Chapter Ten
The air is empty. It is no longer filled with the clatter and grind of swords in motion or the cries being heaved out with a dying breath. Consciousness comes and goes, and all Merlin can grasp is the cool breeze rolling across his cheek, sending the fallen leaves around him tumbling over end with a muted rustle. Don't let this be a dream. Don't let the battle continue to rage on outside the tranquil burrow the young warlock's mind has slipped into. There is nothing he can do for his king here. Or anyone for that matter. His friends. All fighting for their lives. Leon is gone. How many others must he fail today?
There is no memory of the silence falling. One moment he is tearing through the woods, letting the branches strike his face and forcing his leg to behave unwounded, intent on reaching Arthur's side. The next he feels the prickle of grass as it serves as a natural pillow beneath his head. His palm still pulsing with heat like a waning ember. Then. His body is being moved. Lifted. But never put back down. The open air sweeps across his face and neck, cooling and soothing the inflamed wound on his leg as it wraps it in its arms. Is he flying? No. Their are voices. He groans with every exhalation in hopes that he will wake, that someone will talk to him, that he will hear them.
Merlin is on his stomach. Someone murmurs to him. What are they saying? His name, but something more. A face floats in front of him. Before he can make it out, a weight presses down on his calf and with a sudden burst it feels as though the very fibers of his leg muscle are being wrenched from within the safe housing of his skin. He wants to scream, and maybe he actually does, but he cannot hear anything. He cannot see anything. Nothing but the piercing blaze of light that starts off as a pin prick in the back of his mind before it explodes and rages forward to consume him...
"Merlin..."
It is spoken as if in a dream, whispered, yet so deafening it wakes Merlin with a violent jolt. His eyes snap open, and he shoots up in bed, glancing about quickly as he tries to gather his bearings. The air is hollow around him, dank, and the only light is the golden glow of twilight that seeps in from somewhere around the bend up ahead; it reflects off the uneven surface of the walls and ceiling around him. Stretching out his hand, Merlin touches the nearest wall. It is cold and wet. Solid rock. A cave, but clearly more than that. There are boxes and trunks scattered about the cavern, chairs here and there with a few cots lining the walls; the beds appear to be occupied, a distinct lump rests on each one, but the tenants remain unidentifiable, cloaked in shadow. They rise and fall with deeps breaths, the rattle of a snore breaking through from time to time. Surely someone meaning to do him harm would not leave him unbound while they slept the night away.
But where he is and who has brought him here are the least of his concerns. Last he can recall, the outlaws had taken up arms to fight alongside his friends, the Nottingham soldiers were multiplying in numbers, and there was nothing he could do to help them. A sigh falls from Merlin's lips as he rubs his forehead. He reaches down to touch his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him, and he can remember the pain; it still pulses with anger, but remains dormant like a beast in hibernation. Perhaps it had saved him; performed an act of mercy in taking his consciousness, so that he might not have to witness the slaughter of his friends. His king. Bile starts to rise in his throat. He swallows it back down as he starts to gingerly shift his leg over the side of his cot, taking care not to awaken its fury. He needs answers and he needs to find them now. But he stops. Something catches his eye.
A suit of abandoned armor rests near a clothes trunk, parts of which are still proving to be reflective, undeterred by the layer of filth that coats it. Arthur's. He would know his armor anywhere. It is not Gwaine's, not Elyan's, nor anyone else's, no, it is most certainly Arthur's. Every nick, every latch, Merlin knows it all. Dried dirt and blood accompanies an array of new dents and scratches that diminishes it of its usual pristine shape. But after spending day after day of the past few years polishing that thing to perfection, the sight of its empty shell no longer withdraws resentment for its inevitable need to be polished once again; now, every time it sits discarded after battle, awaiting his attention, he feels only gratitude. Because it means his king lives to fight another day.
"Do you always wake up this spry?"
Whipping his head around, Merlin is startled to find Arthur lying on an identical cot beside him, an amused, albeit sleepy, expression on his face. It unnerves Merlin to think that his friend remained so still and silent that he was able to remain undetected at only an arm's length away. It is easy to see that he lacks his usual color and that dark circles hang beneath his eyes, but it doesn't stop a quirky grin from curving the side of his mouth.
