Author's Note: It's been way, way too long. I know, and I'm sorry. The last two years have been extremely hard, and surviving real life has beaten my creativity down to nothing. I'm trying to get it back.

I would like to promise I'm here to stay, the updates will be regular, etc. But I can't. I hope that's true, but we'll see. I do promise this – this story is fully outlined. If there comes a time I don't feel I will be able to complete it, I will at least post my outline so everyone can see what was supposed to happen.

Also, in trying to find my muse again, I did a full re-read of this story to get back in the groove, and boy is it full of typos and errors! I'll be going back as soon as I can to try and fix all of them.

Thanks for sticking with me, it means the world! And if you read this and like it, I would love to hear from you. Feedback is excellent muse food.

24. New Secrets

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."
- Roald Dahl

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Twenty-first Year of King Alfhild, Fourteenth day of Gormánuður

"The Camelot Prince has arrived. It is a strange thing to be courted by a young man who appears to be completely uneducated in our ways but who has come here for this explicit purpose. Despite his comely appearance, it seems his personal wealth is small. His clothes are no better than a servant's and he retains the use of a slave!

Yes, Father has allowed a slave into the Castle! I have never been more shocked and do not understand why, other than it seems to be connected in some way to the Prince. I suppose Father is trying to ease him into his education and our customs. Hopefully he forces the Prince to dispose of it soon!

It is infallible proof that Camelot must be even more backwards than was thought, something I have gleaned for myself as I reflect upon his own demonstration of courting customs. I am led to believe that Camelot is so poor a land as to place great worth upon poultry. The offering of a fowl was the first clumsy attempt that this handsome, yet hapless prince has made in our courtship. Aldis and Amma do better when playing at courtship with their dolls!

Still, he was…kind.

Mother is ill again. She declined our ride for the second day in a row. She thinks I do not know the cause, but I am not that blind. It worries me…

Father, of course, filled the time with extra lessons."

- Bodil

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It took Merlin five exhausting trips up the tower stairs in the morning to get everything to Arthur's room. He left it all sitting outside the door until he'd completed the last climb, allowing himself a moment to sit panting on the top step with the breakfast tray balanced on his knees, before forcing himself back to his feet and entering the chamber.

To his surprise, Arthur was already awake and sitting in a chair he'd pulled in front of the nearly dead fire, still in his sleep clothes and lost in thought. With his tousled hair and a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, it struck Merlin how incredibly young and vulnerable the prince seemed. It made his heart hurt.

Quietly, he slipped into the room and laid the breakfast tray on the table, then turned to retrieve more from outside the door.

"Do you think Guinevere believes me dead?" Arthur asked, his voice a thick whisper that broke the silence, stopping Merlin in his tracks. The servant changed course, coming to stand at his friend's side and gripping his arm. It took a moment for Arthur to look up at him, but when he did, Merlin shook his head in the most emphatic denial he could manage.

Gwen would never give up on you! he wanted to scream. She will hold out hope longer than anyone, than even the king!

"I allowed her into my heart, Merlin, against every better judgement," the prince said, looking back at the coals. "And now my hand must go to one while my heart belongs to another."

Merlin flipped Arthur's hand palm up.

PRETENDING! he scribbled so fast he wasn't sure Arthur even understood. For Camelot! WILL escape!

Arthur closed his hand into a loose fist, stopping Merlin's words. "Doesn't matter. Even back in Camelot I wouldn't be allowed to be with her. I must marry for political stability, not love. I guess I have more in common with the Ice Princess than I thought."

Even if he'd had a voice, Merlin didn't know what he could say to that. So many people touted the privileges of royalty, but very few ever realized how heartbreakingly restrictive it could also be. Instead, Merlin grabbed his friend's hand and tugged him out of the chair.

It had never been clearer that his master was in desperate need of smacking people around with painful objects. He was becoming too melancholy – too lost in thoughts. Not that Arthur didn't have a brilliant (if sometimes oblivious) head on his shoulders, but he was a man of action. Too much deep thinking put him out of sorts. Good job Arthur had decided he would take the risk of training with Tharennor's knights…if Merlin could get him presentable enough to shove out the door.

