8. The Silent Language of Grief

Laugh, and the world laughs with you:
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own...

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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It didn't take long for Merlin's exhausted, shocked, and dehydrated body to run out of tears. He sniffed and scrubbed a grubby sleeve across his face and nose, trying to calm his breathing once more. After a moment, he stiffly shuffled around and discovered there was another cuff on his left ankle, a chain running off from it. A glance behind showed he was tethered to a tree, the same tree to which several of the horses were attached.

Keeping all their "possessions" likely to wander off in one place, he thought bitterly. With a silent sigh, he crawled slowly over to lean weakly back against the trunk.

He should sleep – he knew that. The man had told him the next day wouldn't be pleasant and nothing he'd said had been wrong yet, but Merlin found he couldn't. Not because he wasn't tired enough, but because…it was all just too much. His whole soul was filled with pain and loss and grief as he staggered from the triple blow. In one night he'd lost his magic, his voice, and his freedom, not to mention his home and his best friend. With all of that gone, Merlin wasn't even sure what was left – who he was anymore.

He was numb – on the inside and the out – and so he just sat there, staring with fuzzy eyes out across the camp to the far side where Arthur sat, tied to a tree of his own.

Why hadn't he just used magic to save them when he had the chance instead of waiting for the prince to be unconscious out of fear? He'd already been expecting punishment for a crime he did not commit…what was adding sorcery to the list going to hurt? At least Arthur would have been free, and Merlin thought he'd almost rather face the pyre than a life as a voiceless slave.

He'd been stupid – so stupid – just like always. Fear and uncertainty ruling his decisions and now he'd failed everyone.

He wondered if Arthur would miss him.

Probably not. The prince had been mulling over that punishment after all, for a servant he thought had turned out to be a thief. He would probably just be relieved that he no longer had to deal with the problem.

Merlin knew without a doubt that he would miss Arthur, though, and not just because the prince was supposed to be his destiny (a destiny that Merlin realized with another crushing blow he had now failed.) No, he would miss the man who had become his greatest friend, even if they could never admit it out loud or even to each other.

His thoughts swirled for a long time as he shivered against the tree. Vaguely, he noticed that Arthur didn't sleep either, and a small part of him wondered what kept the prince awake on this night. Arthur was trained to rest whenever he could in hostile situations. For a while, Merlin kept himself busy wondering what might be going through his friend's brain. Eventually, though, the cold, his injuries, and the sheer exhaustion of the whole ordeal became too much for Merlin to fight. He curled in a tight ball at the foot of the tree and allowed oblivion to take him away from it all for a few short hours.

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Merlin was awakened with a hard kick to the ribs, followed by someone yanking him to his feet by the chain connecting his wrists.

"Hey –!" he started to cry before his wits all returned and then he clutched at his head as daggers burst in his brain, though no sound came from his mouth.

The soldier who had roused him simply laughed as he released his ankle from its chain. "Fix breakfast," he ordered uncaringly, and shoved him toward the banked fire.

With watering eyes, Merlin did as he was told and prepared a simple breakfast from the supplies someone handed him, though none was offered to him to ease his own hunger. As he scurried around the enemy camp cleaning dishes, packing bedrolls, and trying to accomplish all of the commands that were thrown at him without earning a beating, he couldn't help watching Arthur again.

The prince was once more refusing to eat, and though it worried Merlin, he was also secretly quite proud. Whatever had made him so sad the night before hadn't broken his spirit. His master was nowhere near cowed if he was willing to be this stubborn and annoying, and Merlin was happy at least one of them could pester their captors with volleys of questions and chatter.

With wary self-preservation, Merlin also observed the enemy men. There were thirteen of them, though he could have sworn there were more that had surrounded them in that clearing before the skirmish. He soon discerned that the man who had spoken to him the night before, who he now recognized as the one who had dressed as the messenger and held a knife to his throat, was named Sir Einar. He was in charge. For the most part, duties and watches seemed to be shared equally among the other men, but four appeared to have been tasked to keep special watch over their prisoners – two for Arthur, and two for himself.