"Arthur..." Merlin mirrors his king's smile, taking in the sight of him – alive.
"Honestly," he continues from where he slumps against a pile of ratty pillows, motioning to Merlin's leg, "You were unconscious not five minutes ago, then you suddenly spring up like a startled toad. I can't get up that fast even on my best day."
"Yeah, well, I'm motivated. And you're...lazy," Merlin says, a bit distracted as he begins surveying the pair of bandages that are tightly secured around Arthur's upper arm and right hand. A bit of blood has begun to seep through the bandage around his palm, and if he had to guess, Merlin would say his king is not treating it as carefully as he should. "And wounded." He shifts to sit on the edge of his own cot, facing Arthur, but before he can lean in for a closer look, Arthur presses his swathed hand against the young warlock's shoulder to stop him.
"Flesh wounds, Merlin, nothing more," he says, though there is tightness in his voice and a fleeting grimace that crosses his face as a result of the movement. "Trust me, I got lucky."
"I know you did. I saw it." Merlin says, glancing towards the mouth of the cave, where whispered voices float in from somewhere beyond the threshold, and hopes that is the sound of his other friends. "The battle," he continues, "They had you and I thought...I was sure you'd be..."
Arthur stares at him a moment, "You saw?" His voice is suddenly much stronger, "How much do you remember? Did you see where it came from? Who it was?"
"See where what came from?" Merlin frowns. "What are you talking about?" He watches as Arthur sits up to mirror him, grimacing as he holds his side.
"The fire," Arthur says urgently, his curiosity overriding the pain etched across his face.
Taking a hold of Arthur's arm, Merlin tries to steady him, "You should be lying down, sire..."
"It's the reason we're still here," he continues. "Alive. I don't even know what it was or where it came from, but..." His brow slowly knits together as he tries to put into words something he doesn't seem to fully understand, his eyes grow vacant, trying to make sense of it, "Gisbourne had me at his mercy..."
Arthur's already aching ribs crashed against the floor as he was thrown into the bed of the carriage, his hands bound in front of him.
"Behold, the catch of the day, gentlemen..." Sir Guy said, his arrogant smirk tiring as he fought the effects of the arrow protruding from his shoulder. He flipped a dagger into the air, deftly catching the hilt, "Now let's not waste-"
His words were swept away by a swell of shouts. A rush of wind. Terror in Guy's eyes. And then it hit. The entire carriage jolted, flinging the only cargo – the king of Camelot – ruthlessly against the side. The doors flapped on their hinges, offering only brief glimpses into the chaos that erupted outside; Sir Guy was sprawled out on the ground yards away, others discarded aside with him, soldiers were running, the wind was still howling, closing in around Arthur an overwhelming heat dove deep into his lungs. The wood slats of the wagon crackled and popped.
More screams. More shouts.
The panicked whinnies of the horses pulling the wagon pierced through the drone of battle before the floor beneath Arthur suddenly lurched forward. With nothing to hold onto, he tumbled head over heels through the unlatched doors of the carriage, landing unceremoniously amidst the trampled dirt of the square.
Around him, a dense blanket of black fog began to spread; it billowed out from the ravenous flames consuming the carriage as it veered around the square behind the spooked horses, and scattered the men of black, green, and silver in every direction.
Sight was limited. Breathing scarce. And only the growing rumble of the ground beneath Arthur's body warned him of the dangers quickly approaching. He rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed by stampeding hooves, but in the process bumped into an animal even more wild.
Vaisey.
On all fours, the steward was still cowering, yet was now without the cover of the cavalry he once used to shield himself from all harm. They looked at one another. Faces inches apart and eyes rampant with the adrenaline that could not compose itself enough to choose between fighting and fleeing. They waited. Only momentarily, but long enough to calculate their next course of action.
