Fic: Within Sight (1/2)
Title: Within Sight
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Words: 10,000
Rating: NC-17/MA
Beta: Many thanks to ignazwisdom for her keen eye and sage advice.
Summary: When a curse blinds Arthur, his position as heir is threatened.
Arthur urged his horse up the narrow path, its hooves churning deeply into the mud. The wind gained strength as they reached the crest of the hill, driving sheets of rain into his face and pushing the hood of his cloak from his head. He ignored his aching back and twisted in the saddle to peer behind him. Merlin had been silent for the past hour, and that was worrying -- the less Merlin complained the more miserable he was.
Merlin sat in the saddle like a sack of grain, his shoulders hunched and his free hand tucked firmly in an armpit. His sodden clothes stuck to his thin frame, and he looked even more bedraggled than usual.
“We're almost home,” Arthur called. They would have been home already if the river hadn't burst its banks, flooding the bridge. The route to the next crossing had taken them far out of their way. “No more than two hours, at most.” He adopted his most confident tone, the one he used to lead the men into battle.
“If we don't drown first,” Merlin said with a shiver, tugging at his collar.
Arthur smiled at Merlin's dour tone and turned back around just as his horse shied to the left. After miles of plodding, the sudden motion took Arthur by surprise. Only years of practise allowed him to keep his seat as the horse wheeled away. He heard Merlin cry out in alarm, but Arthur's attention was still on his fractious mount. The horse reared and the saturated ground gave way beneath it. Arthur feared the horse would fall and crush him, but after a gut-twisting lurch, the beast regained its balance.
Merlin was yelling something, but Arthur couldn't hear him, couldn't understand the words. Reining in his horse, Arthur saw a dark figure moving toward them. His horse whinnied in panic and sidled away as the form approached, raising its hands. They glowed with the blue-green light of witchfire, growing so bright that Arthur shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the entire world was enveloped in blackness.
This time when his horse reared, Arthur fell.
---
He was aware of the pain first, the cold second, and the sound of his name breathlessly chanted third.
“Arthur, Arthur, oh please, Arthur, come on.”
Merlin, of course. Arthur put a hand to his throbbing head. “Don't you mean, 'Oh please, Sire, come on?' And then you may want to add some bit about your life having no meaning if I'm dead.”
Merlin laughed weakly. “Well, if you're going to be like that, I'm not at all sure that I do want you to live.”
“Where's the sorcerer?” Arthur asked. He opened his eyes and blinked. He could see nothing; the spell that kept them in darkness still held.
“Gone,” Merlin said, but his tone wasn't quite certain.
“You fought him?”
“No, no, of course not,” Merlin said hastily. “He just sort of ... ran off. And you were still unconscious; I couldn't leave you.”
“Right,” Arthur agreed, amused by the thought of Merlin pursuing a dangerous sorcerer on his own. He pushed himself up and felt Merlin's hand on his shoulder. “I have my flint, but nothing will burn in this damp. And I doubt any mundane fire would be able to pierce this infernal darkness anyway. Does it extend very far, do you think?”
“What?” Merlin asked.
“At least it seems to have stopped raining. We should be able to follow the road without too much trouble, assuming we start the right way down it.” Suddenly Arthur wasn't at all sure which direction was which. Ah well -- he'd figure it out.
“It's not dark.”
“What are you on about? It's black as pitch,” Arthur said crossly, wishing Merlin would be a little more help.
Merlin released Arthur's shoulder, and there was the sound of mud squelching as he shifted. “Can you not see this? I'm waving my hand right in front of your face.”
“I'm blind,” Arthur said slowly, and then, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, “My God, what am I to do?”
“I'm sure it's not permanent,” Merlin said. “It'll probably wear off in just a bit. Are you all right?”
“Besides the blindness, you mean?” Arthur snapped.
“Uh, yeah.”
Arthur took a moment to assess his physical state. His shoulder ached where he'd fallen, but it wasn't dislocated. Everything else -- except his eyes -- seemed to be in working order. “I think so.”
There were more squishy noises, and then cold, muddy hands grasped his wrists. “Come on, up you go.”
Arthur let himself be levered to his feet. Merlin's arm snaked around his waist, and Arthur looped an arm around Merlin's neck. Even with that support, he still tripped twice before they caught up to his horse. Between the two of them, they got him into the saddle.
The ride back seemed even longer with no way to mark their progress; he was too proud to ask Merlin. He crossed his arms, hands feeling empty without the reins, and prayed.
---
This time when Arthur woke, he was warm and dry, and though he felt wrung out, he wasn't in pain. He recognised the feel of his mattress and the softness of his linen nightshirt under his fingers, though he had only faint memories of Merlin helping him into it.
“Can't you do anything for him, Gaius? Cure him?” Uther's voice was low but harsh, as if he could threaten a cure out of the old physician.
“I assure you, Sire, I am doing everything in my power to help him.”
“Are you sure the blindness is magical? I've seen men with head injuries lose their sight.” A lump rose in Arthur's throat, and he wanted to turn over and pull the pillow over his head, but he couldn't without betraying his wakefulness.
“It is impossible to be certain, but judging from Merlin's report, I would guess that the cause is magical in nature rather than brain trauma. But I will have to test his reflexes and condition to be sure. For now, it is better to let him sleep.”
There was a lengthy pause, and Arthur imagined he felt his father's unhappy scowl upon him.
“Fix this, Gaius -- I can't have a blind heir.” The door slammed, hard enough that Arthur felt it.
“Pleasant man, your father,” Merlin said genially, apparently seeing past Arthur's feigned sleep. “How do you feel?”
Arthur groaned and pushed the bedclothes off. “Thirsty.”
