”
She guided Merlin out of the way of the opening so that the others could have their joyful reunions, but only made it a few steps before she noticed something was off. She was a sharp woman, and Arthur was honestly surprised she had not noticed sooner. He was slightly distracted by Gwaine and Lancelot helping with the remaining refugees, but was able to edge close enough to be privy to the rest of the reunion.
“What happened?” Hunith demanded. She ran her hands over her son’s arms, back up to cup his face, tried to seek out for herself what was wrong and how she could fix it.
Merlin caught her hands in his own, much like he had with Aspith, only this time the words seemed so much harder for him to get out. “I- I thought you were dead,” he admitted. “You weren’t there, and everything was destroyed and...”
Instead of instantly reassuring him, Hunith shifted her grip so she now held her son’s hands, exposing the bandaged wrists and no doubt now noticing the other stains and bruises he wore. “What happened?” she repeated, and Arthur knew she would get her answer.
He left them to the little bit of privacy he could afford them and went to help with the others. He found his knights had already handled the most of it, so soon enough he stood off to the side again, Gwaine and Lancelot leaning against matching trees and letting the small community welcome their own home and make room for the three new youths within their ranks.
“Is he going to be okay?” Gwaine asked. He jerked his chin in Merlin’s direction as though there were any question as to who he meant.
Arthur glanced over to see mother and son wrapped up in each other once more, tears flowing freely and looking as though it would take an entire bloody army to separate them. “I think he’s going to be fine,” he said, knowing that was not the half of it.
“They are still not safe here,” Lancelot pointed out. He looked at the hills around them and back where they had come from. “If Laval finds Ealdor, he will search the surrounding area for survivors to be sold. Merlin saw him use devices that contain and control magic, which means even this little sanctuary may be at risk.”
It pained him, but Arthur knew the truth to the words. They had made it here on foot with injured to care for. Laval would have had to corral his people, make a show, and then head out. He was likely already on his way. Still, he did not argue when Gwaine requested, “Give them a moment?”
The moment turned into the remainder of the afternoon. Arthur and Gwaine hunted for hopefully enough food to feed both their group and the starving people of Ealdor while Lancelot helped assess the situation and tend to the injured once more. They came back with a handful of rabbits and a single partridge; not a lot but better than nothing. One of Hunith’s friends took the quarry and set about making a meal out of it, and Arthur took the opportunity to check up on his friend.
Merlin was curled up at his mother’s side, head pillowed on her lap. His rough beard had been shaved clean and he looked impossibly young, his injuries all the more shocking against his smooth skin. He had changed into a tunic that was worn but clean, and even his trousers seemed less road weary. He looked almost comfortable. He looked home.
“Thank you,” Hunith whispered. She carded her fingers through her son’s hair, a mindless rhythmic pattern that seemed to sooth them both.
Arthur did not accept the thanks as there was so much more he felt he could have and should have done. Instead, he decided there was no time like the present and said, “It is not safe here.”
“I know,” Hunith sighed, continuing her ministrations. “We are short on provisions and have only a handful of those able to fight. Merlin claims it may not be enough, that those who did this to him, to our village, will return.”
“I know that Ealdor is your home,” Arthur started.
“And has been for longer than you or your knights have drawn breath in this realm,” she pointed out humourlessly.
Arthur took a deep breath, always slightly intimidated by this supposedly simple woman for some reason. He decided to cut to the chase and offered, “There is a place for you in Camelot.”
“All of us?” Hunith asked doubtfully. She glanced up at the people that milled about the enclave, and he knew she recognised each and every one, could tell their story and how they came to be where they were now. She would not let them go, nor could he ask her to.
He nodded. “There are fields that need tending, and it is a simple enough task to build shelter. The people of Camelot would welcome you with open arms, and not just because of Merlin. It would not be home, not yet, but maybe eventually it could be?” he tried.
Hunith looked down at her son, and then back up to rake her gaze over Arthur, no doubt sizing him up just as she had the first time she had met him. “You are a good man, Arthur Pendragon,” she eventually said. “It will not be an easy task to convince the others, but I believe it possible, especially after all you have done for us.”
In her lap, Arthur swore he saw the barest hint of a smile grace Merlin’s shadowed features.
By morning, Hunith had made the rounds and convinced most of the survivors that Camelot would be the best option. The few dissenters did not believe the outright destruction of their village, and even some who were interested in Arthur’s offer wanted to see the remains of the village for themselves, to collect a few personal things if possible if nothing else.
Arthur knew it would be risky, but he could not refuse them, not when the image of Merlin holding the few scattered pieces of his mother’s life in his hands and looking so forlorn was still fresh in his mind. There were not enough knights to plan a full strategy, but he trusted Lancelot and Gwaine to defend the crowd the best that they could, and knew the people of Ealdor would be more than willing to put up a fight of their own.
They approached the village cautiously, the injured and those who did not want to see the ruins of what they loved one last time waiting for them in the sanctuary. They had barely broken the treeline when Merlin paused and held up his hand, head cocked to the side. He turned to Arthur, blue eyes full of anger but no fear when he said, “They are here.”
It was the last time Arthur saw his eyes as simple blue for a long while. They lit with gold and a pile of debris flew to the side to reveal a group of five of the slavers from the market. Another flicker, and the charred shards of a barn door swung open to reveal another four.
“Laval is inside the Hooper’s old home, the one with the least damage on the far north side,” Merlin murmured before he began to stride down to the town, regardless of the armed men now headed right for them.
Arthur grabbed his arm and spun him around back to face him. “You are in no condition for battle, Merlin,” he warned.
The gold eyes did not fade and a branch freed itself to knock one of the men backwards into a pile of muck. “They took my home, they killed my friends, beat me and others, and threatened my mother,” Merlin said with what passed as a shrug. “Consider me motivated.”
With that, he was gone. He pulled his arm free and walked right into the centre of the fray, Lancelot taking up position beside him. Gwaine paused near Arthur and commented, “We can’t stop him, but we can keep him from doing something he’ll regret later.” At Arthur’s reluctant nod, he added, “Besides, I feel a bit motivated myself.” To that, Arthur most heartedly agreed.
Despite how much he wanted to head right for a particular home on the north side, Arthur knew there were other battles to be fought first. A man he recognised from the Market made a grab at one of the women who had hoped to collect her mother’s bracelet, and Arthur pulled him off of her and then finished him off with a few quick strikes of his sword. The pride he felt in doing so was but a glimmer in comparison to his next challenger, the man who had wielded the whip against his friend. He bore an axe now, but Arthur still recognised him, knew exactly who he was and what he had done to Merlin.
This man had both bulk and the possibility of actual training on his side, but he was still no match for Arthur. It would have been easy enough to incapacitate him, but Arthur wanted something more. He saw the burnt out and ransacked homes, the bodies that had not been given a proper burial, and the blood that dripped freely from Merlin’s wrists while he fought off a man of his own.
The slaver’s weapon dropped from his hands within moments and his smarmy smile indicated he thought Arthur would not attack an unarmed man, not like he had done, not like he would continue to do if given the chance. “Pick it up,” Arthur ordered.