Lord Vaisey's hand flew to his dagger, but before he could free it from its sheath, Arthur – hands still bound – rammed his armored shoulder against the steward, the edge of his pauldron driving into the squat man's face. His consequential agony, proven by a pathetic cry, gave Arthur just enough time to jump to his feet.
The carriage, no longer recognizable in its flaming shroud, continued to careen around the square, stirring up pockets of flustered horses which then darted out, threatening to trample anyone in their path. Chaos. This was their chance.
The knights, unrelenting in their ferocity, didn't show any signs of debility as they continued to fight, to protect, to strive for their lives and the lives of one another. Though blood trickled down their faces and limbs, they allowed it to roll off like summer rain. They wouldn't give in. They would never give in. Not until the fury of their blades went cold in their stiff grips.
A hand clamped tightly around the king's ankle. He pivoted, kicking from Vaisey's grip the dagger he knew was waiting for him, and wasted no time, pendulating his foot, and swinging the heel of his boot back into Vaisey's jaw.
"Go!" He heard Robin shout over the clamor, "Get them to the woods!"
Arthur turned to see that the thieves have gotten themselves organized, as though they have done this a hundred times. No doubt they have. Each one, or a pair of them, found their way to one of his knights. They defend them, giving them time to run, but for a moment, the knights only linger, looking in Arthur's direction for his orders.
"Arthur!" Robin scrambles through the smoke to the king's side, "If ever there was a time to trust me..." he flipped an arrow out of his quiver, grabbed Arthur's bonds and sliced through the rope with the head, "...now would be the time. We have to move. Now!" He tugged on Arthur's arm.
"Run!" Arthur finally shouted to the knights. It would be easier to take down a handful of outlaws if needed, than a horde of Nottingham soldiers. He took off running toward the border of the square, sure to stay alert to his surroundings; horses still stampeded, men still hunted, and somewhere, someone had started that fire. And whomever it was, was still out there...
Merlin looks down at his hands as a lump forms in his throat. It had worked. Where he thought he failed, he very much succeeded. He could cry. He could smile. He could even laugh. But any of those things would make Arthur think he had gone completely mad. So he gives himself a moment by clearing his throat, "Have you, um...have you asked Hood and his men about it, sire?" Merlin lifts his eyes to meet Arthur's again, forcing his gaze to remain steadfast, though the pain of lying to his face never manages to falter. "Isn't it possible they shot a flaming arrow into the side of the wagon?"
"The fire didn't spread slowly," Arthur insists. "The entire thing was engulfed in flames from the very moment of impact. It was...it was almost like...it had to be..."
"You may not want to be reminded of this, sire," Merlin says, his hands becoming clammy, "but magic is not outlawed here. Any one of those villagers could have been trying to save you."
"Save me..." he nods as he thinks, then rubs his forehead with a humorless laugh, "...or kill me. Why did I not think of it before? How many sorcerers have fled Camelot to preserve their lives? Any number of them could be here, and any number of them could wish to extract their revenge."
Naturally. Merlin leans his elbow forward to rest it on his knee, and reaches down to massage his leg. It doesn't particularly ache at the moment, but there is little to be done for what is truly hurting him. He has to change the subject. "Where are we?"
"The last place I thought we'd ever end up."
Merlin frowns. "I've been to the outlaws' camp before, and..." He double-checks his surroundings before looking to Arthur, "This isn't it."
"Ah see, you've been to their main camp, but when you're running from the law, Merlin, you need options," he says, the mockery in his tone fading as quickly as it came. "Apparently there are too many of us to be safely concealed at their base, so they brought us here to the caves to recover."
Merlin surveys the beds around them, spotting the oversized physique of Percival resting on one, but unable to identify the other knights for certain. He struggles to form his next question, afraid of the answer, "Everyone...everyone made it?"
The blond warrior nods, adjusting his bandage as he flexes his fingers, "Everyone but Leon..." He lets the silence settle between them a few moments before his eyes meet Merlin's again. They are not accusatory, nor are they angry. They droop with a concern that Merlin recognizes. It is the same look he gives every disheartened citizen that comes into the throne room of Camelot seeking help over a grievous ordeal. The trauma of what they experienced digs into their flesh, and Arthur must carefully pull each thorn out if he is to help them. He rarely fails. "What happened, Merlin?" The king's voice is soft, gentle. He is perceptive. Noticing without confirmation that Merlin, too, has thorns from the day.
