Merlin - Seventeen Days: Part 4
Title: Seventeen Days
Rating: R
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Length: ~ 22,700 words
Spoilers: Vague for 2.03
Warnings: Dark themes. Highlight to read specific warnings: non-con, attempted non-con, abuse, allusions to slavery, allusions to drug use
Synopsis: After seventeen days, Merlin is finally rescued, but is he truly free?
Author’s Notes: This is rather different than my usual style. It is dark, and the rating is based on the dark themes, not because of graphic sexual content. Huge thanks go out to the wonderful
emeraldteal and anon for the beta. Any and all remaining errors are mine alone. Thanks also go out to the cheering section over at
camelot_fleet who helped and encouraged me to just finish the thing already. *g*
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
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~~~~~~~~~~
“You should not be made to relive this,” Arthur protested. His words were protesting, but the strategist in him could clearly see the necessity, if his expression was anything to go by.
Merlin wanted to reply that he was still living it the first time and doubted that voicing the recent memories were going to do much harm at this point given that they were still swimming freely about his head. He also wanted to know how much of this urge to speak was genuine concern and how much was about his current need to please. Instead, he said, “Lancelot can tell you about the building itself and its proprietors, but I can tell you what the men were truly like, what they did when they took me, and how they fought back. You will need all of these to convince the king that this is not just a ruse to explain my escape.”
He could see Arthur wavering, and he knew the moment he gave in, shoulders slumping and head hanging low so his chin nearly brushed his chest. “All right then, show us what you have got.”
They did not leave that evening. Merlin and Lancelot were very blunt in their descriptions, only soothing over the worst of it when Gwen and even Morgana looked as if they could not take much more. Marcus asked for a layout of the compound and Lancelot obliged to the best of his abilities. Belvedere varied between listening to the other discussions and asking questions of his own and circling the camp to ensure its safety. Leon stayed with Merlin, Arthur at his side. Merlin was not certain as to whether it was because he was the most senior of the knights present, or because Merlin himself knew him best and they thought a familiar face may ease some of the potential humiliation of the retelling. Not that he told them everything; there was no way he was ready for that. The details of what went on in the little room they had locked him in would hopefully stay private for a very long time. He was personally hoping “forever” was an option, but doubted Arthur and Gaius would let him get away with that.
The treetops were tinged with oranges and golds and the shadows stretched across the camp by the time he finished relaying at least the basics of what they would need to know. He paused to marvel at the colours, finally seeing them as nearly true again, and swore he could already feel the faint tremble in his body that he knew was not solely from exhaustion or hunger.
“How are you doing?” Morgana asked from his side. Arthur was on the other side of the camp reviewing something with his knights and Lancelot and Gwen were tending what he assumed was to be their meal by the fire.
“Tired,” he answered honestly. He knew she meant more than that, but it was all he was willing to give at the moment.
She motioned to the heap of blankets he had barely left all day and asked, “Do you wish to rest some more?”
He shook his head. “Tired of resting,” he said, knowing she would understand. “Want to move around, but not sure I can yet. At least it’d be a different view.” His words felt stilted. He had talked so much today, far more than he had in the weeks before. He was not sure if his voice was simply tired, or if he had used up all the words he had to offer.
She smiled as she stood and held out her hand. “Come on then, let’s get you to your feet.”
He was tempted, the urge to move and the urge to comply fighting with the exhaustion within. He tugged his trouser leg up to show her some of the bruising and warned, “I don’t know if I can get very far yet.”
He watched her blink and swallow, and her smile lose some of its lustre. A determined look crossed her face as she tossed her head back and declared, “You won’t know until you try.”
He could not argue with that logic, so he slowly clamoured to his feet. She held on to his arm and let him lean against her until he got his balance. He took a deep breath and then a cautious step away from the safety of his little nest. It was then, of course, that he realised that his feet were still bare and the forest floor was not nearly as soft and smooth without cloth laid about it. He remembered countless times, both in Ealdor and Camelot, that such a thing had not mattered and so he put it aside and concentrated instead on simply remaining upright and placing one foot in front of the other. He had no idea what path Morgana had in mind, but simply followed her lead.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when Arthur hovered near by, a more than slightly anxious expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
Merlin tried to turn to face him more fully, but nearly lost his balance doing so. Morgana righted him and calmly responded, “We are simply taking a little stroll, nothing more.”
“Merlin...” Arthur tried.
“I can’t just stay there forever,” he countered. Just standing was tiring though, and he could feel the muscles of his legs tremble with the effort of supporting his weight. Moving was almost easier as it was a matter of a guided lurch followed by catching himself before he fell and landed in some undignified manner.
Arthur must have sensed his fatigue, or likely it was written across his face, as he chided, “You shouldn’t tire yourself so.”
Merlin took another, smaller, step as means to keep his balance and reminded him, “The journey tomorrow will be far more tiring than this. I’m going to have to get used to walking around again eventually, lest you assign someone to serve your servant, and we both know that is not about to happen.” He offered a small smile, but the action still felt foreign, and he did not know how convincing it truly was.
“I could do it, I am the prince you know,” Arthur mused, but it was clear he was about to relent, for now. Merlin had the distinct impression, however, that he would be following him with his eyes, if not his body, wherever he may travel this evening.
It turned out that Morgana was simply taking him around the clearing where they had made camp. The less than circular path she took just happened to allow for multiple resting opportunities and conveniently placed trees, logs, or in one instance, horses for him to lean up against when he needed the extra support. He gazed longingly down at the small brook that served as their water source, but knew it was off limits for the time being. The slope was slippery and his step far too unwieldy, even with her support.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Morgana told him consolingly. She squeezed his arm lightly in sympathy, and prepared to lead him back to the fire where the meal was ready to be served.
He more fell than sat down onto the pallet that had become his bed and refuge, sweat trickling down his back and body shaking from more than just exertion. It was not overwhelming, not yet, and he promised himself that he would go as long as he possibly could before he gave in and accepted anything from the little vial that sat atop all the other healing supplies.
He was handed a bowl of stew, just like everyone else, had had to appreciate the effort of inclusion. It smelled good, rich and hearty and so far from the damned porridge that he actually wanted to try it.
He took a spoonful and raised it to his lips, watching as over half of it dripped back down into the bowl that he had thankfully held under his chin. He saw Gwen move as if ready to take it from him, to offer to feed him like the babe they were treating him as. There was no way the little pride he had left would allow such a thing, so he defiantly shoved the spoon in his mouth, the vibrant taste exploding on his tongue. He savoured it for a long moment before he realised just how warm it was and how it scorched his mouth. It scorched his throat on the way down too when he hastily swallowed it, but he was more than willing to do it all over again.
He dug the spoon back into the bowl, ready to do just that, when Arthur lightly smacked him on the arm with a waterskin. “Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. Merlin obliged him by taking a sip and letting it wash away the remaining heat, but set it aside to have another go at the stew. After so long with poisoned porridge and bland trail rations, he was not certain wolfing it down was the best option, but he wanted to try to get as much in him as he could before his body rebelled once more.