“How much do you remember of your ordeal?” Gaius asked, the bed dipping as he settled beside Arthur. He took Arthur's face in his hands, pulling back on the lid of each eye. Elsewhere in the room, Arthur heard the sound of pouring water.
“I remember riding back; we had to take the long way 'round. There was a sorcerer -- he frightened my horse, and I didn't see him at first. Then light,” Arthur flinched at the memory of the brightness, “and then darkness. My horse threw me, blasted animal. When I woke up, I couldn't see.”
“Are you quite sure it went dark before you fell? Not after?” Gaius asked while his gnarled fingers probed Arthur's scalp, feeling for bumps or knots.
“Yes, I'm sure. I was startled by it; it's why I lost my seat.”
The hands retreated and Gaius sighed. “Well, you may have a mild concussion, but I don't think it is the reason for your blindness.”
“Is that good?” The cool pewter of a drinking cup was pressed into his hand. He raised it to his lips and nearly spat it out; the water was astringent and bitter.
“Drink it,” Merlin said, with more authority than was proper.
“Yes, Sire,” Gaius added, far more respectfully. “There's feverfew to help with any swelling in the brain, in case it is the cause, and willow bark for pain.”
Arthur downed the contents in three shuddering gulps. “If the blindness is magical, can you heal it?”
Gaius drew a breath before answering and Arthur got the distinct impression he was exchanging a look with Merlin. “Your father has sent riders out to find the sorcerer who did this. Forcing him to lift the curse is the most certain course, but there are certainly some remedies we might try in the meantime.”
“So that would be a no,” Arthur said, not at all appeased by Gaius's cheerful tone.
“Now, now,” Gaius said, but he didn't argue. “If you're feeling well enough, then I'll go consult my books. Unless you require anything....” Arthur waved him away. Gaius shuffled off, probably bowing out of habit, and the door clicked closed.
“He doesn't think I'll be cured, does he,” Arthur said, after he'd gone.
In the following silence Arthur thought perhaps Merlin had slipped out with Gaius, but then a boot heel scraped along the stone floor.
“Herbal teas are all very well, but it takes magic to undo magic,” Merlin said. “If it is magic, I mean. We don't know for certain that it is.” But he tacked that on as an afterthought. “It might be a short-term thing, fade on its own -- you never know.”
“You're an idiot,” Arthur said, and shot the space where he thought Merlin was an annoyed look.
“Yes, well,” Merlin said, clapping his hands. “How about some breakfast?”
---
Gaius had him try three potions that afternoon. Two did nothing. One did nothing but make him empty his stomach into the chamber pot.
“Not the pixiewort, then,” Gaius said.
---
The first week of his blindness, Arthur refused to leave his room, allowing only Merlin and Gaius to see him. And Morgana, of course -- though he didn't so much allow her entrance as fail to prevent it.
“How are you feeling?” she asked and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
“I feel fine, Morgana,” he said, pushing her hand away. “I'm not sick, and I don't have a fever.”
“No need to be so touchy. I'm just checking,” she said. “You should hear the rumours going around -- that you're crippled, disfigured or desperately ill.”
“Just blind,” he said, “you can put your mind at ease. And tell the court.”
“They're not going to believe until they see you for themselves -- yes, yes, ironic, I know, don't even start,” she said, running over his protest. “It would be good for you to reassure them.”
“How does seeing their future king blind and helpless reassure them?” Arthur said sourly.
“Arthur, they're imagining the worst. If they see you alive, in good health and spirits, it will do much to allay their fears. They take their cue from you more than Uther. Besides, you're their prince; they deserve to see you.” She laid her cool soft hand over his, but when she squeezed, it felt like a vise.
He swallowed against the bitterness in his mouth. “I can't face it, the court watching me knock over my wine and spill gravy down my shirtfront. Not today.”
“There is a feast two nights hence, perhaps then?” she suggested gently. “That would give you time to prepare.” Her hair brushed his face as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “It will be all right, Arthur.”
“You sound awfully confident,” Arthur said, wondering just when he had agreed to her plan.
“I always am.”
---
Even with Merlin's coaching, Arthur did not share Morgana's confidence the day of the feast. He'd had Merlin set out a formal place at every meal and practised finding the proper fork by feel. He'd had Merlin help him select his attire but second-guessed his opinion. Merlin's fashion sense was tragic.
“And how's my hair?” Arthur asked; he tugged nervously at the hem of his doublet.
“It's still great. Just like it was a quarter of an hour ago,” Merlin said, exasperation colouring his tone. “The ladies will all be jealous.”
Arthur smoothed a strand between his fingers, hoping it would lie flat. “And this coat?”
“Blue suits you admirably. It goes well with the hair.”
“What--”
“You look very fit,” Merlin cut in. “Erm, Sire. You look very fit, Sire.” Merlin was beginning to sound desperate, and Arthur wondered if maybe his preparations hadn't been a little excessive.
He heaved one last sigh. “All right, I'm ready.”
---
The king's guests were circulating in the great hall, the rustle of their silk and satin robes loud against the flagstones and their voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Arthur squared his shoulders and raked a hand through his hair one last time, trying to look as though it was perfectly usual for him to have a servant lead him around.
“Lady Ardith closing in,” Merlin whispered. “And I think she's had too much.”
“Oh, my prince!” Lady Ardith nearly shrieked. She took his free hand and squeezed, hard.
Arthur winced and murmured, “Lady Ardith, it's a pleasure as always.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I trust you are in good health.”
“Well enough, Sire,” she said. “It's your own health I'm concerned about.” She sounded almost weepy.
“Don't worry, I'm quite all right. You can see for yourself.”
“But you're, you're....” She trailed off, his predicament too horrible for words.
“I'm sure I'll make a full recovery in no time. In the meanwhile, there may be a few, ah, inconveniences, but it's not the worst I've suffered.” Merlin shifted beside him, probably irritated to be described as an inconvenience.
