Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.

A/N: So sorry about the delay, guys! I've had bronchitis, and as much as I wanted to write and update this story on time, it simply wasn't possible until now, I've been so sick. But I'm finally starting to get better, and here she is! XD I'm still planning on updating again Friday, by the way. :) I was wrong; this chapter isn't when they get on/off the boats... that'll be next chapter. But this one is fun and whumpy. I am having to much fun writing the Questing Quartet, as I've decided to call them, because Lancelot and Gwaine are so funny by themselves, but add impatient Arthur and serious Leon to the mix and you get... a giggling Emachinescat. Haha! Anyway, thank you so much for the reviews for the last chapter! Enjoy, and please review!

This Cold Land

Chapter Nine: Quarrels of the Questing Quartet

They left Sirs Anthony and Cedric knocked out and tied up in the forest.

"We can't just leave them here to die," Arthur protested as Lancelot quickly began to untie the knots that bound the prince's hands together behind his back. Gwaine was working on Leon's ropes, hacking away at the thick cords with a short knife.

"They'll be fine," Gwaine said flippantly as he finished with Leon's bonds and clapped the older knight on the shoulder.

"They'll starve," Leon pointed out.

Arthur brought his wrists around to his front and rubbed them gently. Even though the "bandits" hadn't tied him tightly, his arms were still tingly from being held behind him for several hours.

Gwaine grinned easily. "Nope, they'll dry out from lack of water long before that."

"You're not exactly helping our case, Gwaine," Lancelot put in, rolling dark eyes in exasperation. He turned back to Arthur. "Don't worry. We didn't tie them too tightly. They'll eventually be able to wiggle free. And even if they aren't able to squirm free, I left a knife across the clearing. They'll spot it and be able to free themselves."

"But either way, it'll take a while," Gwaine interrupted, earning an impatient glare from Lancelot, which amused Arthur greatly, despite the situation they were in. Lancelot was one of the most even-tempered men he'd ever met, and it was actually hilarious how quickly Gwaine was able to get under his skin. "'Cause they'll have to wake up first, and then they'll have to wiggle free."

"And then," Lancelot said as he watched Gwaine reach into the folds of his cloak and pull out a folded piece of parchment and a broken piece of charcoal, "there will be the ransom note."

"Ransom note?" Leon asked.

Everything came together for Arthur. "Of course; that's why you tied Leon and I up as well, so that Anthony and Cedric would see us as captives, too." Once the guards had woken up from the first blow from their attackers, it was to see that they, as well as Arthur and Leon, had been tied to trees surrounding a small clearing. They'd all been given a few gulps of water from a water skin, and then the two bound and gagged knights had been hit upside the head again, rendering them deeply unconscious.

"Yep," Gwaine acknowledged with a short dip of his head. "So I'm going to write out a ransom note and leave it in one of their pockets so that when they wake up and get out, they'll assume that the prince and his right-hand-man have been captured by bandits. We'll cover up our tracks; that will give us the time we need to get away from them and get to Gedref, hopefully without any more delays, and you won't get into trouble with your father for disobeying him because he'll think that you were taken captive."

"But when I return with my servant who was actually taken by Raiders, he might begin to get suspicious," Arthur pointed out.

"We'll cross that bridge and any other eventualities that we haven't planned for when we get to them," Gwaine said, brushing off the worry. "As it is, I think it's a damn good plan for the moment, and more than enough to buy us the time we need to get to the coast and secure us a vessel."

Leon and Arthur exchanged hopeful glances. "That's... actually rather brilliant, Gwaine," Arthur praised the man, who beamed like Yule had come early.

"I'll be writing the note, though," Lancelot said, deftly snagging the parchment from Gwaine's hands.

Gwaine pouted, clenching his fist over the charcoal, not willing to give up quite so quickly. "Why? The note was my idea."

"It was our idea," Lancelot argued tonelessly. "And besides, a ransom note isn't going to be of much use if you can't read heads or tails of it. They'll probably think it's an invitation to a ball or something."

"I object to that!" Gwaine protested in a loud whisper. When the other three looked at him, clearly unimpressed, he added a vehement, "Strongly!"