He lowered his sword just the barest of bits, gave the man the obvious opening he was looking for. The idiot fell for it and grabbed his axe to take a swing at Arthur that never hit its mark. Arthur dodged neatly enough and parried the next two attempts before the man fell to the ground with Arthur’s sword still deep within his belly. Arthur pulled it free and saw the blood pool on his blade, across the man’s filthy tunic, and bubble free from his open lips. “We already won,” the man breathed, his mouth spread wide into a demented grin before his eyes finally shut in death.
Arthur whipped around at that and saw Merlin surrounded, four of the villagers cowered behind him. Gwaine and Lancelot fought to get closer, but Laval’s reinforcements kept them busy and seemed to actively drive them further and further away. The men that fought now did not even try to hide their identity, the black clothing the same as the men who had closed down the Market a scant few days before. Laval must have seen the opportunity presented, Arthur out in the open with only two knights to protect him and more than a dozen innocents to watch over, and decided to seize it. Unfortunately, he had forgotten a few things: particularly that the two knights were some of the best Arthur had the pleasure of fighting with, and that Arthur himself was even better.
As the circle of people around Merlin were thrown back into the various houses, fences, and troughs nearby, Arthur realised Laval had forgotten something else: Merlin.
Slaver after slaver fell, and guard after guard as well. Merlin took down as many as Gwaine and Lancelot, and even the random villager got in a good hit from time to time. Arthur joined the fray easily enough, and rather liked their chances for victory, right up until he heard Merlin scream in pain.
He turned to find Laval himself in the centre of it all, a whip with an odd silver bauble at the end of it in one hand, chains of the same metal in the other. “Felt that, didn’t you, boy?” Laval taunted. “We’ve worked hard to find something that will corral your kind and have found these ever so effective.”
The whip cracked again and Merlin raised a hand to stop it. The bauble flew free and harmless, but Laval followed up with a swing of the chains that brought Merlin to the ground. Even from his position too far away to be of any real assistance, Arthur could see the glow of the marks, the way a single strike had left Merlin bleeding and weakened.
“I can’t decide,” Laval said as if carrying out a casual conversation. “The profit I would make from selling one as strong as you would make me comfortable ‘til the end of my days, but the joy I would have in breaking you myself would last forever.” He smiled and Arthur questioned how he had ever believed this man capable of being an ally, how he had ever believed him capable of simple trust.
He swung again and Merlin dodged it, pushed himself up to properly challenge him. Again and he hit Merlin’s upper arm, which now hung limp at his side. Again and he hit his already injured leg, toppling Merlin once more.
Arthur raced forward to stop him, not knowing what the chains would do to someone without magic but frankly not caring either. Laval’s whip caught him between his glove and his sleeve and three of Laval’s largest guards stepped forward to grab him when his wrist erupted in pain and his sword clattered to the ground. One held each arm and the third wrapped a beefy arm around his throat, trying to pin him in place. He fought, but was distracted by the scene before him, and by Laval’s taunts of, “Don’t worry, Pendragon, I will keep you around long enough to see him fall.”
The chains swung one last time and Merlin managed to catch them with a piece of broken fence, tug with might that was likely magical as well as physical, and rip them free from Laval’s now ravaged hands. The act cost him though, as he lay gasping on the muddy ground, unable to raise himself no matter how hard he tried.
Laval took advantage of his weakness and approached with a blade pulled from his belt. Arthur had no idea if it was made of the same metal or not, but he felt that Merlin might not even be able to withstand a table knife at this point. He struggled again against the men holding him and managed to get one arm free. He grabbed the blade in the man on his left’s belt and stabbed him first, then sliced at the arm around his throat until it loosened, and soon enough all three were crumpled and unmoving. He turned to go help Merlin, but discovered his actions were entirely unnecessary.
Laval stood frozen in place, arm up and ready to strike, the blade a mere breath away from a hand that glowed a brilliant gold. A hand that belonged to Hunith. “No more,” was all she said. The blade shone the same gold as the power that poured from her and flew from Laval’s hand to embed itself deep within his side. He collapsed slowly, as though in shock that a simple peasant woman could bring him down, and lay panting in the blood-soaked muck.
He drew the blade from himself with a pained grunt and tossed it in her direction. Another glow of gold and it sailed past her to harmlessly embed itself in the same bit of fence Merlin had used earlier.
“Mother?” Merlin gasped. It was his hand that was raised this time, though his eyes had finally returned to blue.
“Shh,” Hunith soothed him. She knelt down beside him despite the filth and pulled him to her to hold tightly. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, and pressed kisses to the top of his head.
The battle ended quickly after that. No one dared cross the angry sorcerers or the pissed off nobility of Camelot. Many of the men fled, but not before they grabbed Laval to take him with them. Arthur had no idea if they would be able to save him and, quite frankly, did not care. If he survived, he would plot and plan and eventually attack Camelot in retribution. If he did not, his allies would do the same.
Arthur knelt at Merlin’s side, wincing at the wounds he saw. He turned to Merlin’s mother, who appeared to be relatively unscathed and asked simply, “Hunith?”
“I couldn’t let him continue,” she said. A tear escaped and she swatted at it angrily. “He’s my son, all I have left, and I just... I couldn’t, your highness, I just couldn’t.”
Arthur rested what he hoped would be seen as a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I do not blame you,” he insisted. “I would have killed him myself if given the chance. Though I must admit I did not expect quite such a display from you.” He offered her the hint of a smile at the end to let her know the comment was in jest and his perhaps sad attempt to lighten the mood.
She quirked her lips in a way so reminiscent of her son and said, self-depreciatingly as always, “Well, you didn’t think he just got it all from his father, did you?” She swiped at another tear, managing to smear grime across her face more than anything else before she continued. “I am not nearly as powerful as him. That little display took a lot out of me, to say the least, but I suppose you could say that I was-”
“Motivated?” Arthur supplied, remembering Merlin’s words at the beginning of the battle.
She chuckled, something that sounded more like a snort than anything else. “Yes,” she agreed. “Something like that.” He saw it now, the exhaustion in her eyes, the way the grey-white of her hair seemed all the more prominent, and wondered how much of herself she would have sacrificed for her son, how much she already had.
She looked back down to Merlin and returned to her soothing ministrations, carefully avoiding the worst of the wounds. Arthur could not tell if Merlin was fully conscious or not, his eyes were closed tightly, but his breath came in rough sobs. “Will he be okay? Can you heal him?” he asked, needing to know. He could not imagine his life without his wonderfully annoying stubborn friend at his side.
“I can’t heal him, I do not have nearly that kind of power,” Hunith admitted. She looked up to Arthur with a gaze so full of trust that it hurt and he had to actively will himself to meet it and not look away. With the same slight quirk of her lips, she added, “But I think he will be fine just the same.”
He swallowed heavily and managed a rough, “I hope so.” It was not enough, but it would have to do for now.