He looked up to find more than one set of eyes watching him, some with concern and some with almost a hint of humour. Gwen blew on her own spoonful before she raised it to her lips, and gave him a pointed look while doing so. He conceded that, yes, it was a little warm, but it was also the best food granted him in far too long. Mix that with an actual appetite, and he figured he would be scraping the bottom of the bowl before too long.
That was why when, with only about a third of the bowl remaining, he was surprised that he simply could not eat any more. He felt full, honest and truly, and his exhaustion decided that was a fine moment to hit full force. The spoon felt too heavy, as did his eyelids, and he found the bowl gently removed from his grasp just before he would have dropped it and made a mess of things.
“Don’t try to overdo it, just take it easy,” Gwen scolded, but there was no heat to her tone, only fondness.
“There is plenty more where that came from at home,” Arthur promised. Merlin had the feeling that, even if there wasn’t, there would be once Arthur got his way.
“’t’s good,” he managed around a yawn.
“Thank you,” Gwen said with genuine affection. She tucked the bowl to the side and smiled over to him. “But it’s better eaten than worn. Perhaps we can make something similar tomorrow?”
He nodded in agreement before he lay down where he was, not bothering to straighten out the blankets or bedroll. He saw Arthur watch him with the hint of fond amusement to his eyes. The look was coloured with worry as well, and he knew his lack of stamina and appetite only served to reinforce his less than prime health. He closed his own eyes before Arthur or the others gave the game away, and tried to rest.
This would have been easier if a lump had not been poking into his spine. He adjusted the blanket there, but now his makeshift pillow felt off, so he tried to fix that as well. He almost got that right, but the blanket slipped from his shoulder and the chill of the night was getting quite the bite to it, so he tried to pull that up again, only to find himself dragged completely to the side by Arthur who wore that same look of humour, now tinged with exasperation.
“Come on then,” Arthur told him as he pushed him nearly to the dirt. The bedroll was shaken out and laid again, and the blankets were fluffed and folded to his liking. Merlin was then just as unceremoniously shoved back into the lot, the cloak wrapped around his shoulders before he could even lay down. “You are shivering,” Arthur explained which, yes, was true, but he was rather hoping the prince had not noticed yet.
“Is it the cold, or something more?” Lancelot asked. Merlin swore he could almost see him already reach for the vial.
“I don’t want that again,” he replied, voice betraying him with a hitch. He felt his skin begin to prickle with sweat and drew the cloak more tightly about himself, glaring when his fingers quaked slightly in the process.
Morgana appeared before him with a mug full of something he knew was not simply tea. “Merlin...” she began.
He shook his head and willed the water he felt welling in his eyes away. He blinked rapidly to rid himself of it, but knew she saw through the ruse. “I don’t want it,” he repeated. He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but rather did not care. This was his life, his body that was in question, and he would like to have some say in the matter.
“You are already feeling the effects of going without,” she countered, ruthless as ever despite the softness to her tone. She held the mug closer, dared him to refuse as she explained, “It is half the strength of before and should be enough to calm your body for the night. If you need more, we can give you more. If it is too much, we will half it again with the next dose.”
He made a face, wanted to complain that there should be no need for another dose, no need for a dose in the first place. He looked to the others, but only saw resolution and determination on the features of those who would actually meet his gaze.
Perhaps it was for their sake, or perhaps there was just enough of the previous dose in his system to still make him compliant, but he took the cup from her hands and downed the vile concoction in a single go. He felt a few drops escape and dribble down his chin even as he fought the urge to spit it all out again. He coughed, giving in to at least that, and tossed the cup to the side as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and felt the cuff of his tunic grown sticky moist as it absorbed it all.
“Here,” Gwen said, offering him a second mug. “To wash the taste away.”
He sniffed the steaming liquid suspiciously, and raised his eyebrows at the scent. It appeared to be a mixture of herbs for pain and herbs for sleep and would likely have him unconscious before the cup even cooled. “Beginning to think you don’t like my company,” he said to warn her he was on to her plan.
She had the grace to blush and lower her head slightly. “Your wounds... I thought you might be more comfortable. And with Morgana only giving you half as much of the other drink...” She looked up and shrugged. “I thought perhaps this would help you sleep through the worst of it.”
“I don’t feel them,” he told her quietly.
She blinked. “I know you’re tired and you may seem numb to your injuries, but they are there and will stop you from resting.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he corrected. “When I take that poison, I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel anything at all.” He could already feel the effects setting in, just as he could already feel the need to listen and do as he was told. He did not like either and decided to take the coward’s way out. He took the mug from her and drained it to the dregs, the hot liquid barely tickling on the way down.
He handed the cup back to her and laid down on his makeshift bed without a word, closing his eyes when the blankets were adjusted atop of his once more. He heard Morgana’s voice, so quiet, so sorrowful, whisper, “I didn’t know.”
A hand carded through his hair, rested in the nape of his neck in such a familiar way. “Get some sleep,” Arthur said a bit gruffly. Merlin did not know if he was talking to him or Morgana, but complied anyway. His breath evened out and he heard no more conversation as he drifted away.
~~~~~~~~~~
He did not remember what he had dreamt, only that his heart was racing and his breath came in harsh pants when his eyes next snapped open. He was temporarily blinded by the light of the fire, banked though it was, and it took him a moment to adjust to the surrounding darkness. When he did, he saw more than one pair of eyes quickly shut, the gentle rise and fall of chests far too even to be anything but false.
He wondered if he had cried out, if he had said something that would later make him blush and stammer and wish for a sudden strain of forgetfulness to strike all involved. He wanted to shout that he knew they were faking, to demand they tell him what his own mind hid from him, wondering if it might be some key to making this whole horrific event just fade away.
Instead he felt gentle fingers card through his hair again, the weight of another pressed up behind him. “It’s over now, let it go. Try to get some sleep,” Arthur bade, breath warm against his neck.
Merlin closed his eyes and willed himself to do just that.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next time he awoke, there was the barest hint of violets and crimsons tinting the leaves above him. The fire had died down to a few sputtering sticks and a lot of smouldering ash, and Arthur had rolled back over onto his own sleeping roll. Merlin felt sticky and filthy as if all the sweat and grime from a night’s worth of tossing and turning had coalesced upon his skin.
He eased himself out from the nest of blankets, intending to pour some water from the waterskin on his hands and splash it about his face. The skin felt light, but so did he, the ache of his wounds still dulled from whatever Gwen had given him the night before. He stood slowly, carefully, proud when he did not topple head first into the tiny flames beside him.
His balance was still off, and he still lurched more than stepped, but he was able to make it to the far side of the fire under his own strength for a change. A glance told him most of the others were still sleeping, or at least faking it better than they had the night before, and he looked longingly at the path down to the brook.
