Chapter 2
Sometimes Even the Plans That Seem The Best…
Are so Stupid you Should NEVER Even Contemplate Them

It went quiet. Completely quiet, the air seemed somehow thicker as Arthur glanced around uneasily, something's wrong. Very wrong. Covers were pulled over windows, the light coming from each house smothered. Cars swung madly into driveways as if something were chasing them. Door after door slammed and locked. His blood pulsed in his ears, heart clenching in his chest. Just what happens in the dark? He found himself fearing what would happen when the last orange rays disappeared, already they shrunk, lower, lower. The sun disappeared, Arthur found himself wanting to beg for its return. Dust blew through the street. It looked like a ghost town in the twilight, abandoned, forgotten. Arthur began to run when the sky turned navy, not minding the sharp ache as his bare feet slammed against pavement. He couldn't stop, faster, faster, buildings; blurring, far behind him. His lungs expanded desperately. Run, Arthur, run. His toe hit the ground, Arthur gave a cut off groan as he slammed into the path. He was done, done before he even knew what he runs from.

"They'll get you, you know," Arthur sprung to his feet to see a boy, his dirty brown locks dropped down mid – neck and his brown eyes hardened, hardly any boyish spark left.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked.

"Are you like me?" The boy asked instead of answering, chin tilted in contemplation, but legs tensed. He was weary.

Arthur tried to put a hand on the boy's shoulder but he moved away, "I'm Arthur they took a boy, Merlin. I need him back." The boy's face turned slightly sympathetic as he patted Arthur's shoulder.

"If they've got him he's dead, mate."

"No he's not," Arthur snapped, defensive. "Where do they keep them?"

"No one knows," the boy stepped away from Arthur, "the only ones who know are those caught."

"Where are the officials," Arthur asked, nodding. The boy chuckled, head shaking.

"You're mental, nice knowing you." He offered Arthur a grime lathered hand, Arthur gripped it, shaking firmly.

"You too…"

"James, I'm sixteen." James laughed incredulously, "I don't know why I said that!" Arthur smirked.

"Arthur Pendragon, I'm thirty," James blew out an impressed breath.

"You're getting on mate, I tell you what, walk out into the street shouting pro – magic things, that'll get you jailed faster than you can say 'Warlock'."

"Thanks mate," Arthur said, turning away to walk into the jaws of the enemy alone, willingly.

"Hey!" Arthur yelled, feeling so very stupid in the empty street, "you're all imbeciles. You hear me?! Magic never did you any wrong! You need to stop this murder!" Dark shadows crept from the houses, jumping fences, stalking toward him, hands on guns. Arthur stuck his chin out stubbornly, purposeful or not, he'd go out fighting.

"They are innocent people!" Arthur gritted his teeth as cuffs clicked shut tight around his wrists, "Even now," Arthur snarled, "Your conscience screams at you! You pigs! You
disgu-" Arthur gagged as a sock was stuffed in his mouth. A man leaned down to his ear.

"Shut it, blondie."

"Mmf mmm mmm mmm mmfmm." Arthur remedied his embarrassment with a fearsome glare. 'Don't call your king blondie' sounded far better in his head, so much better, in fact, that that phrase should have had an indefinite stay in his brain. The men laughed and shoved him, making him stumble. Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed. Unnecessary intimidation, Arthur snorted, amateurs.

X~x~X

"Stop," he muttered, blinking blearily through half lidded eyes. A collar encased his neck forcing him more firmly on the table. A strap around his forehead. He desperately thrashed at the bonds of the drug but not even a finger twitched. His mouth worked, his eyes worked, that was it.

"Stop!" he screamed. "Stop it! Stop it!" A strap pulled tight around his hips, three held his legs. Purely for show, the drug ensured he couldn't function. A doctor loomed over him, blue mask covering her mouth, weird hat on her head. For a moment he thought his lungs stopped functioning too, as she held up a sharp knife.

"Noooo," he moaned, tears squeezed from his eyes as he clenched them tight. "Arthur," he whispered, "I'm scared," a sob burst from his throat, "I'm so scared." They tore the ratty hospital robe from his body, ripping the material from under his back.

"First incision," no, no. Merlin screamed as his world exploded in pain.

It's hard to explain the feeling of being sliced open, the world blurred, vision greying as fear and pain took him. You'll be okay. You're doing good. Hey look at this! Where's the magic doctor Sterecnik? The words merged, fluctuated, spinning both in his head and past it as his world ceased to make sense. He clung to the memory of Arthur, protective, heroic Arthur who would come for him.

"Arthur!" He shrieked amidst screams and whimpers, "Arthur! Arthur!"

"Stitch him up," something was inside him, tugging at his skin, needles over and over; string, pulled, tied. He was barely conscious as he was thrown limp into his cage.

"Arthur," he whispered, once pudgy child fingers digging into the floor, his head throbbed, slamming in his skull, thud, thud, thud, unrelenting. He ached, he hurt so badly, he just wanted it all to end. He tried to clutch his stomach as a wave of nausea left him panting, but he was sent into a whole other pain as his clumsy palms hit the stitches. They cut him open, they cut him open, it hadn't really registered before. They sliced him up to see what was inside like some, sick experiment. His head flopped, hitting the floor with a dull, vibrating, ring. He stared at the bars as they doubled and switched and blurred before his tired eyes.

