This chapter is dedicated to M1ssUnd3erst4nd1ng, who gave me the ultimate fanfic comment when she said, "You're awful! I love you!" Thanks, my friend!

5. A Hollow Silence and an Aching Heart

The quiet sense of something lost.
- Alfred Tennyson

00000

Arthur didn't sleep.

Gradually, darkness swallowed the camp but it made no difference to him, blindfolded as he was. The sounds of the soldiers stilled as men retired to blankets for rest, someone even going so far as to throw one carelessly over him, and the noises of a forest at night crept in to fill the void.

Two soldiers remained on guard, however, one to patrol the perimeter and one just to watch Arthur. He heard them moving, shifting softly, and occasionally he caught the sound of clinking metal – armor or chainmail he supposed.

These men were definitely not the overconfident, drunken, and foolish bandits he was used to encountering. No, they were well-trained and sufficiently paranoid – not willing to take any chances with their captive.

He sat there shivering on the cold, damp ground that sucked all warmth from his skin for hours, his hands and legs gone numb ages before, but that was nothing compared to the numbness inside his heart.

Merlin was dead.

His clumsy, idiotic, loyal and brave ser – no friend – with the gargantuan ears and dopey smile was dead.

Around him leaves rustled. An owl hooted peacefully while a small stream trickled quietly nearby and his own heart beat steadily in his chest. He heard all these things, but couldn't understand them anymore than he could process those words that kept running through his head. How could life go on, so normal and calm about him, while Merlin was dead?

It was wrong.

And it wasn't fair.

Of course, it was possible the solider had been lying to him, taking advantage of his blocked sight and helpless state. In the first hour he'd clung to that hope, that Merlin might not really be dead, but it hadn't taken him long to discard it. Merlin was loud, stubborn, and horrible at following orders. Like a bull amongst the china. There was no way Arthur wouldn't have heard him getting himself into at least a little trouble by now if he were being held in the camp.

The smart, strategic course of action for the men to have followed would have been to keep the boy alive – insurance of Arthur's continued cooperation. Why would they tell him he was dead and lose that bargaining chip in their arsenal if it weren't true?

Besides, he had heard real sorrow lurking just below the anger in the stranger's words. The man was not inventing the loss of a brother.

The horrible, soul-ripping pain of losing a brother - Arthur now knew with awful clarity how he felt.

Merlin should not have died.

But he certainly should not have died like that.

He'd died believing Arthur thought him a thief.

He'd died quiet and respectful, afraid of a punishment he did not deserve!

He'd died thinking he had lost his friend.

And Arthur could have prevented all of it – the worry, the fear, the death! Pride made him wait to apologize and make things right. Pride pushed him to fight rather than surrender even though he knew it was hopeless. Pride even led him to assume his word as a prince was enough to protect his friend's life.

That same pride had crumbled now, in the face of his aching grief, leaving him hollow and cold. It was a fair-weather friend that was gone at the first shattering blow.

And yet, it was also all he had left, that pride, all that kept him sitting upright and the tears at bay. He would wrap it tightly around him like a cloak, use it as a buffer and a shield, be the prince he needed to be in order to survive, for the sake of his kingdom.

But Merlin was still gone – dead – a young life so uselessly taken – and no amount of projected pride could ever fill the hollow emptiness that now sat in his heart.

00000

Arthur must have dozed off at some point during the night because he was roused in the morning from a sleep he didn't remember falling into by a different stranger.

"What do you want with me?" he tried to ask again, his voice rough. "What is your goal?"

The soldier didn't answer, just tried to feed him food and drink once more. Arthur's stomach rumbled with hunger, but again he turned his face to the side and clamped his lips shut.

If they wouldn't answer his simple questions, he wasn't going to eat their wretched food.

The man gave up after a few more tries, and the food disappeared. Arthur then felt the ropes that held him back against the tree loosen, and a few seconds later he was dragged to his feet.

It was all he could do to stay upright and not collapse back to his knees, his legs frozen and dead after all night sitting on the cold ground. He locked his knees and gritted his teeth against the pins and needles as the blood flowed back, grateful that the man holding his elbow in a tight grip allowed him a moment before forcing him to move forward.

He was led only a few steps to the side then stopped again, and his instincts told him there was something large and warm and alive right beside him. A horse, he was sure of it.

"Your Highness," a voice greeted him casually. Arthur instantly placed it as belonging to the leader of this group, the one who had been impersonating the messenger yesterday.

"Sir Einar," he replied coolly as he recalled the name the stranger had dropped last night, proving he was still very much on his guard and aware of his surroundings, despite his current handicaps.

"You're going to lift your foot and let it be guided to a stirrup, then help get yourself into the saddle, where you will be tied for the rest of the day."

"Where are we going?" he demanded.

No answer, even when he let the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke again. "I will not climb onto the back of any horse until you at least tell me where we are going."

"Get on the horse," the man said, ignoring his commands and urging him forward with a slight shove.

Throwing his shoulders back as best as he could with his hands still bound painfully behind him, Arthur dug in his heels and refused.

The man sighed. "Get on the horse of your own accord, or I'll knock you unconscious again and drape you over it. And I'll do it every day until our journey ends if I have to. I won't enjoy it, but I am a knight, Prince Arthur. I swore an oath to my lord that I would follow his commands and I will not break it. I'm sure that's something you understand."

He paused for just a moment while Arthur still stood there stubbornly, weighing his options.