Leon and Marcus were conversing quietly at the edge of the clearing and, when he glanced over to them, Leon nudged Marcus and said something too low for Merlin to hear at this distance. He thought it was probably for the best, not wanting to hear jibes at his expense, but instead Leon walked over to him and simply asked, “Do you need help getting down there?”
Merlin was so tempted. He told himself he would only be splashing water on his face and not bathing, so Arthur should have no objections to the little jaunt and, after a pause, nodded reluctantly. Leon offered an arm to lean against for support, and slowly led him to the water’s edge, stepping back to give him some room when the water lapped gently against his bare feet.
“Thank you,” Merlin said, a bit hoarsely. He knelt down on some of the drier dirt and tried to ignore the way Leon’s hands moved as if to catch him. He splashed the cool water against his face, and cupped some in his still shaking hands to bring to his mouth and wash away the taste of sleep.
Leon, for his part, acted as though it was a common every day occurrence. He crouched at the waterside a few paces down from Merlin and took the opportunity to fill the waterskin at his side. “We were talking last night, after you... fell asleep,” he began. Merlin had to give him credit for how casual he sounded, as well as how he did not mention the whole drugged into oblivion part of the night’s proceedings. “We will be breaking camp today to head home, but were not certain if you were up for riding quite yet.”
Merlin let the water pool in his hands before he brought them up to swipe at his arms. “Not up for walking the whole way,” he pointed out, earning a grin.
“We were wondering if you preferred to ride, or if we should take that cart of Lancelot’s along with us,” Leon explained. He dipped his own hand in the water and brought it up to push his hair out of his eyes, little droplets dripping down and shining about his beard.
“I would prefer if that cart were burned with the rest of those sadists’ belongings,” he said blithely.
Leon blinked a few times before inclining his head and offering, “Fair enough. I will see to arranging a ride for you.” He stood and stretched, reminding Merlin that he was likely not the only one who had an uncomfortable night, only he was lucky enough not to remember it.
“Leon?” he asked as the knight glanced up the small incline back to the camp. Certain he had his attention, he said, “Thank you.”
Leon held out a hand and pulled him back to his feet again. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then closed it again. When he finally spoke, there was a hint of mirth to his eyes as he said, “Let’s just say the castle is not the same without you.” His lips quirked into a smile as he added, “It will be good to bring you home again.”
Merlin was about to ask just how much of a prat Arthur had been during his absence, but was stopped by the feeling of something pressing against the camp’s boundaries. This was not a friend, he was certain of that and not just because nearly everyone he knew and trusted was already present. There was a feeling of darkness and malice and greed and, unfortunately, it felt far too familiar. He craned his neck in the direction of the camp even as he felt a cold sweat break out along his spine, undoing all of his morning’s efforts. “Someone’s here,” he warned.
Leon snapped to full attention, sword already in his hand as he asked, “Are you certain?”
Merlin nodded, throat suddenly tight and tongue feeling suspiciously thick. He licked his lips and managed, “It’s Silas, isn’t it?”
The knight looked like he was about to say something reassuring, but was interrupted by the ring of steel on steel and the shout of, “Get them out of here!” followed by a near panicked, “Where’s Merlin?”
In a breath, Leon had dragged Merlin over to a thick growth of bushes and pushed him down with a terse order of, “Stay here and stay hidden.” He grabbed the dagger from his side and pressed it into Merlin’s shaking hands. “Just in case,” he warned.
Another breath, and he took off up the incline, sword swinging beside him, not even giving Merlin the opportunity to ask if the blade was intended to defend himself, or simply make certain he never had to go through this nightmare again.
He listened to the sounds of the fight that drifted down to him. Morgana was calling to Gwen and Arthur was hollering for both of them to run while they could. He heard Belvedere grunt a near horrified, “Sire!” and felt his blood pump suddenly boiling through his veins.
He was not going to let this happen, not again, not to the people he cared about. He was certain Arthur would claim he was more of a hindrance than an aide, but he could not simply stay there and cower in the shadows where there was even a remote chance he could do something to help.
He dug his fingers into the bark of a nearby tree and pulled himself upright, feeling a strength return that he fully intended to use to the best of his meagre abilities. He tightened his grip on the borrowed blade and ploughed up the incline, legs shaking but holding until he reached the top. He took in the scene before him, Arthur engaged against one brute while another snuck up behind him, only for him to turn and fight them both. Morgana and Gwen were back to back, each fighting a man of their own, and the knights and Lancelot had at least one man each that they were attempting to handle.
Something was off though, and he knew precisely what it was when Silas stepped out from behind a tree with a smirk he had learned to despise and a chuckled, “Ah, there you are! I knew you could not be far.”
Merlin felt the dagger heavy in one hand while his magic welled in the other. “I will kill you,” he warned.
“You will do no such thing,” Silas countered. A blink and he knocked the blade from Merlin’s hand; another and he had him by the throat against the very tree he had just hid behind. “You’re too weak to offer any real challenge, aren’t you? It was a delightfully amusing try though.”
Merlin swore he heard a familiar voice call his name, but was far too focused on the scarred and putrid bulk before him to even determine just who it was. He tried to talk, tried to ask why and how and so many other questions that flooded his mind. His body had been trained to respond to Silas though, drug or no, and he knew he would barely manage a whimper even if the hand around his throat had not been tight enough to barely allow him the gift of breath.
“Your friend, your ‘saviour’, was far too polite and gentle to truly be one of my clientele,” Silas told him. He stank of the place he ran and it made the bile in Merlin’s stomach churn. “We gave him his chance though, took his coin and let him have you. Had a man follow him until we could be sure.” The smirk returned as he asked, “Do you think he will last as long as you did? Or will he break as quickly as those pretty little girlfriends of yours?”
Merlin cursed, fists flailing only to be batted away with ease. He willed his strength, his true power to return, hearing the words in his mind in preparation to form them on his lips.
“Oh, we can’t have any of that now, can we?” Silas asked, grip somehow tightening even more. “Your friends removed your little collar but, don’t worry, I brought another one.”
He held the contraption in his free hand, letting the leather and metal dangle in front of him and glint in the still rising sun. Merlin looked away, memories of the days he spent with that thing wrapped like a vice around his neck flooding his mind. It was when his gaze drifted slightly downward that he got an idea.
He pulled at the fingers around his throat, loosened them just enough to utter the words he needed to say. He saw the flash of gold reflected in Silas’ own grey eyes just before they widened. The grip around his throat grew slack and Merlin sank to the ground with nothing left to support him. He watched as Silas stumbled backward, as his meaty hand grabbed weakly at the hilt of the dagger now embedded deep within his chest. He pulled it free and turned it in Merlin’s own direction even as he himself fell to his knees.
Merlin lunged forward, hands outstretched, willing the blade to twist with mind and body and every last bit of spirit he had remaining. He felt it sink past leather, past flesh until it could go no farther. It wasn’t enough. Even as the blood welled from wound and lips, it simply was not enough. He reached for the blade, intended to pull it out and slam it home again and again and again, but found his hand stopped by a gentle grip around his wrist.