“So brave,” Lady Ardith clucked, sniffing loudly. “Such a brave boy.”
Merlin muttered a pardon and ushered Arthur away. They ended up talking to Lord Brun, who was an avid breeder of hunting dogs. He didn't mention Arthur's infirmity, and it was quite possible he didn't notice it, either -- he had little interest in anything beyond his dogs. His conversation was limited, but a relief; Arthur merely had to agree and occasionally ask encouraging questions.
“My best bitch -- Blodeuwedd, of course -- she was out of the hill stock,” Lord Brun said. “Finest litters I've ever seen.”
“She sounds like quite the … bitch,” Arthur said, and Merlin hiccoughed as though he were trying very hard not to laugh.
“Oh, she was,” Lord Brun continued, oblivious. “Long legs, deep breasted.”
Merlin was definitely trembling now. He might have well lost it, but the stewards called for the feast to begin, and Merlin led Arthur away to his place at the head table. Here Merlin retreated, but Arthur found it easier to navigate his own plate. Servants whispered the name of the dish as they filled his plate.
He sat next to Uther, who was preoccupied by the guest of honour, a Duke of Something-or-Other. Morgana sat on Arthur's other side and kept sharing entertaining observations.
“Lady Ardith is gesturing with her wine glass and is about to empty it in Lord Dydimon's lap if she isn't care--and there it goes. Oh!” She giggled. “And he's wearing white, and you know that's never going to come out. He looks as though he's been stabbed.”
“That was very nearly me,” Arthur said, relieved to have escaped such a fate. “Maybe next time she'll think twice before refilling her cup.”
“I hope not,” Morgana countered. “I thought tonight would be boring.” She hesitated and nudged his foot with her own. “I'm glad you decided to come.”
“Are they staring at me?” he asked through a strained smile.
“Not at the moment, no. Lady Ardith is trying to sop Dydimon's lap with her skirts.”
Arthur snorted at the image that called to mind. He took a long drink from his wine glass, the tight knot in his stomach easing for the first time that evening. He even managed to enjoy his pheasant and stewed apple.
Toasts went around as the diners finished the meal, and the wine flowed more freely. First for the guest of honour -- whose name Arthur still hadn't caught -- and then for Uther as a gracious host; it seemed everyone felt the need to offer up their own praise, though they mostly repeated each other.
Arthur was actually glad to have a good reason to stare into space with a blank expression.
There was a heavy sigh in his ear. “Do you think they'll end soon?” Merlin whispered, and his fingers closed over Arthur's on his cup, holding it still to be refilled.
“I'm just hoping they end at all,” Arthur said, and Merlin huffed a laugh, his breath tickling Arthur's ear. “Thanks.” Arthur sipped from his freshly filled goblet.
The speeches did finally end, though Arthur's backside was close to numb when the last would-be orator had finished. Arthur pushed away from the table and held out a hand, Merlin already at his side, doubtless as eager to leave as Arthur was. They wove their way through the departing courtiers, crossing the expanse of the great hall.
Perhaps it was the wine that made Arthur overly confident or Merlin inattentive, but Arthur found himself meeting a large and unyielding body, the sharp edge of a serving tray catching him in the ribs. He stepped backward, his foot turning and his arms pinwheeling as he fell. He hit hard and awkwardly, the breath knocked from his body. Plates and half-empty trenchers fell around him, stoneware shattering and the large tray clanging against the stone. Arthur struggled to push himself up, scrabbling against the shards of pottery and spilled food.
“Are you all right?” Merlin said, his voice panicked. He knelt by Arthur, taking hold of his arm. Beyond Merlin, the entire hall had gone quiet and still; Arthur heard nothing over his own laboured breathing.
“Fine,” Arthur said, through gritted teeth, shoving Merlin away. “You're supposed to watch where you're going. The idea is to not run me into anyone.” He gained his feet, and brushed himself off as best he could. He was shaking with rage and embarrassment, his face painfully hot. A servant was muttering abject apologies, but Arthur ignored him. “Get me out of here, if you can do it without killing me.”
Merlin took his arm again, his grasp tentative. Arthur's tunic was soaked with what smelled like gravy, and it clung to his skin. Footsteps retreated hastily before them as people hurried to get out of their way.
---
“I won't require you to attend me this evening,” Arthur said as they returned to his room.
“Do you want--”
“No. Leave now,” Arthur cut Merlin off coldly. The door clicked shut as Merlin left.
He'd stripped to the waist and was sponging the worst of the mess from his hair when the door swung open again, banging against the stone.
“It's me.” Morgana. Arthur winced.
“Come to check on the invalid?” he said, annoyed. “Your concern is touching.”
“I don't give two figs about you,” she said, her voice thin and reedy with anger.
Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a headache coming on. “No, of course not.”
“How could you be so beastly?” The hem of her gown whispered as she crossed the floor. He didn't have to see to know that her hands were on her hips. “Poor Merlin -- you really are insufferable.”
“His damn clumsiness shamed me in front of the entire court,” Arthur said. “You're lucky your servant is competent.”
“It was an accident,” Morgana snapped. “He feels terrible--”
“Good.”
“--and it really wasn't his fault.” She made a little sound of exasperation that wasn't quite a growl and wasn't quite a sigh. “If you knew how hard he was taking this whole thing. Honestly, Arthur, I think he's lost weight, if that's possible. And he's got terrible circles under his eyes.”
Arthur scowled, ignoring the pang of guilt. “That's not my fault.”
“He cares for you far more than you deserve, and you shouldn't treat him so ill. Not everything is about you, contrary to what you may believe.”
Arthur braced both hands against the table, letting his head fall forward. “Is that all?”