Eat, he thought at his friend as he pushed him toward the rapidly cooling breakfast he'd set on the table. Gotta bring in more junk.

He hurried back out the door and was attempting to lift the heavy basket of wood without reopening the wounds on his back when he realized he wasn't alone. Arthur was there, guiding his trembling arms away and hefting the basket himself.

Merlin literally felt his jaw drop in shock. It was a full five seconds before he kicked into motion and grabbed two of the buckets of water before scurrying back into the room, just in time to see Arthur throw the last log on top of the replenished pile by the fire. He set the buckets down with a slosh, staring at his master but Arthur walked past him and back out the door, returning a few moments later with the last pail of water and collection of cleaning brushes.

Who are you and what have you done with Prince Arthur? Merlin wanted to cry. The last time he'd suggested Arthur could possibly help him carry things, he'd ended up mucking out the stables – for the second time in one day.

His shock wasn't over, however, as Arthur finally sat at the table. "Come here, Merlin," he said firmly, pointing to the other empty chair. "Sit. Eat," he ordered, then proceeded to divide his own breakfast in half.

Merlin was frozen, though to his embarrassment he felt tears cresting. After a few bites, Arthur looked back to find him still stuck in place to the floor and the prince sighed. "If I'm going to escape, you are going to come with me. I'm not blind, Merlin. I know they aren't feeding you, or letting you rest. I know you're wounded and working far too hard. I also know your own sense of pride will never let you tell me these things – which I respect. But Merlin, you're the only real friend I have, and it will be a cold day in hell before I let them kill you off if I can stop it. So get over here and eat with me, because if I ever have to say any of that out loud again…"

Smiling through his tears, Merlin sat. It was moments like these, when the Once and Future King managed to shine through Prince Prat, that the servant boy was so very proud to call Arthur his master and friend.

00000

A sword rushed towards Arthur's head and he quickly spun out of the way, turning the maneuver into a counter thrust of his own. With a clang that echoed throughout the indoor arena, his weapon was stopped by that of the knight – Wendell maybe? – he was sparring, and they both grunted before breaking apart.

Despite the chilled, winter air, sweat dripped from Arthur's hair and made his tunic cling to his back and chest. His breaths came quick and fast, leaving puffs of moisture hanging in the air before him and his out of shape muscles groaned and ached.

But it was still amazing! For the first time in weeks, Arthur felt truly alive.

He twirled his sword around, a slightly arrogant habit that not even Sir Leon had been able to get him to set aside, and had to work hard not to grin as he and the enemy fighter circled each other.

Arthur attacked first and the match continued, the prince relishing the feel of his own sword back in his hand. But even as they parried and thrust, blocked and attacked, Arthur knew he couldn't completely give in to the rush of adrenaline and excitement. The knights and soldiers of Tharennor were watching. Not outright – Sir Einar had put a stop to that right at the onset, sending the curious men who had threatened to turn into spectators of this match off to their own tasks with a snapped order - but they were still observing, as was his current opponent, and especially Sir. Einar.

Sir Wendell was young and fit – a good swordsman. Arthur could have beaten him, but he didn't dare. Einar's men were skilled and well trained – in battle they would be formidable foes – and he didn't dare give away the tricks he would use to secure such a victory.

But Arthur Pendragon also really hated losing. He just couldn't bring himself, as his first act while training with men who loathed his very existence, to throw the match and purposefully lose. Consequently, it dragged on.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Both warriors were tiring, and Arthur knew he was going to have to swallow his pride soon and let the other man win or it would become painfully obvious to everyone that he was holding back.

A bell suddenly clanged and gradually the men finished their last exchange or exercise and then lowered their weapons, shaking out tired limbs. Chatting and talking, they moved to the sides, some handing off weapons to waiting servants while those without rank sat on benches to care for them on their own. Arthur's sparring opponent gave one last weary jab with his sword accompanied by an angry glare, then jerked out a small bow and retreated.

Left standing awkwardly alone in the center, Arthur let his blade drop, muscles twitching and jerking from exertion, and reached up to push his sweat-soaked hair from his eyes.

This was when Merlin would normally appear, loping up to grab his sword and offer his own however ignorant critique of the prince's performance that day.

But there was no Merlin.

And he highly doubted the weapon in his hands was his to freely keep.

