Chapter 2

Merlin felt the jolting movements first, and then heard creaking sounds as the darkness behind his eyelids started to lift. But it wasn't until he heard a low moan join the creaking sounds, that he chanced slitting his eyes open. Oww, the brilliant sunshine just made his headache worse. Maybe that was his own moan he heard. He peeked enough to determine he was on a moving cart-no, it was Ragnor's wagon, and the rest of the captured men were walking behind the wagon as he and Arthur had been before.

Arthur! Where was he? He had crumpled to the snow under the force of Ragnor's assault, just before Merlin passed out. A lot of good Merlin was in protecting him. The stubborn prat should have listened to him and headed back to Camelot once they'd been separated from the rescue party. Of course, it was Arthur's loyalty to his men, and his dedication and self-sacrifice for all of his people, really, not just his knights, that Merlin admired. Those traits would make him the great king he was becoming. Merlin just wished Arthur had stronger self-preservation instincts so he would be able to survive to accomplish all that his future promised. Well, that was Merlin's job, to protect him, so he'd better figure out what had happened to his king.

With a second, more determined effort to open his eyes, Merlin also turned his head and heard the moan again. He could see it had come from Arthur, also dumped on top of the supplies in the cart. He was still unconscious and his furrowed brow showed he was clearly in pain. Merlin pulled himself together enough to sit up and scoot closer to Arthur's prone position. His anxious check of the blond showed there was a fantastic amount of blood on his face and clothes, but no cuts or scrapes or even stab wounds to cause it. A bloody nose seemed the most likely reason for the copious blood loss, as it looked like Arthur was developing a nice pair of shiners and his nose grated a bit as a broken nose would, when Merlin gently touched it.

The forearm was definitely broken and swollen now, but it seemed to be a clean break and the skin wasn't broken. Even bound and asleep, Arthur clutched his arm close to his chest. Damn, it was his sword arm that was broken. More troubling was whether there were internal injuries. With the chilly temperature, he wanted Arthur kept as covered as possible for warmth, so he didn't check for bruises on his torso.

Judging from the angle of the shadows, he must have been out for at least two hours, and there wasn't much daylight left. The caravan would likely be stopping soon for the night.

Within another thirty minutes, Ragnor called for a halt and the camp to be set up for the night. Merlin leaned over Arthur and tried to rouse him, by shaking his good arm. "Arthur, wake up. Come on, your Royal Pratliness, we need to get out of the wagon. "

Arthur barely stirred. "Nnnnhh...hurts."

With a firm, but not too strong, slap to Arthur's cheek, he urged, "Clotpole, wake up! Remember we are prisoners here, you can't just have a lie-in." Not that Merlin enjoyed it (well, maybe a bit), but this was really called for in this sort of situation. A second slap to the other cheek seemed to do the trick, as Merlin then found his slim wrist encased in the tight grip of Arthur's left hand.

"Stop that, you idiot! I'm awake now. I don't need you adding to my injuries," Arthur huffed. His grimace told Merlin his pain was significant, but of course, Arthur merely pressed his lips into an unnaturally tight line. He started scuffling off the pile as the other prisoners came to move the supplies off the wagon.

As the darkness fell, with the only light coming from Ragnor's flickering fire and a pale sliver of moon rising, the temperature dropped further. Arthur tried to ignore the gnawing pit in his stomach from lack of food and the deep aches and continuous chill in his body by laying down and trying to sleep. His mind wouldn't stop churning over how to escape now that he was hindered with a broken arm. Merlin, of course, wasn't much help in offensive maneuvering (well, or even defensive maneuvering) and even less when it came to battle tactics or escape plans. Arthur, alone, needed to figure out another way out of this mess now. It wouldn't do to continue to rehash how he'd let his Knights down, how the rescue party had been attacked by Morgana. Now this escape had failed and he wasn't able to protect Merlin. He'd seen the red lump on Merlin's forehead from being struck unconscious. Funny enough, he hadn't moaned to Arthur about his head aching-guess he figured no way to skive off his chores here. Arthur dropped into a fitful sleep with thoughts of Merlin and how moody he had been recently. Like telling him they shouldn't go to Ishmere, that they should return to Camelot even though Arthur was sure his men were still alive in captivity. There had been no sign of his usual cheeky grin or much of a smile at all, even before they had been caught in the net trap. Arthur just couldn't figure out his manservant...there always seemed to be something a bit mysterious about him.

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