"Gwaine, we're pleased that you're so eager to help," Leon started diplomatically, and Gwaine scoffed, but the knight plowed on, undeterred by his petulance, "but seeing as I helped Gaius and Gwen contact you, and therefore have read some of your letters, I can attest to the fact that your handwriting... leaves much to be desired. It took the three of us nearly four days to translate your second note... and it was two sentences long."

"I was rushed," Gwaine pouted, crossing his arms across his chest, still holding the writing utensil stubbornly in his fist. "And d'you think the king's going to believe that a bandit's going to have prissy handwriting?"

Lancelot fumed. "My handwriting is not—"

"Okay, enough!" Arthur finally hissed, the novelty of seeing Lancelot so flustered by a long-haired man-child long gone. The longer they stood here and argued, the more time they wasted that they could be getting away from his father's men, and with every moment, Merlin was farther and farther away. He told his companions as much, and this instantly sobered them.

"Lancelot, you write the note," Arthur dictated, raising an eyebrow in Gwaine's direction when the man looked like he was about to argue, and to his relief, Gwaine sighed heavily and opened his fist, holding the charcoal out in an open palm. He looked like a young boy who had just been caught stealing sweets from the pantry, with one hand on his hip, head turned away from Lancelot and nose in the air, the other arm completely outstretched with the offending item sitting in his hand.

Lancelot snatched the stick of charcoal away from Gwaine like he was afraid the fingers were going to snap shut over his own it he didn't move them quickly enough.

"Oh, and Lancelot, Gwaine does have a point. Don't write too fancily. My father does need to believe the ransom demand is actually from bandits."

Lancelot nodded stiffly. He crouched, using his leg to bear down on, and quickly scribbled a note in hasty, but legible writing, easily evading Gwaine's grasping fingers as he tried to take the parchment back and giving the note directly to Arthur. Arthur read the words out loud, ignoring the way that Gwaine was glowering at Lancelot in his peripheral vision. "'King Uther – We have the prince. Demands will be delivered by the time two moons have passed. Gather your wealth and prepare for a pilgrimage to a place that will be decided. Try any trickery and the kingdom will have no heir.'" He nodded slowly. "I like it. Simple, to the point, and it actually gives us two months headstart. By the time the specific demands are supposed to arrive, we will already be far out to sea."

Lancelot smiled humbly. Gwaine begrudgingly said, "I suppose it's all right, but do you really think a bandit would use the word pilgrimage? Seems a bit pompous, if you ask me."

"Then it's a good job nobody did ask you," Lancelot snapped, causing the other three men's eyes to widen at the sudden uncharacteristic snipe.

"Gwaine, it's fine," Leon finally said.

"Yes, Gwaine. Leave it. Please," Arthur all but pleaded.

Gwaine nodded, rolling his eyes. "Only because we're wasting time we could be helping Merlin. Otherwise, I'd stand my ground 'til kingdom come."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Arthur commented wearily. "Lancelot, check to make sure they're still unconscious when you leave the note. And make sure they can get away eventually."

Lancelot obeyed, checking not only that their eyes were closed, but that their breathing was even and steady, confirming that they hadn't woken up and were pretending to sleep. They were still unconscious. "Should I hit them again?" he asked quietly. "To make sure they stay asleep longer?"

Arthur thought for a moment, trying to pretend that Gwaine wasn't "subtly" bobbing his head like a fleeing wild turkey, and finally shook his head. "No. I don't want to risk seriously injuring them. Despite my distaste for them, they are good men, and they are some of my father's most trusted knights."

"Of course, sire," Lancelot said, straightening up. "Shall we move on, then, before they come to?"

"Absolutely," Arthur agreed, gesturing for Leon and Gwaine to start moving. "This way to Gedref. And, Gwaine, I know it's difficult for you, but you really need to keep quiet. I really don't want to run into any patrols, if you don't mind. Or actual bandits. We've been delayed in helping Merlin for long enough."

Three Days Later

"There are certain perks to being ill," Merlin rasped as he felt the cool cloth come in contact with his burning forehead again. He felt stuffy and hot, like someone had draped a thick woolen blanket over his entire body, from head to toe, and then sat on his face. His chest was agonizingly tight. Simply drawing in a breath was a chore now.