As if his thoughts had somehow summoned him, Sir Einar approached across the field, a teenage boy following on his heals.

"Prince Arthur," the weathered knight greeted. "My squire Hiroc will take and care for your sword."

Reluctantly, Arthur held the weapon out by the hilt for the boy, feeling all the familiar helplessness return as the lad took it and rushed away.

"Merlin usually cares for my weapons," he said bluntly, but the knight simply ignored both the topic and the implied jab. Instead, he gestured for Arthur to walk with him.

"That was an excellent spar with Sir Fendrel," the older man said once they were inside one of the old, grand hallways. It was huge and empty, their footsteps echoing on the stone. "You showed much skill."

"Thank you," Arthur said, still guarded. And he knew he hadn't heard that knight's name quite right. Fendrel, not Wendell.

"Though, not as much skill as I remember witnessing in the forest several weeks ago," Sir Einar added, ceasing to walk and turning to pierce him with a knowing look.

Arthur's jaw dropped slightly as he stared at the man, his temper flaring.

All that work and worry, what to hide and what to let show, how much to give…and it had been for nothing? One day in and Sir Einar was already calling his bluff?

And suddenly, the senior knight laughed. A genuine sound that was so unexpected Arthur's flummoxed expression deepened.

"Don't worry, Your Highness, the secrets you are so desperate to keep are still safe with all but myself. But I have trained too many young men and survived too many battles to be so easily deceived."

Artur crossed his arms, finding he was embarrassed and angry at the same time.

"Your men – " Arthur started to say but Einar cut him off.

"You have agreed to the King's terms, my lord. In a matter of months, they will be your men, sire."

The embarrassment fled as anger won and the prince leaned forward, his face hardening. "Men I've met in battle. Men whose brothers and comrades I've killed."

"Men who are knights and warriors, just like yourself. Come, Prince Arthur, you know as well as I that men who must meet in battle are not necessarily enemies, but simply warriors for different kings."

"And you know as well as I, Einar," Arthur snapped the knight's words back at him, blood rising, "that I did not come willingly to this land and have not renounced loyalty to my king for another! You would have me give my skills and trust to the very men who keep me here!"

"A snow-blocked pass keeps you here, Arthur. All these men did was bring you – following orders they could not disobey."

Both men stared hard at one another for a long moment as the cold wind of the corridor chilled Arthur's sweat-soaked clothes and hair before the older knight stepped closer, his voice dropping low. "You have nowhere to go, my lord, and many long, cold months ahead. You can spend that time angry and fighting, or perhaps you can choose to open your eyes and use that intelligent mind I at least am well aware exists. If you do, you might find out that Tharennor has great need of you, Prince Arthur."

With righteous anger, Arthur drew himself up to his full height. "I am the Crown Prince of Camelot, Sir Einar, and I have given my heart and soul to my country and her people, in life and death. If you know me as well as you claim, you should know that without any doubt." Then, clenching his fists to keep the swell of confusing emotions at bay, he turned to walk away.

"You can have the boy attend you at training."

The older knight's voice stopped him short, the unexpected change of topic catching him off guard.

"What?" he asked, turning reluctantly back to gaze at Sir Einar who remained where he'd been a few paces down the corridor.

"The boy – your servant. You can request he serve you at training. I know you may not think it, but you are still a prince, Arthur, and all save the king himself must obey your commands. If you want him here, you simply have to request it."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the man who had the unnerving ability to pull his emotions back and forth like a child yanking on a toy. "Why are you telling me this?" he finally asked.

The old knight sighed, and for the first time Arthur glimpsed weariness and what might have been a small measure of regret. "You care for the boy." It wasn't a question, and once again Arthur kicked himself for giving that weapon to his enemies, but there was nothing to be done about it now. "You need to know exactly how much his life and safety depend upon you."

And without warning, something Arthur had been fighting for days broke loose.

"You think I haven't figured that out after you dragged him here in chains to be a slave?" He snapped, harsh and loud, headless of the way it echoed and anyone close might overhear. Suddenly all the feelings of helplessness and fury at his inability to keep his one true friend safe came spilling out. "After the king himself told me it's his head on the line if I don't play the part of good little prince? When every time he shows up at my chambers, he looks two feet closer to the grave!"