Gwaine and Lancelot came, and together they managed to get a very reluctant Merlin to separate himself from his mother. The Hooper’s home was the least damaged, though that was not saying much, and they laid him out on a surviving cot and began to tend to his wounds. Arthur left to both get fresh water and make the rounds of the town to insure the threat was well and truly gone, and Gwaine went with the survivors from home to home to gather what they could. He crossed their path more than once and first heard more than one person reason that it was safe now so they should be able to rebuilt, but by the final pass heard those same people agree that it was entirely likely that Laval or men like him would return.
The people of Ealdor were a practical people. They were self-sufficient and headstrong, but they were not stupid, far from it in fact. The area had no protection, no ruling body to call to in a time of need. Even if Camelot was to claim the land, it would take a day or more to get there, and recent events had shown just how much damage could occur during that short period of time.
He went to both check in on Merlin and to see if either he or his mother would be able to turn the tide of the recalcitrant villagers towards safety and away from likely suicide. He entered the only slightly broken home to find Hunith attempting to bandage Merlin’s shoulder, tears in her eyes. He already had so many pieces of linen wrapped around various wounds that had yet to heal from his time in captivity that Arthur was tempted to comment about his new and varied wardrobe, but he stopped short when the cloth slipped and exposed an angry red beneath.
“Merlin?” he asked cautiously, not sure how with it his friend truly was. The wounds looked so raw, so painful, that he rather hoped he had given in and passed out by now.
“The salves don’t work on the marks,” Hunith explained. He did not need to ask which ones. “They made them worse, I fear, or at the very least not better,” she fretted. She reached for the heavy metal that lay on the table beside the various pots and leaves as though they themselves may hold the answer, but drew her hand back as though burned.
Arthur cupped her hand between his own and she too now had a mark that matched those of her son. The skin was split and seared though not a drop of blood appeared. From the wince on her face though, that small gift was not without a price. “Hunith,” he chided.
“I was able to touch them with no effects,” Lancelot said, likely to explain why she would think it fine to risk such a thing. “They felt like nothing more than simple metal; a bit heavier, perhaps, but similar to what you would find in a dungeon or that wretched camp we found.”
Hunith freed her hand and shook it slightly as if a burning sensation remained. “It must be tied to the magic,” she reasoned. She fisted her hand in the fabric of the apron she wore, but it was clear it sill pained her.
“Something that effects only sorcerers and reacts to the magic you wield,” Arthur guessed. He could see the purpose in such a thing, even if he did not agree with it. His father would have paid a fair share of the treasury if such a thing had existed in his day. “But if the point was to control the sorcerer, break them and bend them to your will, surely there must be a cure, or some way to prevent permanent harm? If we find who made these, perhaps they would know?”
Lancelot scoffed. “I doubt Laval cared that much. He received his profit and let his slaves suffer and die. If there is something strong enough to reverse the effects, no one from the Market would care to find it.”
“Elemental,” Merlin murmured, letting Arthur know he was still awake or at least close to it.
“What was that?” he asked. It was a simple word that bore a depth of meanings; it was rather like Merlin himself in that regard.
Merlin turned to face him, the shadows under his eyes all the darker for the flickering light of the candles that they had found. “The metal is borne of magic; Laval’s sorcerers used them and tested them on others. They used high magic and fancy spells but, really, magic is strongest at its most basic, its most simple. Nothing is stronger than the elements.”
Arthur was never sure where he stood when Merlin talked like this. He knew Merlin knew magic. He knew Merlin was magic, for all intents and purposes. How he used this information and these abilities was still something far too foreign to him to be productive. Maybe in time, he would understand it better but, for now, he asked in exasperation, “And just how are we to corral the very elements to heal you?”
Merlin shook his head and offered a hint of the smile that usually meant he thought Arthur was being foolish; it looked ghoulish now. “We don’t need to ‘corral’ anything; they are already all around us,” he said as if it were that simple.
Arthur raised an eyebrow to tell him it was not.
Now it was Merlin’s turn to be exasperated. He sat up just the tiniest of bits straighter and reached for some of the fresh herbs that Lancelot had gathered from the nearby hills. “Earth,” he said pointedly. He poured part of the contents of a waterskin into a wooden cup. “Water,” he explained.
He looked around the room, but Hunith stopped him as he reached towards the fireplace where they had set water to boil. “I will not brand you and you will not ask me to,” she told him.
“Nothing so severe,” he insisted, though Arthur fully believed the thought had crossed his mind. He grabbed a candle and brought it closer, and Arthur winced as the simple action tore open one of the wounds from the whip.
“And air?” Lancelot prompted. The bellows was broken and there was nothing obvious laying about that could be used.
Arthur was only slightly comforted by the fact Merlin now turned that same enigmatic smile on his other friend. “The breath we take,” he said, quite proud of himself.
“And breathing on some smoky wet leaves is going to help us how?” Arthur asked, trying to piece everything together.
Merlin ignored him, which was not that surprising. He also did not actually stuff the leaves in the cup or set it alight, which was slightly more surprising. Instead, he set his three objects on the table before him and began to chant in a language that sounded old and foreign and familiar and possible hard on the throat to produce.
Arthur looked to Hunith who held up her hands and shook her head. “Don’t ask me, the boy has always had a way of simply knowing how to do things like this. It was right frightening at times, especially when he refused to learn to walk and just called items to him.”
Arthur was going to comment on imagining the hardships of raising one like Merlin, but was distracted when the tone of the language changed slightly and Merlin’s eyes flashed a gold brighter than the flame before him. He said one final word, not much more than a guttural breath as far as Arthur was concerned, and the room lit with brilliant colours, all centred on the table before him. When the flash faded, the cup was filled with an odd luminescent liquid and nothing else remained.
“Try that,” Merlin directed. He grabbed his mother’s hand and shoved the fingers into the cup, right before he nearly fell off the cot he was perched on. Lancelot caught him and propped him up, but he was well and truly out now.
Arthur just shook his head. “Stubborn sod,” he muttered affectionately.
“That he is,” Hunith agreed. She removed her hand and shook the clinging drops from her fingers. They were not healed, not completely, but they looked far better than before.
Arthur grabbed a bit of cloth to wrap around to protect the wound while whatever Merlin created worked, and Hunith used her free hand to card through the sweaty fringe atop her son’s too pale forehead. When he finished, he could not help but glance to the still shimmering cup and ask, “Do you think it will still work?”
“I most certainly plan on finding out,” Hunith replied.
Lancelot dipped one of the few remaining bandages in the liquid and dabbed at the slice across Merlin’s shoulder. The red lessened, albeit slightly, but it was enough to give Arthur hope.
Hunith surprised him by leaving Merlin in Lancelot’s care, though only briefly. She followed him outside into the cool damp air that spoke of storms on the horizon and closed what remained of the door behind her. “I doubt I will ever be able to say such a thing again, but may I ask a favour, your highness?” she asked.