“Yes, that's all,” Morgana said, though she probably had more she would have liked to add. He heard her snort in indignation once more and retreat, the door slamming shut to punctuate her exit.
Arthur dropped the rag in the basin and went to bed.
---
Merlin remained silent the next morning as he came to dress Arthur, saying nothing beyond the perfunctory greeting and a few questions about Arthur's wishes for breakfast.
“It doesn't matter,” Arthur said in answer to a question about how he preferred his eggs.
“I'm sorry, Sire.”
Arthur knew from Merlin's anguished tone that he didn't mean the eggs. The hinges on the wardrobe squeaked as Merlin rummaged through it and returned with Arthur's coat. Arthur held still while Merlin helped him into it, fussing with the collar.
“It's ... all right.” Arthur caught Merlin's wrist and squeezed, feeling muscle and bone under the coarse material of the cuff. “But no runny yolks.”
---
Arthur spent most of the following days in his chamber. Occasionally he had duties to attend, but he took to sending Merlin with his apologies and a flimsy excuse. He half expected Uther to storm in and demand he behave as a prince ought, but his father seemed willing to tolerate his shirking.
That worried Arthur deeply.
He also had trouble sleeping. Without sunlight to mark the beginning and ending of the day, the concept began to mean very little to him. He slept later and later, sending Merlin away when he came to wake him.
At night, though, late enough that it might be called early morning, he would venture out. The dark didn't bother him, of course, and the rest of the castle was asleep; there were no servants to mutter as they passed or to offer help he didn't want.
He made his way by memory and by feel, fingertips trailing against the rough stone walls of the castle. The first few nights he ventured out, he got lost, one bad turn getting him hopelessly turned around. But he soon developed a sense of direction that didn't rely on his memories of the grounds, and he dared to go father into the belly of the keep, the ruins of the old fortress Camelot had been built over.
One night, not long after he'd started these excursions, he found himself in a part of the keep he hadn't been in before. The passage he followed descended sharply, the floor no longer stone but packed dirt, and he came to a heavy iron-enforced door. It was barred, but not locked.
He hesitated, hands on the rough wood of the crossbar. He'd heard of a great catacomb and of twisting caverns below the city -- if he got lost....
With a heave, he lifted the crossbar and set it aside. He entered the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall and the other hand on the low ceiling. The temperature dropped as the corridor wound deeper, and he wished he'd worn more than his thin shirt.
The passage split several times, and at each divide he stopped and ran the return route through his head, careful to mark each turn. After one such split, the wall stopped and the ceiling ascended beyond Arthur's reach. He heard water dripping and its echoes, suggesting a vast space.
“Stay where you are, Prince. But another three steps and you would fall to your death,” a deep and gravelly voice said.
Arthur heart pounded, but he kept his feet firmly planted. “Who are you?” he called.
“A prisoner of your father's.” There was no malice, no resentment in the voice, just weariness. “The particulars are of no consequence.”
“How could you know me?”
“How could I not?” the voice said, which wasn't much of an answer. “You are Arthur Pendragon, and I have heard much of you. You are in quite a predicament.”
That was brilliant; even prisoners in the darkest and dankest dungeon were up on the latest gossip. “I'm sure that pleases you, to see an enemy brought low.”
“You are not my enemy,” the voice replied, unruffled. “But you stand at the edge of a precipice.”
“Yes, yes, you've said that,” Arthur said, feeling a bit exasperated.
“A metaphorical precipice.”
“Oh.”
“I have some advice for you. You must know who to trust, Arthur Pendragon. And before you can, you yourself must be trustworthy.”
“Will you be reading my palm next?” Arthur asked, equal parts irritated and amused. “Or casting bones? Any market-day charlatan could come up with prophesies like yours.”
The voice -- or The Voice, as Arthur had started to think of it -- chuckled. “One more thing. Be careful, lest you do not see what is right before you.” The voice laughed again.
“Now that's just cruel,” Arthur protested, his irritation becoming anger. “I am the crown prince of Camelot, you can't speak to me--”
“You should return now,” the prisoner cut in, unperturbed by Arthur's anger. It wasn't a suggestion, but an order.
Arthur shivered; the chill was settling into his bones. “If I can even find my way out of this infernal pit.”
“I think help may be on the way.” There was the sound of a chain rattling and sails catching the wind; a breeze pushed Arthur's hair from his forehead. Arthur took an involuntary step backward and shivered again, wondering just what sort of person his father had locked down here.
He made his way slowly back, no longer certain whether it was a left turn at the third split. Footsteps echoed up the passage in front of him, and he heard the hiss of a torch.
“Arthur! Arthur, what are you doing down here?” Merlin said, sounding frightened.
Arthur shrugged. “Out for a walk.”
“You're quite mad,” Merlin told him, taking Arthur's arm firmly. “Really. The eyesight is the least of your worries.”
“How did you know I was down here?” Arthur asked, the prisoner's final words still echoing in his head.
“Oh, erm. You know. Just a hunch,” Merlin said, pulling him along a little faster.
---
Arthur didn't go down below the castle again, restricting himself to the upper corridors. He wasn't keen to run into ... whatever it was again. And besides, he was sure that Merlin was keeping an eye on him; he seemed to lurk about even more than usual, and the back of Arthur's neck itched. The presumption of it irked Arthur, but he never actually caught Merlin following him, and he didn't want to appear paranoid if his supposition was incorrect, so he let it slide.
As if avoiding the same topic, Merlin didn't press him about his excursion, instead becoming ever more forcedly cheerful. He told Arthur the castle gossip with the same pride as a cat leaving dead mice on the doorstep and tried to steer Arthur away from his wine goblet in the evening.
“You could go out sometime,” Merlin would suggest, but Arthur flatly refused.
“One staggering public humiliation is enough, thank you.”