He could feel fluid in his lungs, and he hadn't been able to speak properly because of his stuffy nose and head for days now. Kol wasn't doing too much better, but his body had had this kind of sickness before, and while he hadn't so much built up an immunity to it, he was better accustomed to the symptoms and his body was doing a better job of fighting it off. Merlin's condition, however, had deteriorated seriously over the past seventy-two hours, and Kol had turned from babysitter to sickbed nurse by some unspoken consent between him, Merlin, and the other raiders, who hadn't actually been down to Merlin's cabin since the storm.

Kol looked at him strangely. "I think you're delirious, M-Arthur," he decided. Ever since learning Merlin's true identity, Kol had slipped up more than once, and as much as Merlin yearned to be called by his name, to stop being Prince Arthur, it was simply too dangerous to allow Kol to address him by his real name.

Merlin wheezed in a tight, agonizingly painful breath and let it out as what was perhaps the most pitiful huff of laughter that had ever passed from his dry lips. "My Viking friends..." (here he wheezed in another breath) "...have finally..." (gasp) "...realized that..." (he wheezed) "...they won't get much plunder..." (he huffed and strained for even the smallest bit of air) "...from a dead prince." It took him about three times longer than it should have to actually stammer out the sentence due to his periodic breathing (or attempted breathing) breaks, and on top of that, the inability to breathe through his nose turned the declaration into something sounding more like, By Viking freds... hab fidally... realized that... they wod't get buch pludder... frob a dead prince. Kol seemed to get the idea, however.

"Well, they are brutal, and they like to push things to the absolute limit, but even they know that unless they want all their hard work to go to waste, they can't keep beating a sick man."

"What about... a dying bad?" What about a dying man?

"You're not dying." Kol didn't sound terribly convinced.

"The cold air probably... wod't help... be very buch... will it?" The cold air probably won't help me very much, will it?

"What do you mean?" Kol asked, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as Merlin carefully and slowly moved his less injured arm to swipe a trembling hand across his sweaty forehad.

"It's hot below... but it will be... cold whed we get to... your land... cold... isn't good... for dying bend." It's hot below, but it will be cold when you get to your land. Cold isn't good for dying men.

"We're very, very close, Merlin," Kol said, the concern in his voice palpable. Merlin didn't waste his energy reminding Kol that he was "Arthur" this time. His chest hurt so badly... And his head... And...

Oh, and Kol was talking again.

"Whad?" What?

"I said," (Kol coughed into his sleeve), "We are mere days away from land. We'll probably see the coast by tomorrow morning. It's icy and the wind's blowing and it's just about as cold as it's going to get, maybe even a little colder, since we're on the water and the wind is always worse on the sea."

"Bud I'b udder the boat," Merlin slurred weakly. "'S warb dowd here. Hot." But I'm under the boat. It's warm down here. Hot.

"It's freezing," Kol said softly, pressing his hand to Merlin's forehead. The contact seemed to sear Merlin's skin, making the air around him even stuffier, almost impossible to breathe. He tried to move away, but the slight shifting of his battered and ailing body caused a ripple of pain to shoot through him, head to toe. He coughed, and then couldn't stop coughing.

When he finally finished, his body was trembling uncontrollably and his heart was weakly but persistently battering itself against his ribs, which now jutted sharply out of his emaciated figure, pale and feverish skin stretched far too tightly over his rib cage. He gasped and heaved for breath that simply wouldn't come, his body jerking slightly with each fruitless pull for air.

"Calm down," Kol said, not sounding very calm at all, eyes wide as he tried to hold Merlin down on the bed, in an attempt to keep him from hurting himself even more.

"Guuuhhh," Merlin gasped, "Can't... Breathe..." He gagged, the unforgiving fist over his heart and chest squeezing even tighter. A strange gurgling sound rent from his throat. He groaned, fought desperately for even the tiniest drag of air, and finally, something changed, or shifted, ever so slightly, and a huge, rattling breath-cough lunged out of his chest. He coughed a bit more, then flopped his head back, able to (somewhat) breathe again and utterly exhausted.

He shakily lifted his good arm and swiped his dirty and tattered sleeve across his mouth, eyes widening when it came back sporting droplets of red against the faded blue fabric. His fever-glazed eyes rose up to meet Kol's own gaze, which was dead serious now.

"I'm going to go above deck," he said quickly. "We need to pick up speed in any way possible. We need to get you to a healer – quickly." Merlin probably should have felt dread or fear at the underlying fear in Kol's voice, the fear that said that even if they were able to get Merlin to healer soon, that might very well not be enough. But he wasn't afraid, or even hurting anymore.