The force of his anger surprised both of them and the old knight actually took a step back, but Arthur found once he started, he couldn't stop.

"I'm trying to keep him alive! Trying to control my temper and not throttle this whole bloody country who think it's acceptable to treat anyone like this, let alone a boy that has barely seen nineteen summers! Trying not to add too much to his already insanely large work load! Trying to feed him with my own food since no one around here seems to think of giving him any! Your country has stripped him and beat him and worked him almost to death, so don't you dare deign to suggest I don't know how much Merlin's life depends on me! If you're so bloody worried about his survival, why don't you try doing something about it!"

Shaking from both cold and vivid fury, Arthur turned and stomped off before Sir Einar could even reply.

Later, after he'd found the knights' bathing rooms and some nameless servant he didn't know was pouring steaming water into a wooden tub, he was loath to admit that the tremors stemmed more from terror than from cold.

The things he had said – shouted for anyone to hear – were enough to get them both killed. Were enough to ruin all plans.

Still, as he scrubbed the filth of training off his body, he knew he would never, ever regret any of his heated words. He would do many things to try and keep them both alive in this blasted country, but pretend to accept what had been done to Merlin was not one of them.

00000

The laundry chamber was dark, dank, and cold – the heat of the last fourteen hours quickly leeched out by the chilled stone all around. Merlin shivered violently as he slowly dragged the small bucket of water to the corner. A single candle flickered where he'd left it on the floor, casting everything in deep shadows and reminding him that he was the last living soul in the massive room.

Or half-living, at least.

Sometimes lately, as his endless days passed in a haze of pain and humiliation, he wondered if he really was still alive. Maybe he'd died and been consigned to hell for all the lies he'd told, doomed to spend eternity in never-ending torment.

Except hell at least would be warm.

He fought back a deeply weary sigh.

All day the stone room had teemed with life - people shouting, steam billowing, things pounding and clanging - but now it was deserted, only the slave left behind without a thought to finish the work of cleaning up. So, with legs and arms that trembled from exhaustion and pain, he'd stored the tools, rolled the huge tubs to the side, turned the drying clothes, and now he could finally steal a few moments to care for himself.

Care. Merlin inwardly scoffed. Because scrubbing oneself in a frozen, dark corner from a bucket of cold water was the pinnacle of care.

The day had been a Great Wash – the quarterly day when more than just daily linens and clothing was washed - and all servants who could be spared were pressed into duty. For days, Merlin had been collecting the urine from the chamber pots he emptied each morning and pouring it into large jugs to cure. And now he had just spent the better part of twelve hours stomping up and down in a large tub full of it, working it through load after load of dirty clothes.

The light flickered, shadows dancing on the ceiling with his movements and, as they had done all day, his tired thoughts went wandering again, back to home.

Not Camelot – but Ealdor, his little village.

The Great Wash had been a staple of his childhood as well, though only once a year. When the snows finally melted and the air warmed enough to peel off the layers that had kept people alive through the cold, the village would gather in the square with every blanket, article of clothing, and all the linens that they owned. The big tubs would be rolled in, the fires lit, and together everyone would laugh and sing and celebrate another season survived as they worked. The children would take turns stomping the clothes in the fuller's tub filled with urine, squealing at the smell and taking bets to see who could invent the best stomping dance. Old Man Wilkins played his whistle, the women would gossip as they beat and scrubbed and rinsed and repeated it all, washing away the filth of winter to usher in the hope of spring. After the all linen and cloth was clean and drying in the bleaching field, and the children had rinsed the smell of days old urine off by a dunk in the stream, everyone would gather for a meal of pottage and rye bread.

His mother had made the best bread.

Mother made the best everything.

It all seemed a lifetime ago – Ealdor, laughter, people who loved him…

What would his mother think if she could see him now? See what had become of him, how low he'd sunk…

What he wouldn't give to be wrapped in her arms just one more time….

Which would never happen again.

Thoughts depressingly back in the present, Merlin kept one shaking hand on the wall for balance as he stepped clumsily out of his ragged trousers.