Merlin's guards didn't exactly introduce themselves, and he had no way to ask, so he gave them his own monikers until he could figure out their real names. His second guard, who seemed to act mostly as back-up for the first, was a squat fellow with dark hair and tanned skin. He walked with the gait of a man who had spent too many hours in the saddle so Merlin dubbed him "Bow-Legs."

His main guard, the overly kind and gentle chap who had awakened him with a kick and laughed at his pain, was harder to name. He didn't have moles or boils, his teeth were all there and alarmingly straight, and his skin was smooth with no convenient scars. In fact he was tall and dark and handsome. Outside fair, inside ugly and rotten. Merlin wracked his brain, but he was tired and hungry and his head still hurt, so in the end, the best name he could come up with for his favorite new friend was "Stupidly-Handsome."

Once he had the horses tacked and saddled – a job made infinitely more difficult with his hands connected by a chain, even if it was a little more than a foot in length – he was dragged over to his own mare by Stupidly-Handsome. There was drama going on with Arthur and Sir Einar and he tried to watch, but was soon distracted by his guard stooping to lash his feet together with a strand of rope. He grabbed for the saddle horn to keep his balance and opened his eyes wide in surprise.

"Slaves usually walk," the man said brusquely as he stood back up. He jerked Merlin's hands away from the saddle and pulled them down to his sides, beginning to wrap another length of rope around his waist without bothering to remove the set of chains. "But we need to cover ground today. Can't afford to be slowed down by you, and Sir Einar won't see you dragged, which is a pity."

The soldier tied off the rope and Merlin wobbled slightly, trussed up like a sausage. Then the man produced a vial of something and before Merlin could even blink, Stupidly-Handsome had grabbed his nose, forced his head back, and dumped it down his throat. The boy choked and sputtered on the foul liquid but had no choice but to swallow.

"You'll thank me for that before a few hours are up, boy," his captor laughed, then heaved Merlin up onto the horse and draped him across it on his stomach, not unlike a sack of grain.

The world was already starting to weave and shift as he felt himself secured to the horse with even more rope. By the time the man stepped away, his whole body had gone limp and boneless – he couldn't even twitch his toes.

It was the longest day of his life – to be fully aware of everything as the ground sped by below his dangling head but to be utterly helpless and unable to move or react.

The potion and horrible, out-of-control feeling had mostly worn off by the time the soldiers halted for the night. Still, that didn't stop him from stumbling over to the nearest bush as soon as someone cut him loose and vomiting harshly. Bow-Legs waited with impatience for him to finish, then ushered him without sympathy to the main camp.

His list of ordered chores was long that evening: dinner, dishes, tending to the horses, fetching water – under guard, of course… The potion had made him shaky, and that coupled with his utter exhaustion and natural clumsiness left him weaving and tripping like a drunken fool. Most of the men just found it entertaining, but a few took personal exception to his ungainliness – one of Arthur's guards, a very angry looking fellow, was the worst – and there were multiple bruises added to his other injuries before he was discarded with the horses for the night, his ankle once again secured to a tree.

Someone brought him food – more dry bread, water, and a little of the leftover stew he'd made himself, watered down. He ate gratefully, though slowly, afraid his unsettled stomach might rebel again. Hunger over-rode discomfort, though, and the food stayed down. He set the dishes aside and then drew his knees up to his chest, holding them close with chained hands while he hunched back against his tree.

Once again, his eyes sought out Arthur. The prince was oddly quiet that night, his complaints and ignored questions missing. On what Merlin could see of his face, the sorrow of the night before was written even more plainly. The shivering boy wondered why, and he wished he could call out to his master, ask him what was making him so sad. It wasn't like Arthur to show emotions, and certainly not while in a dangerous situation where he'd know projected strength could mean the difference between life or death.

He was grateful the soldiers seemed to be treating his friend well. They tried to feed him, didn't beat or hurt him, gave him a blanket against the cold. The warlock was rather jealous of that blanket, actually. The night was freezing, much colder than the one before, and he couldn't stop shivering in just his thin jacket.

As the camp grew quiet, a black cloak of hopelessness seemed to fall over Merlin as he sat there, cold and alone. He was so trapped. He was weak and defenseless and completely stuck. A single, metal chain that he would have laughed at before now had the power to keep him there at the mercy of enemy soldiers and unable to help his prince.