“Don’t do it, Merlin,” Arthur bade. He was sweaty and bloodied and breathing hard, but there was something else, something more to him. There was a sorrow to his blue eyes as he pleaded, “Please.”
He looked so broken, so... old, that Merlin faltered, felt his anger begin to fade. “He...” he tried, but could not get the words out.
“I know,” Arthur promised him. He pulled him off the dying man and into his arms. Together, they sat heavily on the forest floor, Arthur’s arms wrapped around him despite still holding his sword in one hand.
Merlin wanted to give in, to bury his face in the familiar red fabric and to simply be for a while. He couldn’t though, not until he was certain the threat was truly past. He reluctantly turned his head to the side and looked out across the clearing. The fighting was as good as over, with Lancelot knocking his man to the ground and Morgana cleaning her blade on a fallen man’s tunic. Belvedere and Marcus were making sure the fallen were not about to return, and Leon was pulling Gwen up from the dirt and leading her over to Morgana’s now open arms.
It was done. Over. The word sounded so hollow, so weak for all it held. It was too much and not enough all at once. Merlin gave in to temptation and tucked himself against Arthur’s shoulder, let out a shuddering sigh and hoped it would free far more than the breath locked inside.
He was not sure how long they sat like that, only that it was long enough for a cool breeze to bring fresh shivers along his sweat-dampened skin. Arthur shifted, a single finger lifting Merlin’s chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. The concern was still there, but at least some of the sadness had faded. “Come on,” he urged, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He stood and tugged Merlin with him, steadied him as he looked down at his bloodstained clothing and wondered what was his and what was his enemy’s. The pain in his body surged, reminded him that he was not whole before the morning’s events, and he nearly fell over as his lingering strength chose that moment to leave him.
He felt hands on his arms, wrapped around to his freshly bruised back. He looked up to find Gwen and Morgana and Lancelot all there, all scraped and dirty but alive and whole and most importantly, free. Gwen’s hands trembled nearly as much as his own, but she pulled him to her and whispered, “We’ve got you.”
He let them draw him closer to the fire, closer to where Leon had already pulled out some of the healing supplies. He stumbled after them, let them take his weight when it was too much. He swore he heard a voice, no more than a grunt of a whisper, say, “My men will find you.”
There was a sound of metal against leather and, when he managed to turn around, he was not surprised to find Arthur’s sword coloured with fresh red. “No, they will not,” Arthur said with a frightening calmness. He looked to Merlin, completely unashamed, and stepped away from the body.
Merlin nodded in acceptance if not approval, and sat with the others to tend to wounds new and old alike. He caught Marcus pacing and Belvedere circling until Arthur ordered a full perimeter check, Leon joining his brethren to make sure there were no stragglers lurking in the shadows.
He watched Morgana steady Gwen’s hands, only to have her own steadied in return. He waited patiently while scrapes were cleansed and covered, his own hands nearly batted away when he tried to tie a cloth around a particularly nasty gash on Lancelot’s arm until Gwen gently reminded them all that Merlin himself had the most training what with being the physician’s assistant and all. Lancelot looked sheepish and relented, and Merlin finally had something to occupy his body as well as his mind for the first time in far too long.
He finished wrapping and being wrapped and felt a bone-weary exhaustion setting in. He looked around the camp to the others, most of whom looked nearly as tired as he felt, but saw they had managed to pack up most of the supplies already, the blasted cart blessedly empty. Arthur crouched beside him, the shadows under his eyes dark against his skin, and offered what passed as a smile. “Let’s go home?” he suggested, as if he needed to ask.
Merlin looked to the bodies, to the death and the memories he would rather not be faced with any time soon. Despite the pain and the fatigue and everything else, he held out his hand to Arthur and tried to quirk his lips, not certain if it truly worked, as he agreed, “Thought you would never ask.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue:
It took three more days to reach Camelot. Any time Merlin so much as yawned, Arthur called for a halt and a period of rest. No one complained and, in truth, there were expressions of gratitude and relief more often than not.
They talked along the way, the plan altered and rubbished and brought back out again and again until everyone knew their parts, knew which line they were to present in the elaborate production. Morgana’s wounds, minor though they were, reinforced the story of an attack. Gwen’s quiet but constant terror, explained in whispers to Merlin as she downed her own cup of sleeping herbs on the second night, made more than her grateful for Leon insuring the man who attacked her never drew breath again.
The man had assaulted her with words and promises more vicious than a simple sword and Merlin wished more than once that he could have either erased the memory or made certain she never had to live through it in the first place. Then again, at this point, there were quite many things he felt the same way about, silently cursing the fact his magic had not provided him with answers even as Arthur tried to tell him that surviving something made one stronger.
Only Marcus had asked how Merlin was able to reach the fallen dagger in time to defend himself, and he seemed content enough with the answer of “sheer dumb luck” that Merlin suspected no one truly wanted to know. Even that was worked into the tale, with the knights finding Merlin and a nearly captured Lancelot after defeating the men who tried to make a grab at Morgana and Gwen. A short but decisive second battle with the far fewer men, and Merlin was freed to return with the others.
Arthur was more than willing to give up his own glory and tale of victory, but his men insisted he be involved to explain not only his presence, but his blood spattered clothing and gear. He relented after some choice words from Morgana and a single look from Merlin.
Merlin himself was quite content with his supposed role of attempted escape during transport. It sounded better to him than being bought and sold, even if it had been Lancelot doing the buying. Leon had gifted him with the blade, and he had been forced to use it to defend himself. It was close enough to the truth that it should be able to pass without suspicion, even with his own atrocious skills at obfuscation.
Now, at the end of their journey, he was just trying to stay conscious long enough to see a bed that did not consist of dirt and leaves or ropes and pulleys. His body ached and the scabs on his wounds itched when they did not tear open, he ate a fraction of what he normally did and slept far more than he ever remembered doing in the past. He was still given the drug on a regular basis, his body protesting loudly if he either went without or was given too small of a dose. On the final day, Morgana was torn between giving him what was likely the last of it, or saving some for Gaius to review. He went without, shivering and shaking under the double tunic he wore, Arthur’s cloak tucked in the saddlebag at his side and the horse skittish beneath him.
They reached the final rise as the sun dipped low in the sky, the pale towers and turrets of the castle they called home lit in brilliant colours and hues. The gates stood open and Merlin was certain they had been spotted by now, imagining the calls of the guards and the welcoming party that would await them. He wondered if Gaius would be there, or perhaps the king himself. He also wondered if he would be allowed to his own room, or escorted to the dungeon as Morgana had feared on that first day.
Arthur pulled his mount along side him, nudged his arm gently as if he sensed his trepidation. “It will be fine,” he insisted. “We will make sure of it.”
With a glance to the others and a hesitant nod in return, Merlin urged his horse forward, mind filled solely with images of home.
End.