"I..." he shrugs, "I thought it was going to be a good day." It certainly did not turn out to be, but as he continues to relay all that happened in Knighton to the enrapt king, he starts to think that, while it was not all that he anticipated it to be, it could have been worse. That perhaps all that had gone wrong might have come to pass so that a fate more horrid than what is would not take its place.
Merlin takes his turn as storyteller, going through it all; telling of the arrival to Knighton, Marian's home found empty and in disarray, the weary onlookers, of Vaisey's raid, and of Leon's sacrifice. The only thing he failed to mention was the box housing the singing bangles, and how they are now – for better or worse – in the possession of the steward.
By the time he is done, the beast within his leg begins to throb, so Merlin utilizes the silence that follows his tale to prop it up on the bed beside Arthur, bridging the gap between them and instantly finding a bit of relief. Arthur says nothing in response. He only glances down at Merlin's bandage, it too starting to bleed through the cloth with a bold crimson stain.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" Merlin asks, the lack of feedback beginning to draw at his nerves, but the easy chatter that once filled Arthur is clearly gone. His eyes are vacant, yet swimming with a million different thoughts. "Call me a coward or-"
Merlin hopes a joke, whether his heart is in it or not, will bring back his king's spirits, but Arthur only shakes his head, "There is nothing cowardly about what you did, Merlin. You were..." he nods, hesitating as if it is a struggle to get the words out, and the young warlock knows a compliment is on its way, "...you were quite brave today, if I am to be honest."
"Really?" Merlin asks, raising his eyebrows.
Arthur grimaces, "Don't push it. Ideally, I would have liked it if you could have stood on your own two feet so I didn't have to haul your limp carcass all the way across Sherwood Forest."
"Let's just be glad it wasn't the other way around," he says. "I mean, if I had to haul your fat carcass all the way acr—"
"Merlin..." The familiar scolding tone of his king brings a grin to Merlin's tired face, but it lasts only briefly, faltering as something he has been pondering rises to the surface. "What is it?"
Merlin lowers his voice, "It's just...Robin. You haven't been exactly eager to work with him, and yet here we are. Our lives resting in his hands. What's changed?"
The two sit in silence. Merlin watches as Arthur fidgets with his bandages, mulling over an answer he may or may not know. Just as he lifts his head to answer, a long shadow falls from the mouth of the cave, bringing with it the smell of freshly simmering stew.
"Ah, you're awake," Much grins. "Who's hungry?"
Rigid, but immediate, Gwaine rises from his pillow as if waking from the dead rather than from a much needed nap, getting up without a word and walking out of the cave, following his nose. Arthur watches him with a cocked eyebrow before smiling at Merlin.
"Shall we?" he says. He pushes himself to stand, grimacing again, but for a different reason than before, and lets out a pained exhale. He reaches down to help Merlin up, but as the young warlock rises from his cot, the blood immediately drains from his face. His vision sways at first, but when he feels Arthur's grip tightening on him, he realizes that it is his entire body that has become unstable, not just his sight. "You haven't eaten all day, have you?" Arthur asks, but Merlin can only shake his head. "Right then. Stay off that leg or Djaq will kill me for getting you up in the first place." He situates Merlin's arm across his shoulders, and wraps his own around Merlin's waist to support him before starting toward the mouth of the cave. Gaius never would have allowed him to move so soon into his recovery, but Merlin can't bring himself to correct Arthur. This sort of well-intentioned doting doesn't come along very often. It is something to be savored.
In the center of the hovel inhabited by the High Priestess, the three, less-than-pleased, collaborators, stand silently. For a while, there is little room to talk; the air has been filled with the anger pulsating off each one of them.
The steward bristles with venom, his fist pressed firmly against his mouth as his wild, blood shot eyes bore into Sir Guy. The man in black, however, simply stands in boredom, eyes vacant, lids drooping, cradling his wounded shoulder where the shaft of the arrow still extends out, and waits for the steward's inevitable tantrum to unfold. He can see Morgana in his periphery, swaying impatiently.