There'd been no singing and laughing as he'd worked today – at least not for him. The smelly task of stomping the linen, usually shared equally in Ealdor, had been happily left solely to the slave, hour after hour of it. Now the clothes and linens were clean, the room righted and the other servants off for a few hours of well-earned rest.

And I smell like a cesspit.

It was freezing and he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his corner for sleep, but there was no way he was going to arrive in Arthur's quarters in a few short hours smelling like a chamber pot. His self-worth was beaten nearly into nonexistence, but he still had enough pride left for that.

Keeping his death grip on the stones of the wall, he shucked off his tunic, grimacing as the motion pulled at his barely healed wounds. Then he slid down to sit on the damp floor and carefully unwound the bandages from his feet. Naked except for his smallclothes and shivering violently, he pulled the bucket over and proceeded to wash as quickly and thoroughly as he could. Once he finished, he picked up the rags he called clothes and washed them out, scrubbing the cloth against the edge of the bucket to try and remove as much of the smell as he could before ringing them out over the drain in the floor. It took everything he had to regain his feet, dump the bucket and stack it with the others. Finally, he gathered his wet clothes and bandages, the stub of a candle, and hobbled to the rag pile in the corner.

He stared at it for a few very cold minutes, warring with himself.

He could be punished, even killed, if caught.

Because wet clothes in winter all night long wouldn't hurt him at all…

Most likely, no one would notice…

Did he really even care if they did? Could they actually make his life any more miserable than it already was?

Screwing up his courage, he reached into the pile and dug around until he found another ugly, worn-out pair of breeches and a torn tunic, which he determinedly pulled out.

He'd spent a lot of time in the laundries lately, and he'd been watching. For the most part, the rag pile was untouched. Things were left there when considered beyond repairing, but no one kept an inventory or account of what was actually in it. A maid had cut her hand once and a cloth was snatched from it to stem the bleeding without thought. Midge grabbed a bit from the top to wipe his nose and no one scolded him.

Merlin had noticed that the rags the Steward had callously tossed at him that first day didn't look any different than several other pathetic tunics and trousers buried in the depths of the pile. Surely no one would notice if he took a spare set, so his could dry. And if he liberated a piece of that torn sheet to tear into strips and re-wrap his cracked and frozen feet.

Quickly, he pulled them on before he toppled over – heart pounding - and then sat on the floor and rewrapped his feet. Then he painfully stood again, gathered up his stubby candle and sodden bundle of clothes, and slipped out the door.

The corridors of the castle were dark and deserted – almost hostile – just like everything else in this hated kingdom. Shadows danced around every corner and Merlin swore he felt the eyes of dozens – living or dead he wasn't sure – boring into him as he scurried through them. It sent chills up the warlock's spine.

There was magic in this place. It was old and the living had mostly forgotten it, but the magic had not forgotten them. Nor had the dead. The collar kept his own magic prisoner, but he could still feel the remnants of power, wafting through the chilly walls, especially at night when the winds howled and the shadows danced.

And he was utterly helpless.

Just get back to your corner! he scolded himself, pushing himself faster. It was only a nest of unwanted rags in the corner of a storage alcove, but at least there he could see what was coming at him before it got there.

He hurried around one of the last corners and then suddenly his foot collided with a furry, unseen shape. Merlin grabbed the wall to keep from ending in a sprawled heap on the floor and literally bit back a scream.

On the floor, the little object limped over to the corner, letting out a chorus of pitiful mewls.

Not a ghost then.

Or a monster.

Or the Steward.

The boy calmed his breathing, then lowered the candle for a closer look.

A kitten!

Probably orange in the daylight, but right now it was just dirty, shivering, frightened and holding one paw up off the ground.

It looked pitiful, and Merlin's heart broke.

He knew exactly how it felt – to be hurt and forgotten, lost and kicked around, dirty and hungry and abandoned.

Slowly, so he didn't frighten it more, he eased himself to the ground and set the candle on the stone, then he reached out and carefully picked it up.

Shh, he soothed in his head as he brought its shaking body close to his chest. Shh. I won't hurt you. Softly, he stroked it over and over until the little cries and trembling ceased, replaced gradually by a tiny purr. Once he was sure it wouldn't bolt, he leaned closer to the light to examine its leg.