“Anything and always,” he replied. She was the mother of what was probably the best friend he had ever had, someone who not only had an inner strength that the most valiant of knights would covet, but had shared that same strength with her son. He trusted Merlin’s wisdom enough after all these years, despite calling him an idiot throughout, to debate with Gwen and his council of knights granting Merlin the role of an official advisor. As such, he had to trust the source of a fair deal of that wisdom, and attempt to grant her whatever she may need, so long as it was within his power to do so. Plus, she had just fought off a slave lord single-handedly, and deserved a debt for that alone.
“Let me talk to those who still believe the best option is to stay and rebuild here?” she asked. “My entire life was in this little village, but even I see the futility in staying where people not only know we exist, but would use us as pawns against both you and each other.”
“I would grant you that in an instant,” he promised her. She was of Ealdor, these were her people, she had more of a right to speak to them and attempt to sway them than he ever would. However, as he looked at the small crowd that approached with Gwaine, each carrying travelling packs and baskets and walking away from the ruins of what was once their life, he had to add, “Though that may not be entirely necessary.”
Which is how Arthur found himself two days later followed by a trail of refugees as he entered the gates of Camelot. Gwen met him in the courtyard, Leon at her side, and both simply nodded when he said, “They will need a place to live and as many supplies as can be spared.”
“And Merlin?” Gwen asked hopefully. She scanned the crowd, no doubt looking for the familiar dark head.
Gwaine helped the sorcerer in question down from the horse he had insisted upon riding, careful of his injuries. No cart for Merlin despite the fact he could still barely stand upright on his own. He was healing, but it was going to take time, and possibly more patience than any had to spare. The damage from the chain was nearly as stubborn as he was himself, and it seemed all of his friend’s reserves had been spent both fighting it and making certain everyone else was safe during the journey.
For now though, Arthur simply saw the way Hunith instantly helped Gwaine support him and the glimmer of life that shone bright in his still too-shadowed eyes, and said, “He’s home.”
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/362007.html. Current comments
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Rating: R
Length: ~14,000 words
Spoilers/Timeline: Set post Series 3, and a bit into Arthur’s reign.
Warnings: Violence, mild descriptions of torture, and the aftermath thereof. Implied character death (off screen).
Synopsis: Ealdor is in ruins and its people slaughtered or enslaved. Merlin left days before to try to stop the massacre and now Arthur is determined to discover his fate.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
Part 1 on Live Journal | Part 1 on Dreamwidth
Arthur continued to think of an answer long past when he finished bandaging Merlin’s wounds, wrists and all. He continued while they moved on to treat the others, and continued still while they ate the meagre meal Gwaine and his companions had brought back with the water. Later, as he lay awake with his head pillowed on hard earth as he had given his blankets and bedroll away to those who needed them far more than he, he thought of a possible solution. When Gwaine gave him a knowing look as he took his turn at watch, he knew he was not the only one to spend the night contemplating the mess they found themselves in, and possible ways of remedying the situation.
“The southern fields could use more hands,” Gwaine told him as though in nothing more than idyll conversation. “Elora was trained in weaving and dying, and Jarlson claimed could take on an apprentice soon the last time I spoke to him,” he added as he tossed a few more sticks on the small fire before him.
“You think we should take them with us,” Arthur guessed. Not that it was hard to figure out. Not that it was far from the direction his own thoughts had wandered. “Can you ask them to leave their homes and everything they have ever known just for a chance to start from scratch in a strange new place?”
“Their homes are gone,” Gwaine pointed out, not unkindly. “They have to start anew no matter what; why not do so in a more protected area with more reliable resources?”
It made sense, but it would still be a battle to get the survivors to see it that way. Perhaps seeing the utter destruction of their village would sway them. Then again, if they were anything like Merlin and Hunith, it might simply strengthen their foolish resolve. Camelot could easily take in the rough dozen or so of refugees, and welcome them with open arms. But those dozen would not rest until they knew they were the only survivors. He owed it to them, owed it to the miniscule chance that someone somewhere made it out alive, to let them visit their home and seek out the closure they required.
He just feared they would find less closure and more anguish and ambush than anything else, and hoped Lancelot and Gwaine were ready for battle as, for as much as it pained him to admit it, he was not certain he could count on Merlin’s abilities this time around.
Lancelot had the final watch, which meant Arthur had another chance to feign sleep and take in the motley crew they had gathered. Some were not even from Ealdor, though the young men had spoken of attacks on their own villages and watching their families perish, so they too would need a place to stay, either in the rebuilt village or the soon to be growing Camelot proper. They were youthful enough to be untrained, but brash enough to possibly try something stupid in the quest for revenge, so he knew wherever they ended up would have to look out for far more than simply three more mouths to feed.
He eventually dozed only to awaken at sunrise with the others. Merlin was knelt at his side, bruised features somehow all the more startling in the fresh light of morning. He offered Arthur fruit that both knew had not been there the night before, but there was enough to go around so Arthur was not going to complain. Instead, he chided Merlin on returning to his old manservant ways, the jokes falling flat as neither were truly in a jovial mood.
It took another day and a half to reach Ealdor, and they made far better time than Arthur had hoped for. The people were motivated, he would give them that. No one, however, was especially talkative, something that weighed heavily over the long journey. Not that he blamed them. They had been through a horrific experience and had to know by now that the chances of finding their home in pristine condition were beyond negligible. They let their wounds be checked and treated though, and even scouted for food and ate readily enough, so at least there was that. When not enough was found, something would mysteriously appear, and an exhausted Merlin would sit and rest and pretend to nibble while he stared off towards the horizon and saw nothing at all.
The buildings were at least no longer smouldering by the time they reached them. Charred and crumbling masses were truly all that remained, and Arthur could feel their disappointment as a tangible thing. He let them have their look around while Gwaine and Lancelot kept watch for a doubtless impending attack. He knew he should be doing the same, and really was albeit only peripherally, but he felt the need to stand sentinel at Merlin’s side while he carded through the ashes of a home he had left years before.
A bowl was saved, and a small washbasin, and Merlin held them reverently as though they were the most precious jewels in all the world. Arthur wished there was something more he could say, something more he could do for his friend, but he settled for picking up the burnished piece of copped Hunith had used as a mirror, brushing off the soot, and adding it to the pile.
He opened his mouth to apologise even though he knew the words would seem trite and hollow, but was distracted by movement in the barn. He drew his sword and stalked silently over to the wooden scrap of a structure, cursing silently that Merlin had left his vigil to stand dutifully at his side though he had no weapon save for whatever he was able to conjure this time.
There was the shuffle of footsteps, and then the near silent crash of something dropped in the soot and hay. Whoever it was must have known they were discovered, or at least strongly suspected it, as there was a gasp of breath followed by the too quiet of someone attempting to stand perfectly still.
“Show yourself,” Arthur ordered.
He was not sure what he was expecting, but a waif of barely nine summers old was not it. She poked her snarled red head out from around the corner and promised, “I’m unarmed!” He stepped around the side to see she held a board the length of her arm behind her, and only raised his eyebrow when she sheepishly amended, “Well, mostly.”
“Aspith?” Merlin asked curiously, as though she was the oddest creature he had ever seen.
