Hello, I'm Melissa Grace,

The idea of this FanFiction has been playing in my head for quite sometime. I've always wondered what it might be like if Arthur and Merlin had met under completely different circumstances, and I suppose that's one of the reasons I decided to write this. I'm not going to give too much away, except that I plan for this to be long and I'm excited to have the chance to dedicate my time to this.

It goes without saying that I don't own anything in relation to Merlin, so all of the credit goes to the writers, the actors and so on forth. The only association I have with the show is that I'm an enormous fan of it, and I dearly wish that it was still on my television screen. Last, but certainly not least, you can also find my story on A03.

I hope you enjoy it!

-M x.

—Prologue—

The winters were harsh in Camelot. After nearly a decade since his birth, Arthur Pendragon had become acquainted with the warmest hideouts for when the castle was dusted in snow. He even bothered to remember the name of the manservants who lit the greatest fires that kept him comfortable during the merciless chill. On this morning, however, he neglected to settle in his chambers where the covers of his bed would protect him from the bitter sting of the air. Rather, he had positioned himself on the topmost stair just outside the castle, fists tucked tightly beneath his chin and elbows rested on his knees. Though he trembled violently inside the oversized coat he had donned, his mind dwelled on anything but the cold.

His father, the respected king of Camelot, had disappeared deep into the night accompanied by knights who proudly brandished their swords about. The actions had concerned Arthur, who had begged Uther to linger until the snow cleared. Stubborn and ever unwilling to be challenged, the king had demanded he show some respect and wait for his return.

So the young prince, out of unwavering loyalty, had done precisely that. His task was by no means a simple one. Hours rolled by like waves in the sea and Arthur grew drastically colder by the second. If he did not retire soon, he would surely fall dangerously ill but despite the persistence of the night, he refused to move a single muscle. Instead he merely accepted their constant gifts of steaming broths and other scorching meals, most of which he had pushed aside, with no more than an ungrateful nod of acknowledgement.

It wasn't until late into the night that he first heard the calls of men. Arthur jumped to his feet, nearly toppling over with the unexpected weakness of his limbs and squinted in desperation for the frame of his father. A blizzard was nearing, and he was most appreciative that they had returned sooner rather than later. Yet the gratitude that had shone through his piercing blue eyes disappeared within moments when the the expression of his father crept into his vision.

There was anger and hatred that raged in the man's eyes, but it was the kind that oftentimes followed a tiring victory. Arthur swallowed hesitantly, unable to recall the declaration of a war within their kingdom, and hoped that no knight of Camelot had lost his life. Relief clouded his mind as he counted the men who trudged behind his father, only to discover that not a single head was missing. His eyes fell thereafter on the thrashing figure within the strong arms of Uther.

In the blink of an eye, the boy's heart plummeted. He was desperate to seize the attention of his father, but whatever words he yearned to speak were lost in his throat. Uther, who was adamant that he must prioritise the heir to his throne before all else, marched right past him for the second time. Though Arthur stood rooted to the spot, it was not the fast approaching snowstorm that made him shiver.

Before he had the chance to comprehend what had unfolded before him, Arthur turned rapidly on his heel. His feet thundered against the hard ground as he followed in the sounds of their booming voices. He twisted through corridors that he had never been through before, entered corridors that were forbidden, twisted his way down stairwells that were dangerously steep until finally he came to a room scarily unfamiliar to him.

That was not the problem.

The scene that unravelled was impossible for the prince to believe. He longed for nothing more than to squeeze his eyes shut and to disregard the cries of agony, but he was immobilised. Time and again, he had witnessed the menacing ways of his father and wholeheartedly believed it was for the good of his people. This was infinitely worse than anything he had ever glimpsed before and Arthur blinked back tears, certain that this must be a nightmare. Finally, when his legs were again at his command, he ducked beneath the table and heard the child scream.

For Arthur, it was far too late for him to forget the sight of the boy in sheer pain. He choked back sobs, knowing that the screams of distress and pleas for help followed weapons and fists colliding with fragile skin. The prince shook his head, embarrassed of his own weakness, and pushed himself to the farthest corner of the room. This could not be reality, he reminded himself as tears streamed down his pale cheeks. His father wouldn't dare cause such heartless destruction to an innocent child.