---
On to part two.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Words: 10,000
Rating: NC-17/MA
Beta: Many thanks to ignazwisdom for her keen eye and sage advice.
Summary: When a curse blinds Arthur, his position as heir is threatened.
Arthur urged his horse up the narrow path, its hooves churning deeply into the mud. The wind gained strength as they reached the crest of the hill, driving sheets of rain into his face and pushing the hood of his cloak from his head. He ignored his aching back and twisted in the saddle to peer behind him. Merlin had been silent for the past hour, and that was worrying -- the less Merlin complained the more miserable he was.
Merlin sat in the saddle like a sack of grain, his shoulders hunched and his free hand tucked firmly in an armpit. His sodden clothes stuck to his thin frame, and he looked even more bedraggled than usual.
“We're almost home,” Arthur called. They would have been home already if the river hadn't burst its banks, flooding the bridge. The route to the next crossing had taken them far out of their way. “No more than two hours, at most.” He adopted his most confident tone, the one he used to lead the men into battle.
“If we don't drown first,” Merlin said with a shiver, tugging at his collar.
Arthur smiled at Merlin's dour tone and turned back around just as his horse shied to the left. After miles of plodding, the sudden motion took Arthur by surprise. Only years of practise allowed him to keep his seat as the horse wheeled away. He heard Merlin cry out in alarm, but Arthur's attention was still on his fractious mount. The horse reared and the saturated ground gave way beneath it. Arthur feared the horse would fall and crush him, but after a gut-twisting lurch, the beast regained its balance.
Merlin was yelling something, but Arthur couldn't hear him, couldn't understand the words. Reining in his horse, Arthur saw a dark figure moving toward them. His horse whinnied in panic and sidled away as the form approached, raising its hands. They glowed with the blue-green light of witchfire, growing so bright that Arthur shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the entire world was enveloped in blackness.
This time when his horse reared, Arthur fell.
---
He was aware of the pain first, the cold second, and the sound of his name breathlessly chanted third.
“Arthur, Arthur, oh please, Arthur, come on.”
Merlin, of course. Arthur put a hand to his throbbing head. “Don't you mean, 'Oh please, Sire, come on?' And then you may want to add some bit about your life having no meaning if I'm dead.”
Merlin laughed weakly. “Well, if you're going to be like that, I'm not at all sure that I do want you to live.”
“Where's the sorcerer?” Arthur asked. He opened his eyes and blinked. He could see nothing; the spell that kept them in darkness still held.
“Gone,” Merlin said, but his tone wasn't quite certain.
“You fought him?”
“No, no, of course not,” Merlin said hastily. “He just sort of ... ran off. And you were still unconscious; I couldn't leave you.”
“Right,” Arthur agreed, amused by the thought of Merlin pursuing a dangerous sorcerer on his own. He pushed himself up and felt Merlin's hand on his shoulder. “I have my flint, but nothing will burn in this damp. And I doubt any mundane fire would be able to pierce this infernal darkness anyway. Does it extend very far, do you think?”
“What?” Merlin asked.
“At least it seems to have stopped raining. We should be able to follow the road without too much trouble, assuming we start the right way down it.” Suddenly Arthur wasn't at all sure which direction was which. Ah well -- he'd figure it out.
“It's not dark.”
“What are you on about? It's black as pitch,” Arthur said crossly, wishing Merlin would be a little more help.
Merlin released Arthur's shoulder, and there was the sound of mud squelching as he shifted. “Can you not see this? I'm waving my hand right in front of your face.”
“I'm blind,” Arthur said slowly, and then, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, “My God, what am I to do?”
“I'm sure it's not permanent,” Merlin said. “It'll probably wear off in just a bit. Are you all right?”
“Besides the blindness, you mean?” Arthur snapped.
“Uh, yeah.”
Arthur took a moment to assess his physical state. His shoulder ached where he'd fallen, but it wasn't dislocated. Everything else -- except his eyes -- seemed to be in working order. “I think so.”
There were more squishy noises, and then cold, muddy hands grasped his wrists. “Come on, up you go.”
Arthur let himself be levered to his feet. Merlin's arm snaked around his waist, and Arthur looped an arm around Merlin's neck. Even with that support, he still tripped twice before they caught up to his horse. Between the two of them, they got him into the saddle.
The ride back seemed even longer with no way to mark their progress; he was too proud to ask Merlin. He crossed his arms, hands feeling empty without the reins, and prayed.
---
This time when Arthur woke, he was warm and dry, and though he felt wrung out, he wasn't in pain. He recognised the feel of his mattress and the softness of his linen nightshirt under his fingers, though he had only faint memories of Merlin helping him into it.
“Can't you do anything for him, Gaius? Cure him?” Uther's voice was low but harsh, as if he could threaten a cure out of the old physician.
“I assure you, Sire, I am doing everything in my power to help him.”
“Are you sure the blindness is magical? I've seen men with head injuries lose their sight.” A lump rose in Arthur's throat, and he wanted to turn over and pull the pillow over his head, but he couldn't without betraying his wakefulness.
“It is impossible to be certain, but judging from Merlin's report, I would guess that the cause is magical in nature rather than brain trauma. But I will have to test his reflexes and condition to be sure. For now, it is better to let him sleep.”
There was a lengthy pause, and Arthur imagined he felt his father's unhappy scowl upon him.
“Fix this, Gaius -- I can't have a blind heir.” The door slammed, hard enough that Arthur felt it.
“Pleasant man, your father,” Merlin said genially, apparently seeing past Arthur's feigned sleep. “How do you feel?”
Arthur groaned and pushed the bedclothes off. “Thirsty.”
“How much do you remember of your ordeal?” Gaius asked, the bed dipping as he settled beside Arthur. He took Arthur's face in his hands, pulling back on the lid of each eye. Elsewhere in the room, Arthur heard the sound of pouring water.