"We will be traveling for many days, Your Majesty," the man continued. "How many hits round the head do you think it will take before the damage is permanent? An addlepated prince won't make a bit of difference to our king – might even make things easier."

Arthur let his shoulders sag. His pride and rebellion wasn't worth ending up a simpleton or a fool. If he were being forced to defend and keep Camelot's secrets – perhaps – but for the sake of not getting on the back of a horse?

"Fine," he ground out between clenched teeth and let himself be pushed and shoved up into the saddle.

They lashed his legs to the stirrups and wrapped a rope several times around his torso that was fixed to the saddle horn. Someone else had control of the reins. He was immobile and going nowhere of his own volition.

The impotence of it all stung greatly.

They set a brisk pace and Arthur hated it. Hated the feeling of being strapped to a powerful animal with no freedom of movement or control. Hated the feeling of flying through nothingness, a great rushing, dark void. Hated that he couldn't even allow himself the comfort of escaping inside his own head to endure, because the moment he did one thought swam forward – Merlin – and the soul-crushing emptiness of that one word was a million times worse than the black reality around him.

00000

Hours passed.

Eventually, the pain of his swollen wrists and hungry belly, plus the growing ache in his head, grounded Arthur back in the present. He reluctantly set aside his grief as a friend and forced himself to slip back into his training as a knight.

What did he know?

What could he assume?

What could he do?

The last question was easy – nothing. At least, very little other than be as stubborn, annoying and rebellious as possible without getting himself horribly damaged.

A pang of hurt shot through him as he realized that was a very "Merlin" sort of plan. Sighing sadly, he pushed that thought gently away.

What he knew was a bit more complicated. He knew he was greatly confused and angry, but he forced himself to search below that, really turn over and examine every sliver of information he'd been given.

He was being taken somewhere, apparently far away, on the orders of another king.

He'd heard no talk of a ransom, so this was not about wealth or money, at least not in the most obvious way.

The leader of the soldiers – Sir Einar – had donned a disguise and come straight to the heart of Camelot for some reason, but had left after seeing Arthur ride out.

Sir Einar knew of Arthur, of his personality, of his reputation as a knight and warrior. They were taking no chances with him, not letting their guard down. That meant that this whole kidnapping had been carefully planned, and probably for a long time.

They'd tried to feed him and offer him drink, given him a blanket for the night. Threats of violence were only in retaliation for things he did, not because he was helpless and at their mercy.

This meant he was to be delivered to wherever they were going alive and relatively unharmed.

All of these clues he'd been able to piece together led him to make a few assumptions.

Someone was plotting against Camelot, and he was somehow central to that plan, but it was not a hasty plan. His fears of leaving behind a city under attack or siege were probably false, at least for now. He was sure that would happen eventually, but it gave his mind and heart a small measure of relief to think his kingdom and his people were safe for the moment. A slow plan would at least allow him time to do everything he could to thwart it.

What this would do to his father, though…

Arthur was loath to admit it, even silently in his own head, but the king was teetering close to the edge. Morgana's disappearance had broken something inside of his father – every once in a while Arthur would see a flash of something almost like insanity gleaming in his eyes. It frightened him.

What would he do when he realized his son and heir was missing as well? Would it be enough to push him over the precipice he was dangling on into full madness?

He could only hope that the strength and determination - the fortitude that he'd always admired in his father – would be able to keep the darkness at bay. Pray that the force that made him a great king would let him hold onto his sanity.

00000

The second night as a prisoner was much worse than the first. He was stiff and sore from an awful day in the saddle and that was before they pushed him to the hard, cold ground and tied him to a tree. He'd long ago lost any sense of feeling in his bound hands, and he was so sick of the blindfold and never ending darkness it took all of his determination not to scream.

There was more than a little fear swirling around in his gut, though he hoped it wasn't showing on the outside. Fear for where he was being taken and what would be done to him there. Fear that he wouldn't be able to withstand whatever was coming and would fail his kingdom and his father. Fear that it would hurt, oh so very much.

Trying to ignore the growing unease, he once again asked and shouted questions, commanding answers and information, anything! But he was soundly ignored. He couldn't even goad someone into snapping and shouting back at him. Arthur cursed the soldiers' excellent training.

His stomach gnawed with hunger, but he again refused to be fed. It was a plan he knew he'd have to abandon eventually, but for now his shredded dignity demanded he at least try.

The camp fell into the silence of night and Arthur huddled miserably in the blanket they'd wrapped around him, grief filling his heart. The night before it had been tempered with shock, his mind not yet quite ready to accept reality, but tonight the shock was gone, leaving behind a gaping hole in his heart that filled and overflowed with anguish.

The truth was very simple: he missed Merlin.

He missed his endless, pointless babbling. He missed his stupid jokes and insults. He missed his stubborn loyalty and refusal to obey orders.

He missed his friend.

Sorrow and guilt clawed at him like a hungry beast, tearing up his insides and pushing moisture to the corners of his covered eyes.

Arthur had lost men before. Brothers-in-arms that he'd trained, fought beside, and held as they died. Soldiers he'd ordered to their deaths with carefully masked anguish in his heart. But nothing had ever made him hurt as he did now, grieving over a simple serving boy who had wormed his way beneath a prince's pride and stubbornly became his closest friend.

He remembered telling Merlin not too long ago that no man was worth his tears.

He knew now that statement was horribly wrong. His friend was worth his grief and sorrow and tears, and so much more that Arthur would never be able to give him.

Leaning his head back against the tree, Arthur let his tears fall, his blindfold growing damp before he finally dropped into a haunted sleep.