It seemed as though an eternity had passed since the noise diminished into frantic intakes of air. Arthur peered through the crack of his hiding place, conscious of the remorseful expressions of the knights and all too aware that his father's face showed no trace of guilt. While his tears subsided, the ringing in his ears hindered him from hearing. He knew, however, that his father must have commanded they all disperse to rest, for the knights and he soon shuffled out of the room. They had left the young prince alone with what was left of the boy they had captured.

He merely sat, shuddering and needing to wake from his disturbed slumber. There was no change at all and Arthur became hauntingly aware of how real the bite of the cold was, of all the sounds that echoed in the room from close by and of the distinct odour of what he was certain was fresh blood. Arthur turned his gaze toward the door and bolted, reluctant to glance at the body that surely rested there.

The prince never made it halfway to his destination. Something not far away from him had moved, however slight, but it was enough to urge him to whip around on the spot. He regretted his decision instantly, for his eyes were met with the sight of an enormously wounded body. His hands readily reached for something to support him, but he instead stumbled toward the cage that the boy had been thrown in.

"Are you okay?" he spluttered.

His question was wretched and the young prince loathed himself for his words. The answer to his question lay quaking before him, spindly wrists bound in ruthlessly tight ropes. Unsurprised that his words gained nothing but silence, he dared to push a small hand inside the case. His fingertips barely grazed the skin of the fragile boy, but it was enough to make the prisoner flinch.

"I didn't mean to frighten you." He spoke with great tenderness in his voice, in much the same way he would to one of his dogs, and withdrew his hand. "My father can be scary, but he's nice most of the time," Arthur assured as he dragged a wooden crate closer to the cage so that he could sit. It occurred to him that his own words may have been untrue. Uther was a truly terrifying man but, guiltily, Arthur remembered that the only people he showed at least a shred of compassion to was his knights. Even more toward his son and ward, but never any of the commoners. "What's your name?"

His words were followed by the sound of unsteady breaths. If the prisoner had a response, or even a name to give, he seemed unwilling to do so. In any other scenario, the silence would have made Arthur feel greatly affronted.

"You don't look much younger than me," Arthur went on, and tugged his legs into his body for warmth. It was impossibly cold in this part of the castle. He hoped that the boy in the cage would survive. "We could be friends. My father says I'm not supposed to have them, and I'd be breaking the law if I freed you, but…" he shrugged. "It gets lonely and I could bring you down the onion broth the cook makes me."

Still nothing but quiet, save for the rustling of his feet against the ground. Arthur began to grow doubtful that the boy would ever speak. His stomach rumbled loudly and he wished he had thought to take the food with him that the maids had provided him with. Yet when he caught a glimpse of the blood smeared on the other's face, he rapidly lost his appetite.

"My name's Arthur, by the way. Arthur Pendragon. And I'm going to be the king of Camelot one day," he tried. The boy seemed to grow weaker and paler by the second. Arthur had prayed he may have the strength to speak, to give any indication that he had will to survive this, yet even as Arthur watched he felt the spark of hope inside him wither and die. "I have to go," he announced doubtfully. "My father might come searching for me."

He gave the boy a nod and reached into the cage one more. This time, he stretched with all his might and rested a hand upon a tiny shoulder. Although the boy's eyes watered, which Arthur abruptly understood was perhaps all he could do, he did not deny the touch. It lasted only briefly, and with a look of pure sorrow, he turned towards the door.

"Mer… Merlin," came the soft, almost unnoticeable voice from within the room. "My name's… Merlin."

The prince's hand hovered by the door but his head turned to face the boy. He had managed to pull himself upright and in that moment, Arthur realised that the grievances to his body were far greater than he ever could have imagined. Anger flashed within his eyes, far more than what a boy his age should ever be forced to experience. The loathing that coursed through his veins was not directed at the prisoner.

"Merlin," he repeated. "I'll save you. You'll be free before you know it."

And with that, he slipped from the room, all too prepared to follow through with his promise.