“I remember riding back; we had to take the long way 'round. There was a sorcerer -- he frightened my horse, and I didn't see him at first. Then light,” Arthur flinched at the memory of the brightness, “and then darkness. My horse threw me, blasted animal. When I woke up, I couldn't see.”
“Are you quite sure it went dark before you fell? Not after?” Gaius asked while his gnarled fingers probed Arthur's scalp, feeling for bumps or knots.
“Yes, I'm sure. I was startled by it; it's why I lost my seat.”
The hands retreated and Gaius sighed. “Well, you may have a mild concussion, but I don't think it is the reason for your blindness.”
“Is that good?” The cool pewter of a drinking cup was pressed into his hand. He raised it to his lips and nearly spat it out; the water was astringent and bitter.
“Drink it,” Merlin said, with more authority than was proper.
“Yes, Sire,” Gaius added, far more respectfully. “There's feverfew to help with any swelling in the brain, in case it is the cause, and willow bark for pain.”
Arthur downed the contents in three shuddering gulps. “If the blindness is magical, can you heal it?”
Gaius drew a breath before answering and Arthur got the distinct impression he was exchanging a look with Merlin. “Your father has sent riders out to find the sorcerer who did this. Forcing him to lift the curse is the most certain course, but there are certainly some remedies we might try in the meantime.”
“So that would be a no,” Arthur said, not at all appeased by Gaius's cheerful tone.
“Now, now,” Gaius said, but he didn't argue. “If you're feeling well enough, then I'll go consult my books. Unless you require anything....” Arthur waved him away. Gaius shuffled off, probably bowing out of habit, and the door clicked closed.
“He doesn't think I'll be cured, does he,” Arthur said, after he'd gone.
In the following silence Arthur thought perhaps Merlin had slipped out with Gaius, but then a boot heel scraped along the stone floor.
“Herbal teas are all very well, but it takes magic to undo magic,” Merlin said. “If it is magic, I mean. We don't know for certain that it is.” But he tacked that on as an afterthought. “It might be a short-term thing, fade on its own -- you never know.”
“You're an idiot,” Arthur said, and shot the space where he thought Merlin was an annoyed look.
“Yes, well,” Merlin said, clapping his hands. “How about some breakfast?”
---
Gaius had him try three potions that afternoon. Two did nothing. One did nothing but make him empty his stomach into the chamber pot.
“Not the pixiewort, then,” Gaius said.
---
The first week of his blindness, Arthur refused to leave his room, allowing only Merlin and Gaius to see him. And Morgana, of course -- though he didn't so much allow her entrance as fail to prevent it.
“How are you feeling?” she asked and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
“I feel fine, Morgana,” he said, pushing her hand away. “I'm not sick, and I don't have a fever.”
“No need to be so touchy. I'm just checking,” she said. “You should hear the rumours going around -- that you're crippled, disfigured or desperately ill.”
“Just blind,” he said, “you can put your mind at ease. And tell the court.”
“They're not going to believe until they see you for themselves -- yes, yes, ironic, I know, don't even start,” she said, running over his protest. “It would be good for you to reassure them.”
“How does seeing their future king blind and helpless reassure them?” Arthur said sourly.
“Arthur, they're imagining the worst. If they see you alive, in good health and spirits, it will do much to allay their fears. They take their cue from you more than Uther. Besides, you're their prince; they deserve to see you.” She laid her cool soft hand over his, but when she squeezed, it felt like a vise.
He swallowed against the bitterness in his mouth. “I can't face it, the court watching me knock over my wine and spill gravy down my shirtfront. Not today.”
“There is a feast two nights hence, perhaps then?” she suggested gently. “That would give you time to prepare.” Her hair brushed his face as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “It will be all right, Arthur.”
“You sound awfully confident,” Arthur said, wondering just when he had agreed to her plan.
“I always am.”
---
Even with Merlin's coaching, Arthur did not share Morgana's confidence the day of the feast. He'd had Merlin set out a formal place at every meal and practised finding the proper fork by feel. He'd had Merlin help him select his attire but second-guessed his opinion. Merlin's fashion sense was tragic.
“And how's my hair?” Arthur asked; he tugged nervously at the hem of his doublet.
“It's still great. Just like it was a quarter of an hour ago,” Merlin said, exasperation colouring his tone. “The ladies will all be jealous.”
Arthur smoothed a strand between his fingers, hoping it would lie flat. “And this coat?”
“Blue suits you admirably. It goes well with the hair.”
“What--”
“You look very fit,” Merlin cut in. “Erm, Sire. You look very fit, Sire.” Merlin was beginning to sound desperate, and Arthur wondered if maybe his preparations hadn't been a little excessive.
He heaved one last sigh. “All right, I'm ready.”
---
The king's guests were circulating in the great hall, the rustle of their silk and satin robes loud against the flagstones and their voices echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Arthur squared his shoulders and raked a hand through his hair one last time, trying to look as though it was perfectly usual for him to have a servant lead him around.
“Lady Ardith closing in,” Merlin whispered. “And I think she's had too much.”
“Oh, my prince!” Lady Ardith nearly shrieked. She took his free hand and squeezed, hard.
Arthur winced and murmured, “Lady Ardith, it's a pleasure as always.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I trust you are in good health.”
“Well enough, Sire,” she said. “It's your own health I'm concerned about.” She sounded almost weepy.
“Don't worry, I'm quite all right. You can see for yourself.”
“But you're, you're....” She trailed off, his predicament too horrible for words.
“I'm sure I'll make a full recovery in no time. In the meanwhile, there may be a few, ah, inconveniences, but it's not the worst I've suffered.” Merlin shifted beside him, probably irritated to be described as an inconvenience.