~~~~~~~~~~
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This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/260193.html. Current comments
Rating: R
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Length: ~ 22,700 words
Spoilers: Vague for 2.03
Warnings: Dark themes. Highlight to read specific warnings: non-con, attempted non-con, abuse, allusions to slavery, allusions to drug use
Synopsis: After seventeen days, Merlin is finally rescued, but is he truly free?
Author’s Notes: This is rather different than my usual style. It is dark, and the rating is based on the dark themes, not because of graphic sexual content. Huge thanks go out to the wonderful
emeraldteal and anon for the beta. Any and all remaining errors are mine alone. Thanks also go out to the cheering section over at
camelot_fleet who helped and encouraged me to just finish the thing already. *g*
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
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~~~~~~~~~~
“You should not be made to relive this,” Arthur protested. His words were protesting, but the strategist in him could clearly see the necessity, if his expression was anything to go by.
Merlin wanted to reply that he was still living it the first time and doubted that voicing the recent memories were going to do much harm at this point given that they were still swimming freely about his head. He also wanted to know how much of this urge to speak was genuine concern and how much was about his current need to please. Instead, he said, “Lancelot can tell you about the building itself and its proprietors, but I can tell you what the men were truly like, what they did when they took me, and how they fought back. You will need all of these to convince the king that this is not just a ruse to explain my escape.”
He could see Arthur wavering, and he knew the moment he gave in, shoulders slumping and head hanging low so his chin nearly brushed his chest. “All right then, show us what you have got.”
They did not leave that evening. Merlin and Lancelot were very blunt in their descriptions, only soothing over the worst of it when Gwen and even Morgana looked as if they could not take much more. Marcus asked for a layout of the compound and Lancelot obliged to the best of his abilities. Belvedere varied between listening to the other discussions and asking questions of his own and circling the camp to ensure its safety. Leon stayed with Merlin, Arthur at his side. Merlin was not certain as to whether it was because he was the most senior of the knights present, or because Merlin himself knew him best and they thought a familiar face may ease some of the potential humiliation of the retelling. Not that he told them everything; there was no way he was ready for that. The details of what went on in the little room they had locked him in would hopefully stay private for a very long time. He was personally hoping “forever” was an option, but doubted Arthur and Gaius would let him get away with that.
The treetops were tinged with oranges and golds and the shadows stretched across the camp by the time he finished relaying at least the basics of what they would need to know. He paused to marvel at the colours, finally seeing them as nearly true again, and swore he could already feel the faint tremble in his body that he knew was not solely from exhaustion or hunger.
“How are you doing?” Morgana asked from his side. Arthur was on the other side of the camp reviewing something with his knights and Lancelot and Gwen were tending what he assumed was to be their meal by the fire.
“Tired,” he answered honestly. He knew she meant more than that, but it was all he was willing to give at the moment.
She motioned to the heap of blankets he had barely left all day and asked, “Do you wish to rest some more?”
He shook his head. “Tired of resting,” he said, knowing she would understand. “Want to move around, but not sure I can yet. At least it’d be a different view.” His words felt stilted. He had talked so much today, far more than he had in the weeks before. He was not sure if his voice was simply tired, or if he had used up all the words he had to offer.
She smiled as she stood and held out her hand. “Come on then, let’s get you to your feet.”
He was tempted, the urge to move and the urge to comply fighting with the exhaustion within. He tugged his trouser leg up to show her some of the bruising and warned, “I don’t know if I can get very far yet.”
He watched her blink and swallow, and her smile lose some of its lustre. A determined look crossed her face as she tossed her head back and declared, “You won’t know until you try.”
He could not argue with that logic, so he slowly clamoured to his feet. She held on to his arm and let him lean against her until he got his balance. He took a deep breath and then a cautious step away from the safety of his little nest. It was then, of course, that he realised that his feet were still bare and the forest floor was not nearly as soft and smooth without cloth laid about it. He remembered countless times, both in Ealdor and Camelot, that such a thing had not mattered and so he put it aside and concentrated instead on simply remaining upright and placing one foot in front of the other. He had no idea what path Morgana had in mind, but simply followed her lead.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when Arthur hovered near by, a more than slightly anxious expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
Merlin tried to turn to face him more fully, but nearly lost his balance doing so. Morgana righted him and calmly responded, “We are simply taking a little stroll, nothing more.”
“Merlin...” Arthur tried.
“I can’t just stay there forever,” he countered. Just standing was tiring though, and he could feel the muscles of his legs tremble with the effort of supporting his weight. Moving was almost easier as it was a matter of a guided lurch followed by catching himself before he fell and landed in some undignified manner.
Arthur must have sensed his fatigue, or likely it was written across his face, as he chided, “You shouldn’t tire yourself so.”
Merlin took another, smaller, step as means to keep his balance and reminded him, “The journey tomorrow will be far more tiring than this. I’m going to have to get used to walking around again eventually, lest you assign someone to serve your servant, and we both know that is not about to happen.” He offered a small smile, but the action still felt foreign, and he did not know how convincing it truly was.
“I could do it, I am the prince you know,” Arthur mused, but it was clear he was about to relent, for now. Merlin had the distinct impression, however, that he would be following him with his eyes, if not his body, wherever he may travel this evening.
It turned out that Morgana was simply taking him around the clearing where they had made camp. The less than circular path she took just happened to allow for multiple resting opportunities and conveniently placed trees, logs, or in one instance, horses for him to lean up against when he needed the extra support. He gazed longingly down at the small brook that served as their water source, but knew it was off limits for the time being. The slope was slippery and his step far too unwieldy, even with her support.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Morgana told him consolingly. She squeezed his arm lightly in sympathy, and prepared to lead him back to the fire where the meal was ready to be served.
He more fell than sat down onto the pallet that had become his bed and refuge, sweat trickling down his back and body shaking from more than just exertion. It was not overwhelming, not yet, and he promised himself that he would go as long as he possibly could before he gave in and accepted anything from the little vial that sat atop all the other healing supplies.
He was handed a bowl of stew, just like everyone else, had had to appreciate the effort of inclusion. It smelled good, rich and hearty and so far from the damned porridge that he actually wanted to try it.
He took a spoonful and raised it to his lips, watching as over half of it dripped back down into the bowl that he had thankfully held under his chin. He saw Gwen move as if ready to take it from him, to offer to feed him like the babe they were treating him as. There was no way the little pride he had left would allow such a thing, so he defiantly shoved the spoon in his mouth, the vibrant taste exploding on his tongue. He savoured it for a long moment before he realised just how warm it was and how it scorched his mouth. It scorched his throat on the way down too when he hastily swallowed it, but he was more than willing to do it all over again.
He dug the spoon back into the bowl, ready to do just that, when Arthur lightly smacked him on the arm with a waterskin. “Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. Merlin obliged him by taking a sip and letting it wash away the remaining heat, but set it aside to have another go at the stew. After so long with poisoned porridge and bland trail rations, he was not certain wolfing it down was the best option, but he wanted to try to get as much in him as he could before his body rebelled once more.