“Merlin!” she enthused, dropping her board in the process. She ran over to him, disregarding the armed man at his side as she wrapped her arms around him, grubby fingers and all. “You’re here! And alive! And came for us!”
Arthur watched as Merlin carefully extricated himself from the girl, wincing openly in the process when her hand brushed against what he knew to be a fair sized wound beneath the layers of torn fabric. Merlin crouched down to her level and folded her hands in his own and asked, “Aspith, what are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to find some of the apples we kept for the horses,” she answered as though it was obvious enough. “We’re running low on food and I know I’m not supposed to be here but it’s close enough to the woods and I thought I could sneak and, really, there’s no horses to eat them,” she said all in a ramble. Arthur was beginning to wonder if it was an affliction of those from Ealdor, at least those of fair health and possibly the young.
Merlin did something Arthur had not seen for far too long, and offered her the barest hint of a smile. “It’s fine, you’re not in trouble,” he promised as he let her go. “Mum would have wanted any food to go to good use,” he added with more than a hint of sadness.
Aspith looked at him wonderingly as she pushed a knot of red away from her face. “Of course she would,” she declared as though that much should be taken for granted. “Why else would she tell me where to look?”
She started to saunter back to what Arthur saw now to be a small barrel hidden in the muck, but Merlin grabbed her wrist just as her words hit Arthur full force. “She told you?” Merlin asked, nearly choking on the words.
Arthur really hoped it was not a child’s simple over-generalisation of a promise made at the start of a harvest to indulge an urchin and keep her occupied. Aspith nodded slowly though, as if Merlin were the child and she the elder in the conversation. “Last night she said, ‘I wish I had thought to bring those apples, even they would be welcomed now,’ and then I asked her where they were and she told me but then she told me to forget about them for now but how can you forget about apples when they are here and you are there and you’re so very hungry and...”
“Last night?” Merlin verified, sussing out the important bit to all her rambles. He was still crouched to her level and his legs gave way completely, leaving him not much more than a lump in the dirt and ash. He looked up to Arthur, tears in his eyes, and repeated, “Last night.”
“Aspith,” Arthur said, his turn now to duck down to her height. He realised his sword was probably not doing anything to earn her trust, so he tucked it away and asked, “Where is Hunith?”
“With my baby brother and the others,” Aspith called over her shoulder, free now as she dug through several rotten apples to find ones worth eating.
“And that would be?” Arthur prompted. He wished for a sense of patience he knew he did not have, or possibly for Lancelot or Gwaine to deal with the child instead. Lancelot would inspire her to tell all by being all gracious, and Gwaine would charm the information out of her. Arthur had none of those things, but needed an answer, for Merlin’s sake if not his own.
She tucked a couple of the fruits into the pocket of the pinafore she wore and shrugged. “The usual place. No one ever finds us there, but it’s kind of boring - all rocks and hiding and no sun or playing and definitely no apples.”
“Can you show me where this is?” Arthur asked, perhaps too hopefully if her expression was anything to go by.
“I know,” Merlin blurted. He sounded more like himself than he had since Arthur had found him. With a newfound hope clearly shining in his eyes, he turned to Arthur and said, “I know where it is.”
It was easy enough for Merlin to lead them there, and another villager nodded and commented that yes, this place was the safest of those they used but no, not even rescuers had been able to find it in the past so it does have its drawbacks. Not everyone knew of it though, and they passed several open caves along the way that were likely closer, easier to find, and already swept by the slavers.
The place itself was old, likely used for shelter long before Ealdor existed, and consisted of the barest sliver of an opening in a rise more than half covered by overgrown trees and brambles and rather hard to get to let alone see in the first place. It was defendable as attackers would have to enter single-file but, unless there was a hidden stream within, it may have been short on actual resources and could not have been used long-term.
Merlin stepped forward, hand raised slightly for balance on the less than stable slope. He stopped suddenly and if Arthur had not seen something similar previously, he would have missed the barest hints of a golden sheen against Merlin’s hand. His friend’s hand passed through it easily enough, but he made no move to go any further.
Aspith would have none of that and walked right on through, the ward lighting around her faintly as she passed. From the depths of the shadows, Arthur heard her announce, “I found something!”
There was the sound of shuffling, and then a voice, echoing and whispered and oh so wonderfully familiar chided, “I told you not to go! Mouldy apples are not worth your life, sweetheart.”
Merlin’s shoulder’s hitched in a near silent sob, his entire form trembling when he managed a choked, “Mother?”
“Oh dear-” Hunith’s voice came forward, so much stronger than before. There was the sound of rushed footsteps and then she appeared, dirty and obviously tired and with streaks of grey in her hair that betrayed her age and yet still beautiful as she stopped at the edge of the wards and took in the scene before her. “Merlin?” she breathed as if she doubted her own eyes.
“Mum?” he asked, but was unable to get out anything else as he was now wrapped in his mother’s arms.
Hunith hugged him tightly and Arthur knew it had to hurt just as he knew Merlin probably did not feel a thing right now. She pulled back the tiniest of bits and eyed her son critically, only to wrap herself around him again. From the comfort of her son’s arms, she peered out at Arthur and spared a quick glance to those around him before she focused on him once more and mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”
“Better than apples?” Aspith said cheekily from behind her.
Hunith tried to free herself but found her son quite adamantly holding on so she half turned and simply shook her head at the girl’s antics before she agreed, “Very much so.”
She guided Merlin out of the way of the opening so that the others could have their joyful reunions, but only made it a few steps before she noticed something was off. She was a sharp woman, and Arthur was honestly surprised she had not noticed sooner. He was slightly distracted by Gwaine and Lancelot helping with the remaining refugees, but was able to edge close enough to be privy to the rest of the reunion.
“What happened?” Hunith demanded. She ran her hands over her son’s arms, back up to cup his face, tried to seek out for herself what was wrong and how she could fix it.
Merlin caught her hands in his own, much like he had with Aspith, only this time the words seemed so much harder for him to get out. “I- I thought you were dead,” he admitted. “You weren’t there, and everything was destroyed and...”
Instead of instantly reassuring him, Hunith shifted her grip so she now held her son’s hands, exposing the bandaged wrists and no doubt now noticing the other stains and bruises he wore. “What happened?” she repeated, and Arthur knew she would get her answer.
He left them to the little bit of privacy he could afford them and went to help with the others. He found his knights had already handled the most of it, so soon enough he stood off to the side again, Gwaine and Lancelot leaning against matching trees and letting the small community welcome their own home and make room for the three new youths within their ranks.
“Is he going to be okay?” Gwaine asked. He jerked his chin in Merlin’s direction as though there were any question as to who he meant.
Arthur glanced over to see mother and son wrapped up in each other once more, tears flowing freely and looking as though it would take an entire bloody army to separate them. “I think he’s going to be fine,” he said, knowing that was not the half of it.
“They are still not safe here,” Lancelot pointed out. He looked at the hills around them and back where they had come from. “If Laval finds Ealdor, he will search the surrounding area for survivors to be sold. Merlin saw him use devices that contain and control magic, which means even this little sanctuary may be at risk.”