"Well?" She says. "Victory needs no explanation, but you, my dear steward, have much to clarify. Where is my brother?"
"Not here." He is a statue, his glare unmoving, his lips barely parting to speak from behind his hand. "And why is that, Gisbourne?"
"He got away, my lady," Sir Guy lifts his eyes from where he had been staring at his blood-stained boots to look at Morgana.
"How is that possible!?"
"Yes," Vaisey says, dropping his hand to his side, "How is that possible, Gisbourne?" The steward has taken to the frequent use of his name, something Guy has learned to tread carefully around. "Did they know we were coming?"
"I don't believe so, my lord," says Sir Guy.
"And...how many of them would you say there were?"
"Four to start," Guy says, his gaze fixed idly on the floor again. It shifts slightly when he notices a scuff of dirt on the toes of Vaisey's boots, as well as patches of the dirt at his knees. The result of his position cowering behind the horses, he'd imagine. "Ten once Hood showed up."
"Mm-hm mm-hm, now...tell her lady how many men we had, Gisbourne."
Sir Guy flits his eyes between them, unable to help the feeling that he is being trapped between two vipers, though which will strike out first is impossible to say. "About -"
"She deserves the precise number!" the steward nearly spits out, but quickly clears his throat to recollect his calm, his voice cloying, "wouldn't you say?"
Clenching his jaw, Guy gives way to a brief silence as he tries to ward off the humiliation Vaisey is trying so diligently to thrust upon him, "Fifty-seven, including you and I."
"Fifty-seven. Yes. So. Answer me this," he takes a few rigid steps to close the space between them, resting a violently shaking hand on Sir Guy's shoulder, "should they have been able to find victory so easily over us?"
The man in black raises his eyebrows indignantly, "Easily? My lord-"
"Ooh tut tut, now is not a time for excuses." He dusts off Sir Guy's shoulder, "Now is a time for honesty. Should they have been able to slip through our fingers? Come closer...I'll give you a clue: NO!" The steward's face swells red before bursting out in a storm.
He snatches the arrow, ripping it from Sir Guy's flesh, and withdrawing a cry from him as the dam is released and the blood runs free. Guy tries to cover the wound with his hand, but it does no good, quickly staining crimson as his life oozes from between his fingers. His face goes cold and his legs wobble. "The answer is no! You failed me, Gisbourne!" the steward says. "They were there! They were both! Right! There!" He begins slapping Guy with the tail of the arrow repeatedly.
"My lord, please!" Guy says, trying to shield himself with one arm, but it does little good, "The fire! There was nothing I could do!"
"Nothing is all you can ever do, Gisbourne! You are a botched up excuse for a man, and I grow weary of your insufferable, infallible ability to ruin every chance we have at success! You sorry twa-"
He can't be sure where the strength comes from, but though Guy's limbs turn ice cold and a layer of equally chilled sweat begins to form on his brow, he lashes out, snatching the arrow away from his master and points its bloodied tip into his face, "I did all I could! But if you hadn't been so set on making a spectacle of him, I could have rid us of them all long before now!" He chucks the arrow aside, lowering his voice, "But my success is limited when I must heed your orders." Sir Guy tries to maintain his resolve as he glowers down at the abashed little man in front of him, but his legs have lost their strength and he sways between their support, never finding a firm stance.
Lord Vaisey raises his brow so high, it would be lost in his hairline if he had one. He glances to Morgana and back, a sickening smile twisting onto his lips, "Why Gisbourne...I do believe you just grew a backbone right before our very eyes. I've never been more proud." His smile soon gives way as he feigns a pout, inspecting the unrelenting flow seeping out from Guy's shoulder, "Ooh, but...perhaps it is merely death talking. It often has a way of summoning the strength we've been too scared to display while thriving with life. Pity you only showed your true potential now at the end of all things."