He was asleep.

He didn't even hear it when Kol's chair scraped across the wooden floor and he sprinted loudly across the cabin to the door, rushing to share the grim news with the rest of the crew, who couldn't care less about Merlin's health, other than that he stay alive long enough to get their ransom.

"Do you smell that?" Leon asked, eyes widening.

"Don't look at me," Gwaine grumbled. "Lancelot ate the last of the pickled eggs last night."

"No I didn't. You did."

"Regardless," said Gwaine. "Whatever you smell, it's not me."

"I know," said Leon. "Salt."

"We're getting close," Arthur said, his already fast pace quickening even more. "If I remember correctly, the forest will come to an end after this hill. We'll be able to see the coastline and the Labyrinth from there, and the villages aren't too far down the coast from it."

"Yes, sire," Leon nodded. "I remember the way well. We will reach the coastal towns by nightfall."

"Good thing, too," Gwaine said. "We've exhausted most of our food and supplies."

"We will have to purchase much more before we embark upon our journey," Leon said.

"Not to mention we'll have to find a ship and find someone to take us," Lancelot added.

"It shouldn't be too hard with the princess with us," Gwaine reasoned.

"Except I really don't want anyone to know it's me," Arthur reminded the man, pointedly choosing to ignore Gwaine's obnoxious nickname for him. "I suppose if we've no other choice, I can reveal my identity, and word shouldn't reach my father of my whereabouts until after we have departed, but still... I brought plenty of gold; hopefully that will cover any expenses."

They crested the top of the hill, and everyone stood over the grassy, tree-spotted valley that reached into the distance and gradually turned into sand. The small brown structures of houses and villages, coupled with distant, hazy smoke from chimneys, dotted the coast, which seemed to go on in either direction forever. They couldn't see the ocean from here, but it was just beyond the villages.

A huge green labyrinth rose from the grass far in the distance, looking like a child's plaything from this distance, but Arthur knew from experience that it was in reality huge and nearly impossible to navigate. The whole place had an eerie, magical feel to it, and Arthur could sense the underlying current of power and mystery even from this distance. He thought briefly about Amphora, the Keeper of the Unicorns, who had chosen the Labyrinth of Gedref for Arthur's final test several years ago. For the tiniest of moments, he wondered if he could find the mystical specter, if Amphora would be able to help him find and save Merlin.

He quickly disregarded the thought, for not only did he recognize that the man only did things on his own terms, and would almost certainly refuse. Also, he had magic, and Arthur, desperate as he was to save Merlin, knew better than to even consider turning to magic to rescue his servant.

"Arthur? We should start moving again. We're almost there," said Lancelot softly.

Arthur dragged his eyes away from the ethereal sight of the foggy labyrinth and struck forward resolutely again. By this time tomorrow, he was steadfastly determined to not only have whatever amount of supplies required, and to have hired a crew and boat, but to already be out on the sea, making real progress in his quest to save his servant.

Now that they were so close that they could literally taste the salty sea air, Arthur was even more determined than ever.

He was going to bring Merlin back to Camelot, safe and sound.

He wouldn't accept anything less.

The rest of the journey was walked in silence, everyone, even Gwaine, wrapped up in their own thoughts and worries and fears about the upcoming quest, for there was something that none of them had acknowledged yet, to each other or even to themselves.

None of them, never, not once, had sailed in a ship across the sea. Out of the four of them, only Arthur had ever been on a boat.

And quite frankly, the idea was rather terrifying.

A/N: Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed chapter 8: Guest, TN Sarah, A Fellow Reader, misspink3000, WhatIsThisNormalYouSpeakOf, staymagical, CherryAmes15, Leahelisabeth, allthefeathers, TheMerlinAddict, MamzelleHermy, Ash9, sarajm, RocknRollagirl, Clara Brighet, Book girl fan, LaRieNGuBleR, Forever Day and HalfbloodMerlin! And thank you to everyone who has read, followed, and favorited as well! You all are AMAZING!

So... poor Merlin! Things are getting really bad for the poor guy... :( And, well, I kind of love it but at the same time I feel bad for him, lol. :)

Here's hoping you enjoyed it! Please review, and I'll see you Friday! Love you guys! XD

~Emachinescat ^..^