It pained him, but Arthur knew the truth to the words. They had made it here on foot with injured to care for. Laval would have had to corral his people, make a show, and then head out. He was likely already on his way. Still, he did not argue when Gwaine requested, “Give them a moment?”
The moment turned into the remainder of the afternoon. Arthur and Gwaine hunted for hopefully enough food to feed both their group and the starving people of Ealdor while Lancelot helped assess the situation and tend to the injured once more. They came back with a handful of rabbits and a single partridge; not a lot but better than nothing. One of Hunith’s friends took the quarry and set about making a meal out of it, and Arthur took the opportunity to check up on his friend.
Merlin was curled up at his mother’s side, head pillowed on her lap. His rough beard had been shaved clean and he looked impossibly young, his injuries all the more shocking against his smooth skin. He had changed into a tunic that was worn but clean, and even his trousers seemed less road weary. He looked almost comfortable. He looked home.
“Thank you,” Hunith whispered. She carded her fingers through her son’s hair, a mindless rhythmic pattern that seemed to sooth them both.
Arthur did not accept the thanks as there was so much more he felt he could have and should have done. Instead, he decided there was no time like the present and said, “It is not safe here.”
“I know,” Hunith sighed, continuing her ministrations. “We are short on provisions and have only a handful of those able to fight. Merlin claims it may not be enough, that those who did this to him, to our village, will return.”
“I know that Ealdor is your home,” Arthur started.
“And has been for longer than you or your knights have drawn breath in this realm,” she pointed out humourlessly.
Arthur took a deep breath, always slightly intimidated by this supposedly simple woman for some reason. He decided to cut to the chase and offered, “There is a place for you in Camelot.”
“All of us?” Hunith asked doubtfully. She glanced up at the people that milled about the enclave, and he knew she recognised each and every one, could tell their story and how they came to be where they were now. She would not let them go, nor could he ask her to.
He nodded. “There are fields that need tending, and it is a simple enough task to build shelter. The people of Camelot would welcome you with open arms, and not just because of Merlin. It would not be home, not yet, but maybe eventually it could be?” he tried.
Hunith looked down at her son, and then back up to rake her gaze over Arthur, no doubt sizing him up just as she had the first time she had met him. “You are a good man, Arthur Pendragon,” she eventually said. “It will not be an easy task to convince the others, but I believe it possible, especially after all you have done for us.”
In her lap, Arthur swore he saw the barest hint of a smile grace Merlin’s shadowed features.
By morning, Hunith had made the rounds and convinced most of the survivors that Camelot would be the best option. The few dissenters did not believe the outright destruction of their village, and even some who were interested in Arthur’s offer wanted to see the remains of the village for themselves, to collect a few personal things if possible if nothing else.
Arthur knew it would be risky, but he could not refuse them, not when the image of Merlin holding the few scattered pieces of his mother’s life in his hands and looking so forlorn was still fresh in his mind. There were not enough knights to plan a full strategy, but he trusted Lancelot and Gwaine to defend the crowd the best that they could, and knew the people of Ealdor would be more than willing to put up a fight of their own.
They approached the village cautiously, the injured and those who did not want to see the ruins of what they loved one last time waiting for them in the sanctuary. They had barely broken the treeline when Merlin paused and held up his hand, head cocked to the side. He turned to Arthur, blue eyes full of anger but no fear when he said, “They are here.”
It was the last time Arthur saw his eyes as simple blue for a long while. They lit with gold and a pile of debris flew to the side to reveal a group of five of the slavers from the market. Another flicker, and the charred shards of a barn door swung open to reveal another four.
“Laval is inside the Hooper’s old home, the one with the least damage on the far north side,” Merlin murmured before he began to stride down to the town, regardless of the armed men now headed right for them.
Arthur grabbed his arm and spun him around back to face him. “You are in no condition for battle, Merlin,” he warned.
The gold eyes did not fade and a branch freed itself to knock one of the men backwards into a pile of muck. “They took my home, they killed my friends, beat me and others, and threatened my mother,” Merlin said with what passed as a shrug. “Consider me motivated.”
With that, he was gone. He pulled his arm free and walked right into the centre of the fray, Lancelot taking up position beside him. Gwaine paused near Arthur and commented, “We can’t stop him, but we can keep him from doing something he’ll regret later.” At Arthur’s reluctant nod, he added, “Besides, I feel a bit motivated myself.” To that, Arthur most heartedly agreed.
Despite how much he wanted to head right for a particular home on the north side, Arthur knew there were other battles to be fought first. A man he recognised from the Market made a grab at one of the women who had hoped to collect her mother’s bracelet, and Arthur pulled him off of her and then finished him off with a few quick strikes of his sword. The pride he felt in doing so was but a glimmer in comparison to his next challenger, the man who had wielded the whip against his friend. He bore an axe now, but Arthur still recognised him, knew exactly who he was and what he had done to Merlin.
This man had both bulk and the possibility of actual training on his side, but he was still no match for Arthur. It would have been easy enough to incapacitate him, but Arthur wanted something more. He saw the burnt out and ransacked homes, the bodies that had not been given a proper burial, and the blood that dripped freely from Merlin’s wrists while he fought off a man of his own.
The slaver’s weapon dropped from his hands within moments and his smarmy smile indicated he thought Arthur would not attack an unarmed man, not like he had done, not like he would continue to do if given the chance. “Pick it up,” Arthur ordered.
He lowered his sword just the barest of bits, gave the man the obvious opening he was looking for. The idiot fell for it and grabbed his axe to take a swing at Arthur that never hit its mark. Arthur dodged neatly enough and parried the next two attempts before the man fell to the ground with Arthur’s sword still deep within his belly. Arthur pulled it free and saw the blood pool on his blade, across the man’s filthy tunic, and bubble free from his open lips. “We already won,” the man breathed, his mouth spread wide into a demented grin before his eyes finally shut in death.
Arthur whipped around at that and saw Merlin surrounded, four of the villagers cowered behind him. Gwaine and Lancelot fought to get closer, but Laval’s reinforcements kept them busy and seemed to actively drive them further and further away. The men that fought now did not even try to hide their identity, the black clothing the same as the men who had closed down the Market a scant few days before. Laval must have seen the opportunity presented, Arthur out in the open with only two knights to protect him and more than a dozen innocents to watch over, and decided to seize it. Unfortunately, he had forgotten a few things: particularly that the two knights were some of the best Arthur had the pleasure of fighting with, and that Arthur himself was even better.
As the circle of people around Merlin were thrown back into the various houses, fences, and troughs nearby, Arthur realised Laval had forgotten something else: Merlin.
Slaver after slaver fell, and guard after guard as well. Merlin took down as many as Gwaine and Lancelot, and even the random villager got in a good hit from time to time. Arthur joined the fray easily enough, and rather liked their chances for victory, right up until he heard Merlin scream in pain.
He turned to find Laval himself in the centre of it all, a whip with an odd silver bauble at the end of it in one hand, chains of the same metal in the other. “Felt that, didn’t you, boy?” Laval taunted. “We’ve worked hard to find something that will corral your kind and have found these ever so effective.”