“So brave,” Lady Ardith clucked, sniffing loudly. “Such a brave boy.”
Merlin muttered a pardon and ushered Arthur away. They ended up talking to Lord Brun, who was an avid breeder of hunting dogs. He didn't mention Arthur's infirmity, and it was quite possible he didn't notice it, either -- he had little interest in anything beyond his dogs. His conversation was limited, but a relief; Arthur merely had to agree and occasionally ask encouraging questions.
“My best bitch -- Blodeuwedd, of course -- she was out of the hill stock,” Lord Brun said. “Finest litters I've ever seen.”
“She sounds like quite the … bitch,” Arthur said, and Merlin hiccoughed as though he were trying very hard not to laugh.
“Oh, she was,” Lord Brun continued, oblivious. “Long legs, deep breasted.”
Merlin was definitely trembling now. He might have well lost it, but the stewards called for the feast to begin, and Merlin led Arthur away to his place at the head table. Here Merlin retreated, but Arthur found it easier to navigate his own plate. Servants whispered the name of the dish as they filled his plate.
He sat next to Uther, who was preoccupied by the guest of honour, a Duke of Something-or-Other. Morgana sat on Arthur's other side and kept sharing entertaining observations.
“Lady Ardith is gesturing with her wine glass and is about to empty it in Lord Dydimon's lap if she isn't care--and there it goes. Oh!” She giggled. “And he's wearing white, and you know that's never going to come out. He looks as though he's been stabbed.”
“That was very nearly me,” Arthur said, relieved to have escaped such a fate. “Maybe next time she'll think twice before refilling her cup.”
“I hope not,” Morgana countered. “I thought tonight would be boring.” She hesitated and nudged his foot with her own. “I'm glad you decided to come.”
“Are they staring at me?” he asked through a strained smile.
“Not at the moment, no. Lady Ardith is trying to sop Dydimon's lap with her skirts.”
Arthur snorted at the image that called to mind. He took a long drink from his wine glass, the tight knot in his stomach easing for the first time that evening. He even managed to enjoy his pheasant and stewed apple.
Toasts went around as the diners finished the meal, and the wine flowed more freely. First for the guest of honour -- whose name Arthur still hadn't caught -- and then for Uther as a gracious host; it seemed everyone felt the need to offer up their own praise, though they mostly repeated each other.
Arthur was actually glad to have a good reason to stare into space with a blank expression.
There was a heavy sigh in his ear. “Do you think they'll end soon?” Merlin whispered, and his fingers closed over Arthur's on his cup, holding it still to be refilled.
“I'm just hoping they end at all,” Arthur said, and Merlin huffed a laugh, his breath tickling Arthur's ear. “Thanks.” Arthur sipped from his freshly filled goblet.
The speeches did finally end, though Arthur's backside was close to numb when the last would-be orator had finished. Arthur pushed away from the table and held out a hand, Merlin already at his side, doubtless as eager to leave as Arthur was. They wove their way through the departing courtiers, crossing the expanse of the great hall.
Perhaps it was the wine that made Arthur overly confident or Merlin inattentive, but Arthur found himself meeting a large and unyielding body, the sharp edge of a serving tray catching him in the ribs. He stepped backward, his foot turning and his arms pinwheeling as he fell. He hit hard and awkwardly, the breath knocked from his body. Plates and half-empty trenchers fell around him, stoneware shattering and the large tray clanging against the stone. Arthur struggled to push himself up, scrabbling against the shards of pottery and spilled food.
“Are you all right?” Merlin said, his voice panicked. He knelt by Arthur, taking hold of his arm. Beyond Merlin, the entire hall had gone quiet and still; Arthur heard nothing over his own laboured breathing.
“Fine,” Arthur said, through gritted teeth, shoving Merlin away. “You're supposed to watch where you're going. The idea is to not run me into anyone.” He gained his feet, and brushed himself off as best he could. He was shaking with rage and embarrassment, his face painfully hot. A servant was muttering abject apologies, but Arthur ignored him. “Get me out of here, if you can do it without killing me.”
Merlin took his arm again, his grasp tentative. Arthur's tunic was soaked with what smelled like gravy, and it clung to his skin. Footsteps retreated hastily before them as people hurried to get out of their way.
---
“I won't require you to attend me this evening,” Arthur said as they returned to his room.
“Do you want--”
“No. Leave now,” Arthur cut Merlin off coldly. The door clicked shut as Merlin left.
He'd stripped to the waist and was sponging the worst of the mess from his hair when the door swung open again, banging against the stone.
“It's me.” Morgana. Arthur winced.
“Come to check on the invalid?” he said, annoyed. “Your concern is touching.”
“I don't give two figs about you,” she said, her voice thin and reedy with anger.
Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a headache coming on. “No, of course not.”
“How could you be so beastly?” The hem of her gown whispered as she crossed the floor. He didn't have to see to know that her hands were on her hips. “Poor Merlin -- you really are insufferable.”
“His damn clumsiness shamed me in front of the entire court,” Arthur said. “You're lucky your servant is competent.”
“It was an accident,” Morgana snapped. “He feels terrible--”
“Good.”
“--and it really wasn't his fault.” She made a little sound of exasperation that wasn't quite a growl and wasn't quite a sigh. “If you knew how hard he was taking this whole thing. Honestly, Arthur, I think he's lost weight, if that's possible. And he's got terrible circles under his eyes.”
Arthur scowled, ignoring the pang of guilt. “That's not my fault.”
“He cares for you far more than you deserve, and you shouldn't treat him so ill. Not everything is about you, contrary to what you may believe.”
Arthur braced both hands against the table, letting his head fall forward. “Is that all?”