He looked up to find more than one set of eyes watching him, some with concern and some with almost a hint of humour. Gwen blew on her own spoonful before she raised it to her lips, and gave him a pointed look while doing so. He conceded that, yes, it was a little warm, but it was also the best food granted him in far too long. Mix that with an actual appetite, and he figured he would be scraping the bottom of the bowl before too long.
That was why when, with only about a third of the bowl remaining, he was surprised that he simply could not eat any more. He felt full, honest and truly, and his exhaustion decided that was a fine moment to hit full force. The spoon felt too heavy, as did his eyelids, and he found the bowl gently removed from his grasp just before he would have dropped it and made a mess of things.
“Don’t try to overdo it, just take it easy,” Gwen scolded, but there was no heat to her tone, only fondness.
“There is plenty more where that came from at home,” Arthur promised. Merlin had the feeling that, even if there wasn’t, there would be once Arthur got his way.
“’t’s good,” he managed around a yawn.
“Thank you,” Gwen said with genuine affection. She tucked the bowl to the side and smiled over to him. “But it’s better eaten than worn. Perhaps we can make something similar tomorrow?”
He nodded in agreement before he lay down where he was, not bothering to straighten out the blankets or bedroll. He saw Arthur watch him with the hint of fond amusement to his eyes. The look was coloured with worry as well, and he knew his lack of stamina and appetite only served to reinforce his less than prime health. He closed his own eyes before Arthur or the others gave the game away, and tried to rest.
This would have been easier if a lump had not been poking into his spine. He adjusted the blanket there, but now his makeshift pillow felt off, so he tried to fix that as well. He almost got that right, but the blanket slipped from his shoulder and the chill of the night was getting quite the bite to it, so he tried to pull that up again, only to find himself dragged completely to the side by Arthur who wore that same look of humour, now tinged with exasperation.
“Come on then,” Arthur told him as he pushed him nearly to the dirt. The bedroll was shaken out and laid again, and the blankets were fluffed and folded to his liking. Merlin was then just as unceremoniously shoved back into the lot, the cloak wrapped around his shoulders before he could even lay down. “You are shivering,” Arthur explained which, yes, was true, but he was rather hoping the prince had not noticed yet.
“Is it the cold, or something more?” Lancelot asked. Merlin swore he could almost see him already reach for the vial.
“I don’t want that again,” he replied, voice betraying him with a hitch. He felt his skin begin to prickle with sweat and drew the cloak more tightly about himself, glaring when his fingers quaked slightly in the process.
Morgana appeared before him with a mug full of something he knew was not simply tea. “Merlin...” she began.
He shook his head and willed the water he felt welling in his eyes away. He blinked rapidly to rid himself of it, but knew she saw through the ruse. “I don’t want it,” he repeated. He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but rather did not care. This was his life, his body that was in question, and he would like to have some say in the matter.
“You are already feeling the effects of going without,” she countered, ruthless as ever despite the softness to her tone. She held the mug closer, dared him to refuse as she explained, “It is half the strength of before and should be enough to calm your body for the night. If you need more, we can give you more. If it is too much, we will half it again with the next dose.”
He made a face, wanted to complain that there should be no need for another dose, no need for a dose in the first place. He looked to the others, but only saw resolution and determination on the features of those who would actually meet his gaze.
Perhaps it was for their sake, or perhaps there was just enough of the previous dose in his system to still make him compliant, but he took the cup from her hands and downed the vile concoction in a single go. He felt a few drops escape and dribble down his chin even as he fought the urge to spit it all out again. He coughed, giving in to at least that, and tossed the cup to the side as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and felt the cuff of his tunic grown sticky moist as it absorbed it all.
“Here,” Gwen said, offering him a second mug. “To wash the taste away.”
He sniffed the steaming liquid suspiciously, and raised his eyebrows at the scent. It appeared to be a mixture of herbs for pain and herbs for sleep and would likely have him unconscious before the cup even cooled. “Beginning to think you don’t like my company,” he said to warn her he was on to her plan.
She had the grace to blush and lower her head slightly. “Your wounds... I thought you might be more comfortable. And with Morgana only giving you half as much of the other drink...” She looked up and shrugged. “I thought perhaps this would help you sleep through the worst of it.”
“I don’t feel them,” he told her quietly.
She blinked. “I know you’re tired and you may seem numb to your injuries, but they are there and will stop you from resting.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he corrected. “When I take that poison, I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel anything at all.” He could already feel the effects setting in, just as he could already feel the need to listen and do as he was told. He did not like either and decided to take the coward’s way out. He took the mug from her and drained it to the dregs, the hot liquid barely tickling on the way down.
He handed the cup back to her and laid down on his makeshift bed without a word, closing his eyes when the blankets were adjusted atop of his once more. He heard Morgana’s voice, so quiet, so sorrowful, whisper, “I didn’t know.”
A hand carded through his hair, rested in the nape of his neck in such a familiar way. “Get some sleep,” Arthur said a bit gruffly. Merlin did not know if he was talking to him or Morgana, but complied anyway. His breath evened out and he heard no more conversation as he drifted away.
~~~~~~~~~~
He did not remember what he had dreamt, only that his heart was racing and his breath came in harsh pants when his eyes next snapped open. He was temporarily blinded by the light of the fire, banked though it was, and it took him a moment to adjust to the surrounding darkness. When he did, he saw more than one pair of eyes quickly shut, the gentle rise and fall of chests far too even to be anything but false.
He wondered if he had cried out, if he had said something that would later make him blush and stammer and wish for a sudden strain of forgetfulness to strike all involved. He wanted to shout that he knew they were faking, to demand they tell him what his own mind hid from him, wondering if it might be some key to making this whole horrific event just fade away.
Instead he felt gentle fingers card through his hair again, the weight of another pressed up behind him. “It’s over now, let it go. Try to get some sleep,” Arthur bade, breath warm against his neck.
Merlin closed his eyes and willed himself to do just that.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next time he awoke, there was the barest hint of violets and crimsons tinting the leaves above him. The fire had died down to a few sputtering sticks and a lot of smouldering ash, and Arthur had rolled back over onto his own sleeping roll. Merlin felt sticky and filthy as if all the sweat and grime from a night’s worth of tossing and turning had coalesced upon his skin.
He eased himself out from the nest of blankets, intending to pour some water from the waterskin on his hands and splash it about his face. The skin felt light, but so did he, the ache of his wounds still dulled from whatever Gwen had given him the night before. He stood slowly, carefully, proud when he did not topple head first into the tiny flames beside him.
His balance was still off, and he still lurched more than stepped, but he was able to make it to the far side of the fire under his own strength for a change. A glance told him most of the others were still sleeping, or at least faking it better than they had the night before, and he looked longingly at the path down to the brook.