"Not all is lost," Morgana says, contemplation dripping from her lips as she steps in closer to shrink their circle. Guy straightens his posture, forcing himself to stand tall in front of her. Her image teeters before him, and he blinks hard, hoping to keep her still. She looks between them, her eyes bright, no longer burning with anger, but with a renewed hunger for triumph. "We forget...we have something Arthur wants. And as soon as he finds out, he won't be able to resist. He will come to save them, to play the hero...and when he does it will unfold better than we ever imagined."
"How so?" Vaisey asks.
"He...will come to us," Guys says, trying to offer what insight he can, though struggling to retain his very consciousness.
She grins at him before shifting her focus to the steward. "You have accused Arthur of attempted murder on the king in front of an entire village," she says. "And now, as Sir Guy has pointed out, he will be coming to us. No more hunting. No more chasing. He will deliver himself into our hands, and when he does, we will have reason to kill two kings with one stone."
"And walk away blameless...yes..." Vaisey mutters as he ponders that for a moment, his eyes widening with glee, "Yes! Right. How very right you are...advantageous indeed-"
Try as he might, Sir Guy can no longer hold his own weight. His legs give way and he drops to his knees, doubling over as the full effects of his wound take over him. He can feel Morgana's grasp on his arm as she tries to soften his fall, but he is too heavy for her efforts to be of any use.
Vaisey sighs, "Yes, of course, I forgive you, Gisbourne. There is no need to grovel."
"My lord, he is in need of a physician," she says as she kneels beside him and cups one side of his face to lift his head up towards her. He cannot see her. His eyes have fallen shut, and refuse to reopen, but he can feel her. Her hand is warm against his clammy skin, something that he did not expect from a woman whose reputation consists of her savage heart and ruthless temper.
"He needs a great many things, my dear, none of which I fear, would help his sorry state."
"Do not pretend you have devoted servants to spare," she snips. Even with most of his senses waning, Sir Guy can feel the air around her beating against him as her fervor rises. "Nor should you make the mistake of assuming they are easily replaced. I have seen the faces of the people as they look upon you, and they would rather die than stand at your side."
"A problem we share, it seems," Vaisey says before he takes his time to add, "Though I'm afraid he'll be dead long before we can get him help. Best not to fuss over what can't be helped. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"I am quite certain a High Priestess of your infamous prowess must have many facets to her abilities. Perhaps you would do us the honor of serving as his physician...demonstrate your unparalleled powers..."
"I am not a carnival act, nor will I perform as one-" Morgana's word is cut short as she struggles to catch Sir Guy, whose body gives way to slump against her with dead weight, unable to hold his torso erect any longer. He knew it was coming, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Their voices sound distant, but they are still discernible.
"La-dee-da-dee-da..." the steward drawls, "an innocent man lies dying in your arms. Is now the time for such pride? Come, come...just one itsy-bitsy spell, hmm? Let's see it."
Guy can feel it as she tries to situate him more comfortably, easing him onto his back, and resting his head into her lap, "I..." she begins, but her voice has weakened, much like it does when she speaks of Emrys stalking her footsteps, "I am not fluent in healing incantations."
There are several footsteps, the rustle of cloth, and suddenly Lord Vaisey's voice is much nearer. "Ah, the curse of life, is it not?" he says softly, "Too many to kill off and too few to care for. Well then...consider Gisbourne's fate a gift, my lady. A chance to learn. They call you a monster, but I know better. I see who you really are. And now is your chance to unleash the abilities of that woman."
Guy doesn't know how much longer he has. The silence begins to sink in around him and even Morgana's touch begins to slip from around him.
Then, from somewhere, he hears her again. Whether it is from her mouth or from within his own mind, he hears her, chanting, "Þurhhæle dolgbenn..." Two forces begin to pull at him; one drawing him towards the clarity of consciousness, the other, full of agony, draws him towards darkness. As he swims in uncertainty, her voice remains, "Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie..."
The fireside is mostly quiet as the knights and thieves all try to finish up their meals while also nurturing their various traumas. No one was left unscathed. Merlin is surprised they even have the energy to lift a spoon to their lips after such a battle, but their resolve remains staunch even if their bodies don't mimic the sentiment.