He was worried he'd hurt it when he almost stepped on it, but the bloody wound he found near the top of the leg looked at least a day old and couldn't have been caused by his bandaged feet.

Poor thing, he thought, wondering what had happened to it. The injury looked painful, but probably not life-threatening if it was cared for and kept clean. I know how this feels, too, little one, he whispered in his head, thinking of the wound on his own leg that had almost killed him on the journey to Tharennor, but had at last faded to be just another angry, red scar in his quickly growing collection.

Despite his weariness, Merlin's fingers were gentle as he took his still damp tunic and washed off the wound. The kitten's purr stopped, but it didn't start crying again, almost as though it knew he was trying to help. He washed the injury several times, then held it back into the candlelight.

"Good job, my boy. I'm glad something of my teaching has stuck between those overly large ears of yours."

Gaius and Arthur both in his head. Who was next? Gwen?

Merlin smiled.

That wouldn't be so bad.

Now, to bandage the kitten's leg somehow.

After a moment of helpless looking around, Merlin unwrapped the top part of the bandage on his left ankle, tearing off enough cloth for him to use. It left his shin and ankle exposed to the cold, but at least his cracked, aching feet were still somewhat protected.

Holding a squirming kitten while trying to dress its leg was much harder than Merlin expected and it took him several tries to get the little wrapping where he needed it and tie it tight enough to stay, but not enough to hurt the poor thing more. Finally, he held the tiny animal up so he could see its face.

You made that much harder than it needed to be, he scolded gently.

The kitten simply blinked.

And now what do I do with you?

He couldn't keep it. No matter how much he may want to, long for some living creature that didn't hate his very existence, he would never dream of trying. He didn't have enough food to keep himself alive; there was no way he could provide food for a kitten.

And he didn't even want to imagine the fate of the little beast if the Steward found out. Or his own fate for that matter.

No, keeping it was out of the question.

But he also couldn't just leave it there in the empty corridor while it was injured, to starve or get kicked around by the next person who came upon it.

Arthur.

Arthur would know what to do.

He'd keep the kitten just for one night and then sneak it to the prince in the morning, begging for his friend's help. Between the two of them they'd –

His thoughts broke off abruptly as he heard the sound of a door opening much too close to his location, followed by light footsteps.

"Meone!" a little voice called quietly. "Meone, where are you?"

Panic swept through him and he stuffed the little animal down his tunic, trying to grab up his bundle of wet clothes, climb to his feet, and snuff out his candle all at once. He only made it to his knees with the soaking clothes and was reaching for the flickering candle when the glow of another appeared at the end of the hall, held by a little girl.

"Oh, hello!" she whispered happily, waving at him a little shyly.

Merlin froze, eyes as wide as saucers, completely unsure what to do.

He was a slave, and the notion that he was Not To Be Seen had been very painfully beaten into his soul, but he'd also been expecting terror – loud voices and swift kicks – for daring to be out at night and instead here was a girl who couldn't have been more than six, dressed in a nightgown, fur cape and slippers, and not running away from him in horror.

"I'm looking for Meone," the girl went on, taking a few cautious steps forward. "What are you doing?"

His mouth dropped open and his brain ground to a halt, but the girl went on without waiting for the answer he could never give.

"He's very naughty and been missing for days and I want him back so much! He's orange and small and just a baby and he needs me, but I can't find him. I'm not supposed to look at night, but I was dreaming of him and the warm feeling Hilda doesn't like me to talk about woke me up. And so I was following the blue light even though it is a little scary and then I found you! Have you seen Meone?"

Merlin might still be frozen, head whirling from the girl's rush of words, but the little kitten in his tunic had no plans to stay motionless. It pushed its head up through the neck opening and shook it, looking around.

"MEONE!" the girl squealed and the sight of her lost kitten made whatever hesitancy she had about Merlin being a stranger in a dark corridor at night vanish. She rushed at him and tackled him with surprising force. With a thud, Merlin fell back on the stone floor on his rump as the girl snatched her kitten from his tunic and buried her face in its fur.

"You found him!"

The little girl plopped herself on the ground right next to him, set down her candle, and procced to hug her kitten tightly. From this close Merlin could see that her hair was dark under her nightcap, her nose upturned with just a smattering of freckles scattered across it on her pale skin. Her clothing was fine and warm, marking her of noble blood.