Leon and Marcus were conversing quietly at the edge of the clearing and, when he glanced over to them, Leon nudged Marcus and said something too low for Merlin to hear at this distance. He thought it was probably for the best, not wanting to hear jibes at his expense, but instead Leon walked over to him and simply asked, “Do you need help getting down there?”
Merlin was so tempted. He told himself he would only be splashing water on his face and not bathing, so Arthur should have no objections to the little jaunt and, after a pause, nodded reluctantly. Leon offered an arm to lean against for support, and slowly led him to the water’s edge, stepping back to give him some room when the water lapped gently against his bare feet.
“Thank you,” Merlin said, a bit hoarsely. He knelt down on some of the drier dirt and tried to ignore the way Leon’s hands moved as if to catch him. He splashed the cool water against his face, and cupped some in his still shaking hands to bring to his mouth and wash away the taste of sleep.
Leon, for his part, acted as though it was a common every day occurrence. He crouched at the waterside a few paces down from Merlin and took the opportunity to fill the waterskin at his side. “We were talking last night, after you... fell asleep,” he began. Merlin had to give him credit for how casual he sounded, as well as how he did not mention the whole drugged into oblivion part of the night’s proceedings. “We will be breaking camp today to head home, but were not certain if you were up for riding quite yet.”
Merlin let the water pool in his hands before he brought them up to swipe at his arms. “Not up for walking the whole way,” he pointed out, earning a grin.
“We were wondering if you preferred to ride, or if we should take that cart of Lancelot’s along with us,” Leon explained. He dipped his own hand in the water and brought it up to push his hair out of his eyes, little droplets dripping down and shining about his beard.
“I would prefer if that cart were burned with the rest of those sadists’ belongings,” he said blithely.
Leon blinked a few times before inclining his head and offering, “Fair enough. I will see to arranging a ride for you.” He stood and stretched, reminding Merlin that he was likely not the only one who had an uncomfortable night, only he was lucky enough not to remember it.
“Leon?” he asked as the knight glanced up the small incline back to the camp. Certain he had his attention, he said, “Thank you.”
Leon held out a hand and pulled him back to his feet again. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then closed it again. When he finally spoke, there was a hint of mirth to his eyes as he said, “Let’s just say the castle is not the same without you.” His lips quirked into a smile as he added, “It will be good to bring you home again.”
Merlin was about to ask just how much of a prat Arthur had been during his absence, but was stopped by the feeling of something pressing against the camp’s boundaries. This was not a friend, he was certain of that and not just because nearly everyone he knew and trusted was already present. There was a feeling of darkness and malice and greed and, unfortunately, it felt far too familiar. He craned his neck in the direction of the camp even as he felt a cold sweat break out along his spine, undoing all of his morning’s efforts. “Someone’s here,” he warned.
Leon snapped to full attention, sword already in his hand as he asked, “Are you certain?”
Merlin nodded, throat suddenly tight and tongue feeling suspiciously thick. He licked his lips and managed, “It’s Silas, isn’t it?”
The knight looked like he was about to say something reassuring, but was interrupted by the ring of steel on steel and the shout of, “Get them out of here!” followed by a near panicked, “Where’s Merlin?”
In a breath, Leon had dragged Merlin over to a thick growth of bushes and pushed him down with a terse order of, “Stay here and stay hidden.” He grabbed the dagger from his side and pressed it into Merlin’s shaking hands. “Just in case,” he warned.
Another breath, and he took off up the incline, sword swinging beside him, not even giving Merlin the opportunity to ask if the blade was intended to defend himself, or simply make certain he never had to go through this nightmare again.
He listened to the sounds of the fight that drifted down to him. Morgana was calling to Gwen and Arthur was hollering for both of them to run while they could. He heard Belvedere grunt a near horrified, “Sire!” and felt his blood pump suddenly boiling through his veins.
He was not going to let this happen, not again, not to the people he cared about. He was certain Arthur would claim he was more of a hindrance than an aide, but he could not simply stay there and cower in the shadows where there was even a remote chance he could do something to help.
He dug his fingers into the bark of a nearby tree and pulled himself upright, feeling a strength return that he fully intended to use to the best of his meagre abilities. He tightened his grip on the borrowed blade and ploughed up the incline, legs shaking but holding until he reached the top. He took in the scene before him, Arthur engaged against one brute while another snuck up behind him, only for him to turn and fight them both. Morgana and Gwen were back to back, each fighting a man of their own, and the knights and Lancelot had at least one man each that they were attempting to handle.
Something was off though, and he knew precisely what it was when Silas stepped out from behind a tree with a smirk he had learned to despise and a chuckled, “Ah, there you are! I knew you could not be far.”
Merlin felt the dagger heavy in one hand while his magic welled in the other. “I will kill you,” he warned.
“You will do no such thing,” Silas countered. A blink and he knocked the blade from Merlin’s hand; another and he had him by the throat against the very tree he had just hid behind. “You’re too weak to offer any real challenge, aren’t you? It was a delightfully amusing try though.”
Merlin swore he heard a familiar voice call his name, but was far too focused on the scarred and putrid bulk before him to even determine just who it was. He tried to talk, tried to ask why and how and so many other questions that flooded his mind. His body had been trained to respond to Silas though, drug or no, and he knew he would barely manage a whimper even if the hand around his throat had not been tight enough to barely allow him the gift of breath.
“Your friend, your ‘saviour’, was far too polite and gentle to truly be one of my clientele,” Silas told him. He stank of the place he ran and it made the bile in Merlin’s stomach churn. “We gave him his chance though, took his coin and let him have you. Had a man follow him until we could be sure.” The smirk returned as he asked, “Do you think he will last as long as you did? Or will he break as quickly as those pretty little girlfriends of yours?”
Merlin cursed, fists flailing only to be batted away with ease. He willed his strength, his true power to return, hearing the words in his mind in preparation to form them on his lips.
“Oh, we can’t have any of that now, can we?” Silas asked, grip somehow tightening even more. “Your friends removed your little collar but, don’t worry, I brought another one.”
He held the contraption in his free hand, letting the leather and metal dangle in front of him and glint in the still rising sun. Merlin looked away, memories of the days he spent with that thing wrapped like a vice around his neck flooding his mind. It was when his gaze drifted slightly downward that he got an idea.
He pulled at the fingers around his throat, loosened them just enough to utter the words he needed to say. He saw the flash of gold reflected in Silas’ own grey eyes just before they widened. The grip around his throat grew slack and Merlin sank to the ground with nothing left to support him. He watched as Silas stumbled backward, as his meaty hand grabbed weakly at the hilt of the dagger now embedded deep within his chest. He pulled it free and turned it in Merlin’s own direction even as he himself fell to his knees.
Merlin lunged forward, hands outstretched, willing the blade to twist with mind and body and every last bit of spirit he had remaining. He felt it sink past leather, past flesh until it could go no farther. It wasn’t enough. Even as the blood welled from wound and lips, it simply was not enough. He reached for the blade, intended to pull it out and slam it home again and again and again, but found his hand stopped by a gentle grip around his wrist.