They slump over their dinners, Elyan struggling to even see his with an eye swollen shut and a bandage seemingly keeping his brow intact. Beside him, Percival is unfazed by his own plights, though he keeps one of his lengthy legs stretched out in front of him, a poultice wrapped tightly to the side of his knee; he cringes whenever he has to shift it, so he stays mostly still. Gwaine, on the other, is not so deft in hiding his suffering. His face is pale and drawn. His chatter has gone mostly dormant, but whenever he moves just right, a spout of curses fly from his mouth. Then he returns to silence, fuming like a child sent to the corner of the room.
The knights were not the only ones to suffer at the hands of Sir Guy and his men; Hood and his men, too, sport injuries of their own. None as prolific as that of the men of Camelot, but they move gingerly and wince periodically nonetheless. They are rather impressive hosts, something Merlin was not expecting, but is certainly pleased to see. John lumbers around the fire, handing out water bottles that he must have refilled for his guests, while the knights offer their thanks. Without the example of their respective leaders to follow, however, neither group shows any confidence in how to act toward one another. It is kept to kind gestures and indistinct grunts.
Merlin sits against one of the logs poised around the fire with Arthur on one side and Gwaine, who gives Merlin's hair an affectionate ruffle every few minutes and reminds him how he was sure he was a goner, on the other. But as he eats, there lingers the strong presence of words unsaid; of the questions pending. The others try to be patient about it, he can see it in their pauses, in the way they poke aimlessly at their food, adjust bandages, choose topics of smalltalk that die out all too soon, take drinks, anything in hopes of passing time more quickly, but Gwaine is the first to crack; his morale too heavy to be supported by his broken body any longer.
"Did they get him then?" He asks from where he now lies in the dirt beside Merlin, using the log as a pillow to prop his head up. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he cradles his arm against his chest. There is no clarification needed about the subject of his comment. Leon. Percival and Elyan turn their eyes to Merlin. They didn't ask the question, but they sure aren't going to miss the answer.
Merlin rests his spoon back into his near empty bowl, his appetite lessened, but before he even has to think of how to answer, Arthur speaks up. "Nothing is for certain." He looks to Merlin, who gratefully gives him a nod to continue, "It's possible he was able to escape. Then again, there is also a chance he remains a captive." It is a vague bit of information he offers the knights, but they do not ask for details on what happened. Not yet. And Merlin is glad for it. He knows those questions will arise eventually, but for now he can leave it to rest. He sees the wheels of speculation are already turning over in Gwaine's mind, and without a doubt, he'll be the first to press for more insight.
"I think there's a third likelihood you're not considering, mate," says Allan ruefully from across the fire, where he works to finish his meal; two of his fingers are bound together, one of which is severely disfigured.
"You think they'd have killed him already?" Elyan asks, slightly affronted by the sounds of it.
Allan raises his hand slightly to show his innocence, the spoon dangling out from the crook of his thumb, "I'm just saying...I don't really see what good it would do on their part to hold a knight hostage. Especially if they were confident in their ability to arrest the king." He turns his attention to Arthur, "You're the one they want anyway." He motions his spoon around at the knights, "They were probably just going to off the rest of you." No one protests.
"That was tactful," Much says with a furrowed brow as he yanks Allan's bowl from his hands.
"Oi, did I say I was finished with that?"
Much adds the bowl to the pile he is collecting as he makes a sweep around the campfire, shaking his head, "Kicking 'em while they're down..."
"What? It's the truth," says Allan, "And they deserve to know it. You don't want them to get their hopes up, do you? That rubbish'll get you killed in these parts."
"That's a cheery outlook if I ever heard one," Gwaine says under his breath.
"Welcome to Mercia," John grumbles in return.
"Will and Djaq are in Nottingham now, checking on Marian," Robin says, getting back to the root concern, his bow is propped up against his knee as he works to tighten the strings on it. "If your friend is there, and alive, they'll hear of it. I wouldn't give way to grief just yet." His eyes stay focused on his agile hands as he speaks, flicking only briefly towards the king.