Exactly the kind of little girl he was most certainly not supposed to be seen by, let alone sitting with in a deserted corridor at night.

But somehow, he found himself unable to leave.

Abruptly, the girl held her kitten out in front of her, looking at it sternly.

"You are very naughty, Meone! Running away! No milk for - Oh! He's hurt!" Her little fingers gently brushed the bandage Merlin had applied as she once again held her kitty close. "Poor kitty," she cooed, rocking it slightly, her face sad and worried.

Merlin stared at her, transfixed. For weeks he had known nothing but cruelty and pain, seen nothing but evil. He had decided there was barely anything good in Tharennor, hardly anything worth saving.

The girl next to him was proof that was wrong.

At that moment, she seemed to remember that Merlin was sitting there. "Did you fix him?" she whispered.

In a daze, the boy nodded.

"Will he be okay?"

Merlin nodded again, more gently.

The little girl shifted her kitty to one side, then reached out with her other hand and grasped his raw, chapped one. Before he could pull away, she brought it to her forehead.

"Thank you, kind sir," she said very seriously, obviously imitating something she had seen the adults around her do. "Thank you for – " She halted as the back of his hand touched her skin, surprise in her dark eyes.

"Oh. OH!" she whispered fiercely, dropping his hand and scrambling to her knees, still clutching her little cat. She leaned close – her face excited. "You have it too! The warm goodness! What Hilda says not to talk about! I can feel it! You have – " she leaned over to whisper right in his ear – "the magic!"

Merlin's eyes widened in shock and he tugged his hand away, the spell that had him transfixed broken. He was a slave. She was a little noble girl. It was night and he had many, many chores in just a few short hours.

She had magic!

And she could feel his!

He needed to leave!

He started to clamber to his feet just as rushed footsteps sounded again, followed by a third pool of light and another, older girl.

"Luta!" she whispered angrily. "You are not to leave the nursery at night! What if Mother or Martha had seen you?"

Merlin's heart stopped.

He knew this girl! He'd seen her only once, but the moment was seared into his bank of horrible memories. She was one of the princesses! The younger sister of the one Arthur was forced to court!

He had been talking to one of the little princesses!

Oh, he was going to die! And it would probably be slow and painful! They would tell their father, and the mad king would stick his head on a pike!

He jerked to his knees and away from the little one, swiftly bowing his head.

The older girl, seeing him for the first time when he moved, stopped short in alarm as she subtly shifted her right hand behind her night robe, but the younger one didn't seem to notice.

"Hilda, I found Meone!" the little girl whispered rather loudly. "Well, he did. My new friend. And guess what? He has the magic!" she drastically lowered her voice for the last part, grinning at her sister. "Just like me and you! I felt it!"

Merlin risked a look up, his blood pounding in his ears as not only his life but his deepest secret lay in the hands of two little girls. The oldest – Hilda – met his eyes, her own wide with confusion, before she looked swiftly away.

"Luta, you must not speak such things! Come with me now!"

"But, he's my new –"

"Luta! Now!" Merlin swore he heard fear in her voice. And this time she didn't wait for her sister to obey, but marched over and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. She started to tug her off, Luta holding onto a squirming Meone, but suddenly stopped and turned back to Merlin.

"She's just a little girl. She doesn't know what she says."

She was trembling. And this time Merlin was certain. There was as much fear and desperation in the older girl's voice as he was feeling himself. He was the slave, yet she was scared of him.

"Please!"

Hesitantly, Merlin nodded, reaching up to gesture that their secret was safe with him. The young princess stared at him a moment more then, dragging her little sister who was still holding her kitten, turned and fled.

00000

Merlin lay in his corner, curled tightly to try and stay warm.

He should have been sleeping. The night was almost over and he needed rest. But he couldn't stop his mind from thinking, turning over and over the encounter from earlier as his stomach twisted up in knots.

He'd interacted with two of the young princesses.

Would they tell the king?

Would he rise to another horrific beating?

Would tomorrow become his last day on earth?

The little one might tell – she was only five or six after all. Children that age didn't always know what they were saying. She could easily say something on accident about her new "friend" that would put his life in jeopardy.