“Don’t do it, Merlin,” Arthur bade. He was sweaty and bloodied and breathing hard, but there was something else, something more to him. There was a sorrow to his blue eyes as he pleaded, “Please.”
He looked so broken, so... old, that Merlin faltered, felt his anger begin to fade. “He...” he tried, but could not get the words out.
“I know,” Arthur promised him. He pulled him off the dying man and into his arms. Together, they sat heavily on the forest floor, Arthur’s arms wrapped around him despite still holding his sword in one hand.
Merlin wanted to give in, to bury his face in the familiar red fabric and to simply be for a while. He couldn’t though, not until he was certain the threat was truly past. He reluctantly turned his head to the side and looked out across the clearing. The fighting was as good as over, with Lancelot knocking his man to the ground and Morgana cleaning her blade on a fallen man’s tunic. Belvedere and Marcus were making sure the fallen were not about to return, and Leon was pulling Gwen up from the dirt and leading her over to Morgana’s now open arms.
It was done. Over. The word sounded so hollow, so weak for all it held. It was too much and not enough all at once. Merlin gave in to temptation and tucked himself against Arthur’s shoulder, let out a shuddering sigh and hoped it would free far more than the breath locked inside.
He was not sure how long they sat like that, only that it was long enough for a cool breeze to bring fresh shivers along his sweat-dampened skin. Arthur shifted, a single finger lifting Merlin’s chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. The concern was still there, but at least some of the sadness had faded. “Come on,” he urged, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He stood and tugged Merlin with him, steadied him as he looked down at his bloodstained clothing and wondered what was his and what was his enemy’s. The pain in his body surged, reminded him that he was not whole before the morning’s events, and he nearly fell over as his lingering strength chose that moment to leave him.
He felt hands on his arms, wrapped around to his freshly bruised back. He looked up to find Gwen and Morgana and Lancelot all there, all scraped and dirty but alive and whole and most importantly, free. Gwen’s hands trembled nearly as much as his own, but she pulled him to her and whispered, “We’ve got you.”
He let them draw him closer to the fire, closer to where Leon had already pulled out some of the healing supplies. He stumbled after them, let them take his weight when it was too much. He swore he heard a voice, no more than a grunt of a whisper, say, “My men will find you.”
There was a sound of metal against leather and, when he managed to turn around, he was not surprised to find Arthur’s sword coloured with fresh red. “No, they will not,” Arthur said with a frightening calmness. He looked to Merlin, completely unashamed, and stepped away from the body.
Merlin nodded in acceptance if not approval, and sat with the others to tend to wounds new and old alike. He caught Marcus pacing and Belvedere circling until Arthur ordered a full perimeter check, Leon joining his brethren to make sure there were no stragglers lurking in the shadows.
He watched Morgana steady Gwen’s hands, only to have her own steadied in return. He waited patiently while scrapes were cleansed and covered, his own hands nearly batted away when he tried to tie a cloth around a particularly nasty gash on Lancelot’s arm until Gwen gently reminded them all that Merlin himself had the most training what with being the physician’s assistant and all. Lancelot looked sheepish and relented, and Merlin finally had something to occupy his body as well as his mind for the first time in far too long.
He finished wrapping and being wrapped and felt a bone-weary exhaustion setting in. He looked around the camp to the others, most of whom looked nearly as tired as he felt, but saw they had managed to pack up most of the supplies already, the blasted cart blessedly empty. Arthur crouched beside him, the shadows under his eyes dark against his skin, and offered what passed as a smile. “Let’s go home?” he suggested, as if he needed to ask.
Merlin looked to the bodies, to the death and the memories he would rather not be faced with any time soon. Despite the pain and the fatigue and everything else, he held out his hand to Arthur and tried to quirk his lips, not certain if it truly worked, as he agreed, “Thought you would never ask.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue:
It took three more days to reach Camelot. Any time Merlin so much as yawned, Arthur called for a halt and a period of rest. No one complained and, in truth, there were expressions of gratitude and relief more often than not.
They talked along the way, the plan altered and rubbished and brought back out again and again until everyone knew their parts, knew which line they were to present in the elaborate production. Morgana’s wounds, minor though they were, reinforced the story of an attack. Gwen’s quiet but constant terror, explained in whispers to Merlin as she downed her own cup of sleeping herbs on the second night, made more than her grateful for Leon insuring the man who attacked her never drew breath again.
The man had assaulted her with words and promises more vicious than a simple sword and Merlin wished more than once that he could have either erased the memory or made certain she never had to live through it in the first place. Then again, at this point, there were quite many things he felt the same way about, silently cursing the fact his magic had not provided him with answers even as Arthur tried to tell him that surviving something made one stronger.
Only Marcus had asked how Merlin was able to reach the fallen dagger in time to defend himself, and he seemed content enough with the answer of “sheer dumb luck” that Merlin suspected no one truly wanted to know. Even that was worked into the tale, with the knights finding Merlin and a nearly captured Lancelot after defeating the men who tried to make a grab at Morgana and Gwen. A short but decisive second battle with the far fewer men, and Merlin was freed to return with the others.
Arthur was more than willing to give up his own glory and tale of victory, but his men insisted he be involved to explain not only his presence, but his blood spattered clothing and gear. He relented after some choice words from Morgana and a single look from Merlin.
Merlin himself was quite content with his supposed role of attempted escape during transport. It sounded better to him than being bought and sold, even if it had been Lancelot doing the buying. Leon had gifted him with the blade, and he had been forced to use it to defend himself. It was close enough to the truth that it should be able to pass without suspicion, even with his own atrocious skills at obfuscation.
Now, at the end of their journey, he was just trying to stay conscious long enough to see a bed that did not consist of dirt and leaves or ropes and pulleys. His body ached and the scabs on his wounds itched when they did not tear open, he ate a fraction of what he normally did and slept far more than he ever remembered doing in the past. He was still given the drug on a regular basis, his body protesting loudly if he either went without or was given too small of a dose. On the final day, Morgana was torn between giving him what was likely the last of it, or saving some for Gaius to review. He went without, shivering and shaking under the double tunic he wore, Arthur’s cloak tucked in the saddlebag at his side and the horse skittish beneath him.
They reached the final rise as the sun dipped low in the sky, the pale towers and turrets of the castle they called home lit in brilliant colours and hues. The gates stood open and Merlin was certain they had been spotted by now, imagining the calls of the guards and the welcoming party that would await them. He wondered if Gaius would be there, or perhaps the king himself. He also wondered if he would be allowed to his own room, or escorted to the dungeon as Morgana had feared on that first day.
Arthur pulled his mount along side him, nudged his arm gently as if he sensed his trepidation. “It will be fine,” he insisted. “We will make sure of it.”
With a glance to the others and a hesitant nod in return, Merlin urged his horse forward, mind filled solely with images of home.
End.
~~~~~~~~~~
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