The whip cracked again and Merlin raised a hand to stop it. The bauble flew free and harmless, but Laval followed up with a swing of the chains that brought Merlin to the ground. Even from his position too far away to be of any real assistance, Arthur could see the glow of the marks, the way a single strike had left Merlin bleeding and weakened.
“I can’t decide,” Laval said as if carrying out a casual conversation. “The profit I would make from selling one as strong as you would make me comfortable ‘til the end of my days, but the joy I would have in breaking you myself would last forever.” He smiled and Arthur questioned how he had ever believed this man capable of being an ally, how he had ever believed him capable of simple trust.
He swung again and Merlin dodged it, pushed himself up to properly challenge him. Again and he hit Merlin’s upper arm, which now hung limp at his side. Again and he hit his already injured leg, toppling Merlin once more.
Arthur raced forward to stop him, not knowing what the chains would do to someone without magic but frankly not caring either. Laval’s whip caught him between his glove and his sleeve and three of Laval’s largest guards stepped forward to grab him when his wrist erupted in pain and his sword clattered to the ground. One held each arm and the third wrapped a beefy arm around his throat, trying to pin him in place. He fought, but was distracted by the scene before him, and by Laval’s taunts of, “Don’t worry, Pendragon, I will keep you around long enough to see him fall.”
The chains swung one last time and Merlin managed to catch them with a piece of broken fence, tug with might that was likely magical as well as physical, and rip them free from Laval’s now ravaged hands. The act cost him though, as he lay gasping on the muddy ground, unable to raise himself no matter how hard he tried.
Laval took advantage of his weakness and approached with a blade pulled from his belt. Arthur had no idea if it was made of the same metal or not, but he felt that Merlin might not even be able to withstand a table knife at this point. He struggled again against the men holding him and managed to get one arm free. He grabbed the blade in the man on his left’s belt and stabbed him first, then sliced at the arm around his throat until it loosened, and soon enough all three were crumpled and unmoving. He turned to go help Merlin, but discovered his actions were entirely unnecessary.
Laval stood frozen in place, arm up and ready to strike, the blade a mere breath away from a hand that glowed a brilliant gold. A hand that belonged to Hunith. “No more,” was all she said. The blade shone the same gold as the power that poured from her and flew from Laval’s hand to embed itself deep within his side. He collapsed slowly, as though in shock that a simple peasant woman could bring him down, and lay panting in the blood-soaked muck.
He drew the blade from himself with a pained grunt and tossed it in her direction. Another glow of gold and it sailed past her to harmlessly embed itself in the same bit of fence Merlin had used earlier.
“Mother?” Merlin gasped. It was his hand that was raised this time, though his eyes had finally returned to blue.
“Shh,” Hunith soothed him. She knelt down beside him despite the filth and pulled him to her to hold tightly. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, and pressed kisses to the top of his head.
The battle ended quickly after that. No one dared cross the angry sorcerers or the pissed off nobility of Camelot. Many of the men fled, but not before they grabbed Laval to take him with them. Arthur had no idea if they would be able to save him and, quite frankly, did not care. If he survived, he would plot and plan and eventually attack Camelot in retribution. If he did not, his allies would do the same.
Arthur knelt at Merlin’s side, wincing at the wounds he saw. He turned to Merlin’s mother, who appeared to be relatively unscathed and asked simply, “Hunith?”
“I couldn’t let him continue,” she said. A tear escaped and she swatted at it angrily. “He’s my son, all I have left, and I just... I couldn’t, your highness, I just couldn’t.”
Arthur rested what he hoped would be seen as a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I do not blame you,” he insisted. “I would have killed him myself if given the chance. Though I must admit I did not expect quite such a display from you.” He offered her the hint of a smile at the end to let her know the comment was in jest and his perhaps sad attempt to lighten the mood.
She quirked her lips in a way so reminiscent of her son and said, self-depreciatingly as always, “Well, you didn’t think he just got it all from his father, did you?” She swiped at another tear, managing to smear grime across her face more than anything else before she continued. “I am not nearly as powerful as him. That little display took a lot out of me, to say the least, but I suppose you could say that I was-”
“Motivated?” Arthur supplied, remembering Merlin’s words at the beginning of the battle.
She chuckled, something that sounded more like a snort than anything else. “Yes,” she agreed. “Something like that.” He saw it now, the exhaustion in her eyes, the way the grey-white of her hair seemed all the more prominent, and wondered how much of herself she would have sacrificed for her son, how much she already had.
She looked back down to Merlin and returned to her soothing ministrations, carefully avoiding the worst of the wounds. Arthur could not tell if Merlin was fully conscious or not, his eyes were closed tightly, but his breath came in rough sobs. “Will he be okay? Can you heal him?” he asked, needing to know. He could not imagine his life without his wonderfully annoying stubborn friend at his side.
“I can’t heal him, I do not have nearly that kind of power,” Hunith admitted. She looked up to Arthur with a gaze so full of trust that it hurt and he had to actively will himself to meet it and not look away. With the same slight quirk of her lips, she added, “But I think he will be fine just the same.”
He swallowed heavily and managed a rough, “I hope so.” It was not enough, but it would have to do for now.
Gwaine and Lancelot came, and together they managed to get a very reluctant Merlin to separate himself from his mother. The Hooper’s home was the least damaged, though that was not saying much, and they laid him out on a surviving cot and began to tend to his wounds. Arthur left to both get fresh water and make the rounds of the town to insure the threat was well and truly gone, and Gwaine went with the survivors from home to home to gather what they could. He crossed their path more than once and first heard more than one person reason that it was safe now so they should be able to rebuilt, but by the final pass heard those same people agree that it was entirely likely that Laval or men like him would return.
The people of Ealdor were a practical people. They were self-sufficient and headstrong, but they were not stupid, far from it in fact. The area had no protection, no ruling body to call to in a time of need. Even if Camelot was to claim the land, it would take a day or more to get there, and recent events had shown just how much damage could occur during that short period of time.
He went to both check in on Merlin and to see if either he or his mother would be able to turn the tide of the recalcitrant villagers towards safety and away from likely suicide. He entered the only slightly broken home to find Hunith attempting to bandage Merlin’s shoulder, tears in her eyes. He already had so many pieces of linen wrapped around various wounds that had yet to heal from his time in captivity that Arthur was tempted to comment about his new and varied wardrobe, but he stopped short when the cloth slipped and exposed an angry red beneath.
“Merlin?” he asked cautiously, not sure how with it his friend truly was. The wounds looked so raw, so painful, that he rather hoped he had given in and passed out by now.
“The salves don’t work on the marks,” Hunith explained. He did not need to ask which ones. “They made them worse, I fear, or at the very least not better,” she fretted. She reached for the heavy metal that lay on the table beside the various pots and leaves as though they themselves may hold the answer, but drew her hand back as though burned.
Arthur cupped her hand between his own and she too now had a mark that matched those of her son. The skin was split and seared though not a drop of blood appeared. From the wince on her face though, that small gift was not without a price. “Hunith,” he chided.