He didn't think the older one would, though. And she seemed to have taught her little sister the importance of certain secrets. Merlin hoped she would stress the life-or-death importance of keeping this one.

Which brought him back to the other topic his mind wouldn't let go of – two of Tharennor's princesses had magic!

He had no idea how much or how powerful they were, but there were others in the kingdom with magic. Magic that wasn't bound!

Could they help him?

Would they?

Should he tell Arthur what he'd found? This might be vital information that could make a difference in their escape. Arthur would more than scold him if he held back something this important.

But…he'd promised not to.

He'd seen the fear and desperation in Hilda's eyes. More than that, he knew that fear – had lived it for so long.

He opened his eyes to stare at the darkness around him, lost in painful memories.

No, he decided. No matter the cost, he couldn't tell their secret. It was a line he wouldn't cross, not even to save his own life.

Besides, if he was going to be spilling secrets to Arthur, shouldn't he start with his own?

He shifted his aching body on the hard floor, giving up on sleep and trying instead to just keep his temperature a little above freezing.

On the one hand he was terrified Arthur would find out his deepest secret while they were captive, while he was a slave. The prince was the only thing keeping him alive right now. It would break him if his friend found out and rejected him, turned him away, and he had no voice to even try and explain.

Honestly, he was a bit surprised no one had told Arthur. It obviously wasn't a secret to anyone in Tharennor that the collar stole his voice because it also stole his magic. The only thing he could think of was that it was such a non-secret that everyone just assumed Arthur already knew so there was nothing to tell. And they were all too busy tormenting his master with a million other things to worry about the fact his former servant had magic.

It was all one big, precarious rope they were walking and Merlin had no idea how long it would hold.

On the other hand, Merlin's magic was their best hope for getting out of Tharennor. Maybe if Arthur knew, he could help find a way out of the collar. And Merlin couldn't even express how much he wanted out of both the country and the collar.

He just didn't want it to happen because his best friend personally lopped off his head.

With a silent groan, Merlin gave up on sleep and dragged himself to his feet. He had more chores than he could possibly accomplish and he was warmer if he was moving anyway.

00000

The personal chambers of Lady Beornwynn sat directly off of Tharennor's royal archives, exactly where she wanted them. Unmarried and childless, the scrolls and tomes of the library were her life's work, and she had made preserving the history of her beloved country her mission years ago, when her brother had been king. It was still her mission, even if now that sometimes meant preserving its history from the current monarch. She'd loved her nephew in his youth, but he'd grown rash and arrogant, drunk on his own power.

Such thoughts were dangerous, though. Even for family.

Especially for family.

"Is there anything else, my lady?" her maid's voice broke into her musing and she looked up at the girl, realizing she'd been staring at the same page of the manuscript that she was reading for at least ten minutes.

She glanced around. The fire roared cheerfully in its grate, a warm cup of tea sat beside her on the table, and her bed was already turned down, a lump at the bottom where the warmer had been placed.

Thorough and efficient. Just as she expected.

She nodded with approval, giving the girl a small smile. "All is fine, Marianna. You can –"

A knock at the door abruptly cut her off.

Her maid gave her a startled look, asking with her eyes if she should answer, but Lady Beornwynn simply nodded, rising to her feet. The girl slipped out to the outer chamber, there were a few hushed whispers, and then she returned, a weathered knight following.

Lady Beornwynn's eyebrow rose.

"You may leave, Marianna," she said in dismissal. The girl curtsied and quickly obeyed.

"Einar," she finally greeted her guest coolly, leaning back against her table as she crossed her arms.

"Wynnie," he replied, his voice bringing back memories as he used the old nickname.

"Are you here to explain why you went along with Alfhild's insane plan?"

"No. And you know both why I did it, and that I had no choice."

She scoffed but didn't argue. "Well, if you aren't here to talk treason, why are you here?"

He laughed, a rare sound. The one she remembered from when they were young and he was married to her best friend with a little lad that toddled after his every step. "You never change, do you, Wynnie."

"And you have changed too much, Einar. Now, what do you want?"

He sobered, stepping closer. "I need a boon, my lady."

"A boon?" she said incredulously.

"Yes. There's someone who needs your help."