He had long cried himself dry, or maybe he was just too dead to care; too numb. He remembered little from his life 'outside', he remembered how other kids would play with their mums and dads who would protect them with their life. He remembered they were happy, so happy, not seeing the bruises coating the young boy down the road. He didn't understand much; did that make Arthur his father? He cared for him, protected him, loved him, he would save him. He could help Arthur never forget people that hurt, he decided he'd be really good at that.

It suddenly didn't matter so much when they didn't come with stew that day, or the next; that they were apparently starving him. His brain was stuffed with Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. He thought of all the things they could do (Walks in the park, throwing bread for the duckies, buying a puppy) He was particularly hooked on that last one. What else did fathers do? Hunting? He wrinkled his nose, why would anyone want to kill a bunny? The fantasy filled his head until he was grinning. Someone who cared, someone who really cared. He felt almost giddy now, as he waited in his cage.

X~x~X

"You sympathise with them," the officer spat, glaring madly into Arthur's eyes, "you burn with them." He shoved him into the cell and the door swung shut with a clang.

"Because sympathy is an obvious indicator to evil!" Arthur called from the other side of the solid iron door. Arthur smirked as the door shuddered under the officer's kicking.

"Shut up!"

"I can do that, I can definitely do that. You want me to shut up? It's my thing. You just wait, I'm going to be so quiet that-" Arthur cut off as a long, suffering sigh sounded on the other side of the door. Thank you, Merlin, Arthur grinned, it had been long since he'd thought over one of their conversations (He got particular pleasure remembering smashing his servant in the head with a spoon).

Now that it was quiet, Arthur looked at his surroundings; iron roof, three iron walls, iron floor. The only curious thing was one wall, it was barred rather than solid like the others, great, thick, vertical bars with ten centimetre spaces between each. It was clear he was meant to see what was beyond. Arthur walked up, peering through the bars, it opened on to a concrete courtyard, ashes blew around it, irregular scorch marks spotted it. Arthur drew a breath, flashing back to his father's ruling. Screams; ceaseless. Suffering; endless. Smoke; thick. Flesh; melting.

It was real, Arthur shuddered slightly, and slid down the bars to sit bewildered on the floor. It was all real. He'd known, of course he'd known, but like metal beasts that run far faster than horses, and buildings tall as Camelot's highest tower; the realisation didn't truly set in until he saw the evidence.

He twisted to stare out again. The courtyard was a circular shape, cells outlined it, all facing in. They held prisoners in varying state, but none of them looked as if they'd been there long. One cell just held wood, different heights and types. On the grey stone wall dividing each cell, chains jangled and clanked. The only sound in this dead place. Arthur was beginning to see the stupidity of his plan. Why would they keep the first found warlock in the same place as everyone else? Merlin was far too valuable to kill.

"Dammit," Arthur hissed, he stood, slamming his hands on the bars. He shook them, beat them. They were strong. He sat against an iron wall and put his head in his hands, tugging at blond strands. He felt his breathing slowly calm.

"He – Hello?" A small voice sounded from the cell next to him. A little girl's slightly pitched tone.

"Hi," Arthur said, blowing out a long breath and letting his head fall back against the wall.

"You rep – lied to me," she said, sounding surprised and pleased, and just a little bit suspicious in a way that only kids could manage.

"Should I?" Arthur asked.

"Nobody wanted friend," she said, "they say to Macey, 'don' make friends when you're gonna die.' I don't understand, people say die means no come back, where do you go?" Oh sweet Avalon. They're going to burn a child?! Anger rose hot and constricting in his chest, teeth gritting. He felt dizzy from the sudden force of it.

"I'm Arthur," he tried to soften his voice but it still came out with a bit of a growl. He hoped giving his name would distract her. He never became amazing at emotions, much to Gwen's exasperation. She spent many centuries teaching him the ways of – in her terms – 'unemotionally constipated humans.'

"Hello Mister Arthur, my name's Macy."

"That's nice," Arthur stood, legs shaking beneath him. He put the tips of his fingers on the icy cold of the wall and began pacing. Back, forth, back, forth, a process without variation and without end, pointless, but strangely calming. His other hand clenched in a fist at his side. It was silent but for the dull slap as his feet hit the iron floors.

"Mister Arthur?" Arthur jumped slightly, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Yes?"

"Where do you go?" Arthur heard a vibrating thud as she sat back against the wall.

"What?" He struggled to think back, last conversation lost in a haze of anger and thought.

"When you die," Macy clarified, "where do the dead go?" Arthur went silent. Death was a factor of life even from his birth. A fear or misunderstanding of it seemed foreign to him.

"Where you can't come back," he said shortly. It went quiet after that. Arthur sat against the back wall, staring lazily out at the courtyard. He wondered vaguely when they would die. When he would wake to the sound of heavy screws pounding into the wood, pulling the pyre together. To the sound of kindling scattering on the floor, surrounding the lean post that would hold someone until they burnt to death. He would escape before then, he had to. He had a promise to keep. If the keeper of the gate to Avalon hated him, than his chances of seeing his friends there were slim. And he'd leave Merlin. Merlin, who had never once failed him. He heard soft snores in the cell next to him as Macy slept.

He should, he would need energy to run.

If he could get out at all. For the first time Arthur found himself fearing the wrong end of a torch. Between a rock and a hard place. What a stupid saying. For being trapped between a pyre and a cell was far harder. Most would say impossible. And Arthur wasn't quite sure he could prove them wrong.