“Yes, that's all,” Morgana said, though she probably had more she would have liked to add. He heard her snort in indignation once more and retreat, the door slamming shut to punctuate her exit.
Arthur dropped the rag in the basin and went to bed.
---
Merlin remained silent the next morning as he came to dress Arthur, saying nothing beyond the perfunctory greeting and a few questions about Arthur's wishes for breakfast.
“It doesn't matter,” Arthur said in answer to a question about how he preferred his eggs.
“I'm sorry, Sire.”
Arthur knew from Merlin's anguished tone that he didn't mean the eggs. The hinges on the wardrobe squeaked as Merlin rummaged through it and returned with Arthur's coat. Arthur held still while Merlin helped him into it, fussing with the collar.
“It's ... all right.” Arthur caught Merlin's wrist and squeezed, feeling muscle and bone under the coarse material of the cuff. “But no runny yolks.”
---
Arthur spent most of the following days in his chamber. Occasionally he had duties to attend, but he took to sending Merlin with his apologies and a flimsy excuse. He half expected Uther to storm in and demand he behave as a prince ought, but his father seemed willing to tolerate his shirking.
That worried Arthur deeply.
He also had trouble sleeping. Without sunlight to mark the beginning and ending of the day, the concept began to mean very little to him. He slept later and later, sending Merlin away when he came to wake him.
At night, though, late enough that it might be called early morning, he would venture out. The dark didn't bother him, of course, and the rest of the castle was asleep; there were no servants to mutter as they passed or to offer help he didn't want.
He made his way by memory and by feel, fingertips trailing against the rough stone walls of the castle. The first few nights he ventured out, he got lost, one bad turn getting him hopelessly turned around. But he soon developed a sense of direction that didn't rely on his memories of the grounds, and he dared to go father into the belly of the keep, the ruins of the old fortress Camelot had been built over.
One night, not long after he'd started these excursions, he found himself in a part of the keep he hadn't been in before. The passage he followed descended sharply, the floor no longer stone but packed dirt, and he came to a heavy iron-enforced door. It was barred, but not locked.
He hesitated, hands on the rough wood of the crossbar. He'd heard of a great catacomb and of twisting caverns below the city -- if he got lost....
With a heave, he lifted the crossbar and set it aside. He entered the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall and the other hand on the low ceiling. The temperature dropped as the corridor wound deeper, and he wished he'd worn more than his thin shirt.
The passage split several times, and at each divide he stopped and ran the return route through his head, careful to mark each turn. After one such split, the wall stopped and the ceiling ascended beyond Arthur's reach. He heard water dripping and its echoes, suggesting a vast space.
“Stay where you are, Prince. But another three steps and you would fall to your death,” a deep and gravelly voice said.
Arthur heart pounded, but he kept his feet firmly planted. “Who are you?” he called.
“A prisoner of your father's.” There was no malice, no resentment in the voice, just weariness. “The particulars are of no consequence.”
“How could you know me?”
“How could I not?” the voice said, which wasn't much of an answer. “You are Arthur Pendragon, and I have heard much of you. You are in quite a predicament.”
That was brilliant; even prisoners in the darkest and dankest dungeon were up on the latest gossip. “I'm sure that pleases you, to see an enemy brought low.”
“You are not my enemy,” the voice replied, unruffled. “But you stand at the edge of a precipice.”
“Yes, yes, you've said that,” Arthur said, feeling a bit exasperated.
“A metaphorical precipice.”
“Oh.”
“I have some advice for you. You must know who to trust, Arthur Pendragon. And before you can, you yourself must be trustworthy.”
“Will you be reading my palm next?” Arthur asked, equal parts irritated and amused. “Or casting bones? Any market-day charlatan could come up with prophesies like yours.”
The voice -- or The Voice, as Arthur had started to think of it -- chuckled. “One more thing. Be careful, lest you do not see what is right before you.” The voice laughed again.
“Now that's just cruel,” Arthur protested, his irritation becoming anger. “I am the crown prince of Camelot, you can't speak to me--”
“You should return now,” the prisoner cut in, unperturbed by Arthur's anger. It wasn't a suggestion, but an order.
Arthur shivered; the chill was settling into his bones. “If I can even find my way out of this infernal pit.”
“I think help may be on the way.” There was the sound of a chain rattling and sails catching the wind; a breeze pushed Arthur's hair from his forehead. Arthur took an involuntary step backward and shivered again, wondering just what sort of person his father had locked down here.
He made his way slowly back, no longer certain whether it was a left turn at the third split. Footsteps echoed up the passage in front of him, and he heard the hiss of a torch.
“Arthur! Arthur, what are you doing down here?” Merlin said, sounding frightened.
Arthur shrugged. “Out for a walk.”
“You're quite mad,” Merlin told him, taking Arthur's arm firmly. “Really. The eyesight is the least of your worries.”
“How did you know I was down here?” Arthur asked, the prisoner's final words still echoing in his head.
“Oh, erm. You know. Just a hunch,” Merlin said, pulling him along a little faster.
---
Arthur didn't go down below the castle again, restricting himself to the upper corridors. He wasn't keen to run into ... whatever it was again. And besides, he was sure that Merlin was keeping an eye on him; he seemed to lurk about even more than usual, and the back of Arthur's neck itched. The presumption of it irked Arthur, but he never actually caught Merlin following him, and he didn't want to appear paranoid if his supposition was incorrect, so he let it slide.
As if avoiding the same topic, Merlin didn't press him about his excursion, instead becoming ever more forcedly cheerful. He told Arthur the castle gossip with the same pride as a cat leaving dead mice on the doorstep and tried to steer Arthur away from his wine goblet in the evening.
“You could go out sometime,” Merlin would suggest, but Arthur flatly refused.
“One staggering public humiliation is enough, thank you.”
---
On to part two.