“I was able to touch them with no effects,” Lancelot said, likely to explain why she would think it fine to risk such a thing. “They felt like nothing more than simple metal; a bit heavier, perhaps, but similar to what you would find in a dungeon or that wretched camp we found.”
Hunith freed her hand and shook it slightly as if a burning sensation remained. “It must be tied to the magic,” she reasoned. She fisted her hand in the fabric of the apron she wore, but it was clear it sill pained her.
“Something that effects only sorcerers and reacts to the magic you wield,” Arthur guessed. He could see the purpose in such a thing, even if he did not agree with it. His father would have paid a fair share of the treasury if such a thing had existed in his day. “But if the point was to control the sorcerer, break them and bend them to your will, surely there must be a cure, or some way to prevent permanent harm? If we find who made these, perhaps they would know?”
Lancelot scoffed. “I doubt Laval cared that much. He received his profit and let his slaves suffer and die. If there is something strong enough to reverse the effects, no one from the Market would care to find it.”
“Elemental,” Merlin murmured, letting Arthur know he was still awake or at least close to it.
“What was that?” he asked. It was a simple word that bore a depth of meanings; it was rather like Merlin himself in that regard.
Merlin turned to face him, the shadows under his eyes all the darker for the flickering light of the candles that they had found. “The metal is borne of magic; Laval’s sorcerers used them and tested them on others. They used high magic and fancy spells but, really, magic is strongest at its most basic, its most simple. Nothing is stronger than the elements.”
Arthur was never sure where he stood when Merlin talked like this. He knew Merlin knew magic. He knew Merlin was magic, for all intents and purposes. How he used this information and these abilities was still something far too foreign to him to be productive. Maybe in time, he would understand it better but, for now, he asked in exasperation, “And just how are we to corral the very elements to heal you?”
Merlin shook his head and offered a hint of the smile that usually meant he thought Arthur was being foolish; it looked ghoulish now. “We don’t need to ‘corral’ anything; they are already all around us,” he said as if it were that simple.
Arthur raised an eyebrow to tell him it was not.
Now it was Merlin’s turn to be exasperated. He sat up just the tiniest of bits straighter and reached for some of the fresh herbs that Lancelot had gathered from the nearby hills. “Earth,” he said pointedly. He poured part of the contents of a waterskin into a wooden cup. “Water,” he explained.
He looked around the room, but Hunith stopped him as he reached towards the fireplace where they had set water to boil. “I will not brand you and you will not ask me to,” she told him.
“Nothing so severe,” he insisted, though Arthur fully believed the thought had crossed his mind. He grabbed a candle and brought it closer, and Arthur winced as the simple action tore open one of the wounds from the whip.
“And air?” Lancelot prompted. The bellows was broken and there was nothing obvious laying about that could be used.
Arthur was only slightly comforted by the fact Merlin now turned that same enigmatic smile on his other friend. “The breath we take,” he said, quite proud of himself.
“And breathing on some smoky wet leaves is going to help us how?” Arthur asked, trying to piece everything together.
Merlin ignored him, which was not that surprising. He also did not actually stuff the leaves in the cup or set it alight, which was slightly more surprising. Instead, he set his three objects on the table before him and began to chant in a language that sounded old and foreign and familiar and possible hard on the throat to produce.
Arthur looked to Hunith who held up her hands and shook her head. “Don’t ask me, the boy has always had a way of simply knowing how to do things like this. It was right frightening at times, especially when he refused to learn to walk and just called items to him.”
Arthur was going to comment on imagining the hardships of raising one like Merlin, but was distracted when the tone of the language changed slightly and Merlin’s eyes flashed a gold brighter than the flame before him. He said one final word, not much more than a guttural breath as far as Arthur was concerned, and the room lit with brilliant colours, all centred on the table before him. When the flash faded, the cup was filled with an odd luminescent liquid and nothing else remained.
“Try that,” Merlin directed. He grabbed his mother’s hand and shoved the fingers into the cup, right before he nearly fell off the cot he was perched on. Lancelot caught him and propped him up, but he was well and truly out now.
Arthur just shook his head. “Stubborn sod,” he muttered affectionately.
“That he is,” Hunith agreed. She removed her hand and shook the clinging drops from her fingers. They were not healed, not completely, but they looked far better than before.
Arthur grabbed a bit of cloth to wrap around to protect the wound while whatever Merlin created worked, and Hunith used her free hand to card through the sweaty fringe atop her son’s too pale forehead. When he finished, he could not help but glance to the still shimmering cup and ask, “Do you think it will still work?”
“I most certainly plan on finding out,” Hunith replied.
Lancelot dipped one of the few remaining bandages in the liquid and dabbed at the slice across Merlin’s shoulder. The red lessened, albeit slightly, but it was enough to give Arthur hope.
Hunith surprised him by leaving Merlin in Lancelot’s care, though only briefly. She followed him outside into the cool damp air that spoke of storms on the horizon and closed what remained of the door behind her. “I doubt I will ever be able to say such a thing again, but may I ask a favour, your highness?” she asked.
“Anything and always,” he replied. She was the mother of what was probably the best friend he had ever had, someone who not only had an inner strength that the most valiant of knights would covet, but had shared that same strength with her son. He trusted Merlin’s wisdom enough after all these years, despite calling him an idiot throughout, to debate with Gwen and his council of knights granting Merlin the role of an official advisor. As such, he had to trust the source of a fair deal of that wisdom, and attempt to grant her whatever she may need, so long as it was within his power to do so. Plus, she had just fought off a slave lord single-handedly, and deserved a debt for that alone.
“Let me talk to those who still believe the best option is to stay and rebuild here?” she asked. “My entire life was in this little village, but even I see the futility in staying where people not only know we exist, but would use us as pawns against both you and each other.”
“I would grant you that in an instant,” he promised her. She was of Ealdor, these were her people, she had more of a right to speak to them and attempt to sway them than he ever would. However, as he looked at the small crowd that approached with Gwaine, each carrying travelling packs and baskets and walking away from the ruins of what was once their life, he had to add, “Though that may not be entirely necessary.”
Which is how Arthur found himself two days later followed by a trail of refugees as he entered the gates of Camelot. Gwen met him in the courtyard, Leon at her side, and both simply nodded when he said, “They will need a place to live and as many supplies as can be spared.”
“And Merlin?” Gwen asked hopefully. She scanned the crowd, no doubt looking for the familiar dark head.
Gwaine helped the sorcerer in question down from the horse he had insisted upon riding, careful of his injuries. No cart for Merlin despite the fact he could still barely stand upright on his own. He was healing, but it was going to take time, and possibly more patience than any had to spare. The damage from the chain was nearly as stubborn as he was himself, and it seemed all of his friend’s reserves had been spent both fighting it and making certain everyone else was safe during the journey.
For now though, Arthur simply saw the way Hunith instantly helped Gwaine support him and the glimmer of life that shone bright in his still too-shadowed eyes, and said, “He’s home.”
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/362007.html. Current comments