After those few, albeit encouraging, words, Arthur and Robin do not speak again for quite some time. Merlin is not sure they know how to without gravitating towards incivility. They progress through the evening though, going about their own business, talking to anyone else that suits their needs, and taking moments only occasionally to glance in one another's direction. But most of Arthur's focus, Merlin finds, switches between surveying the state of his wounded friends and staring into the fire. Eyes fixed. Elbows on knees. Hands clasped in front of his pursed lips. It is a look that creeps up whenever Arthur's mind is fully consumed in the details of a gory internal debate.
No one else seems to notice his intense concentration, or else they are simply more keen on having their questions finally answered. They flock around Merlin. Not just the knights, but the thieves as well, eager to hear him recount the day's events.
"Those bastards had this all planned out," Gwaine says when Merlin had finished. "If they didn't even try to keep up their friendly charade..."
Percival shakes his head in disgust, "They knew they were going to turn on us today."
"Nerves got the best of them," Robin says, looking around at Merlin and the knights. "They wanted Wart's death to look like it was my fault. Now suddenly they don't have time to be that strategic? Why? What's changed?"
"We did," says Merlin. "We changed. Their plan was decent enough if we remained unaware, but the moment we no longer wanted Vaisey as an ally and declared him an enemy-"
"But how would they have learned that?" Elyan asks, his one good eye searching for answers. "We held that private council only last night."
"Just before Marian was arrested," Robin says, tapping the nock of his bow into the loose soil as he tries to think, but Merlin doesn't have to. He knows what happened. He remembers the presence hovering outside the door at the tavern, and trying to ward it off, but it must have been too late. They had heard enough.
Gwaine chucks a dead twig into the now roaring fire, "Someone was in a hurry to rat us out."
"Someone daft," Allan says with a slight chuckle. "Siding with Vaisey over Camelot? Come on...I'm a man of opportunity, but even with your less-than-desirable odds here, I know divine intervention when I see it."
John cocks an eyebrow, "Divine intervention?"
"Yeah. You know. At the square today. The carriage..." As Allan searches the circle for justification, someone, anyone to show they get what he is saying, he finds nothing but confused expressions. "I'm not being funny," he assures them, the intensity in his large eyes only magnified by the reflection of the flames flickering in them. "Come on. I can't be the only one that saw that giant bloody fireball save us from certain death." He looks around again, "Am I?"
This catches Arthur's attention. From the corner of Merlin's eye, he sees the king turn his head towards the group to listen more closely.
"Am I?" Allan repeats.
"No," Robin says. His gaze shifts towards Merlin, their eyes connecting, "You're not." A cold shiver races down the young warlock's spine, rendering him immobile, like a stream suddenly frozen over at the first touch of winter's chill. The throbbing in his leg flees as all blood races to his ears, where his pulse deafens him with its pounding beats.
"There!" Much suddenly shouts. He is pointing. The world around Merlin careens as he tries to pull his focus from Robin, and follow the direction of Much's finger to where two figures are emerging from the heavy brush of the forest. Robin gets up as if nothing has transpired between them, and perhaps nothing has. Merlin can only hope. The others get to their feet as well, some more quickly than others. Gwaine swears again.
Merlin finally gathers himself, knowing sooner or later Robin's implications will be dealt with. He presses his palms down against the rough bark of the log he sits on, but before he can budge an inch skyward to stand, the heavy hand of Arthur lands on his shoulder, rooting him to his seat.
"Well?" Robin asks as Will and Djaq get closer.
Will nods, taking a moment to catch his breath, "They are keeping her and her father within the castle walls. Her father is being kept in the dungeon, but..." he shakes his head, "we don't know where Marian is being held for sure. She may be in the cells with Edward."
"And Sir Leon?" Arthur asks.
"He is alive," Djaq says, and all the tension in the knights' shoulders visibly melt, allowing them to breathe easier, but Merlin suspects it will not last long. The petite Saracen exchanges a weary glance with Will, who shifts his stance before meeting Arthur's gaze, and adding:
"For now."