His thoughts turned to home and the two other people he loved more than anything: Gaius and his mother. Tears he had no power to stop again filled his red-rimmed eyes and gently trickled down his checks as he pictured their faces. He had the horrible, certain feeling that he would never see them again, never again be embraced in his mother's arms or hear Gaius call him 'his boy.'

Arthur would be saved – he had to believe that. He knew Uther would stop at nothing to retrieve his son. But no one would waste any efforts to find a servant carried off as a slave, especially one accused of being a thief. Until a few days ago, Arthur might have spent a little time searching for him but not now.

No, Merlin knew he would never see his home or family again.

He fought to keep his sobs silent, having no desire to experience the splitting pain of the collar that night, but he was just about to lose the war and give in to the blackness when he felt a gentle nudge on the top of his head. Surprised, he glanced up through watery vision, right into the soft, brown eyes of his mare. She nudged him again with the velvety skin of her nose, her eyes concerned, and Merlin lost it. With a shudder that shook his whole frame, he reached up and sank his hands into her mane, pulling her head across his shoulder and burying his face in her neck.

He cried and cried, until there was nothing left, while his horse stood still with unusual patience and let him hold her, rubbing her muzzle against his hair every once in a while or twisting to nibble on his ear. Finally, he was sucked dry and he pulled back, swiping a hand over his blotchy face and then reaching back to rub it gently across her neck and cheek. The rattle of his chains made her eyes large but she didn't shy away, allowing him to return the favor in gentle pats and scratches of her ears. After a few more minutes, she let out a whinny that ruffled his hair and then stepped aside, back to the company of her fellow horses.

Merlin let his hands drop down on top of his pulled up knees, lost in thought. The impenetrable walls of dark hopelessness still felt like they were closing their trap tighter and tighter around his broken and weary heart, but the precious moments of comfort, even from a horse, had reminded him of something else. He may never see his loved ones again, but he knew they would want him to survive, to not give in, and to fight to remember who he was – Merlin, a person who had value and was loved – not just a nameless slave. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done, but it was all he had left to give them. Everything else had been taken away. So he made a silent promise, deep inside his soul, that for Arthur (even though he may not care anymore), for Gaius, and for his mother, he would continue to fight for life as long as he possibly could. Then, thoroughly exhausted, Merlin threw one last protective glance across the camp at his prince before he sank to his side on the hard ground and slept.

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The next day was even worse than the one before. The pattern was the same – made to work, given no breakfast – but he was chilled and so sore from the horrible ride and his nights on the ground that he could barely move. He was also sure the gash on his leg was infected. Still, it wasn't until he was pulled over to his saddled horse that he baulked for the first time, struggling madly against Stupidly-Handsome's grip. He never wanted to feel the suffocating helplessness caused by that horrible potion again!

His efforts were in vain. It only took Bow-Legs stepping up to help hold him still and he was restrained and forced to swallow the vile liquid or choke.

"That was a dumb move," Stupidly-Handsome whispered, throwing his trussed up and increasingly limp body to the ground. The guard toed him until he was stomach-side down, twisting the rest of the rope carelessly in his hands. "You just earned yourself a demonstration of what happens to slaves who don't like to obey."

He stepped back and then cracked the end of the rope down against Merlin's back like a whip. The boy was completely immobile, unable to cringe or tense up or even cry out, but he felt the stinging pain of every blow as his guard brought the rope down fourteen more times across his back and his bottom and his legs. He knew the smarting hits would leave spectacular welts and bruises all up and down his body.

After the fifteenth swing, Bow-Legs and Stupidly-Handsome hoisted him up and tossed him over his horse. They lashed him in place with all the thought and care of a saddle bag, giving no consideration to how the ropes might be digging into his now tender flesh.

Bow-Legs smacked him hard on the back and then stooped to where his face dangled over the side of the animal. "Enjoy your ride," he said sweetly, then walked away laughing with his fellow guard.

They traveled until he was sure he couldn't bear it any longer, and then kept going on, the hooves of his horse tearing up the leagues that took him farther and farther from home. When they finally stopped, he felt like everything inside of him had been turned to pudding and his nerves had been flayed one by one.

He almost couldn't walk when he was set free, his body was so stiff and sore, and he clung to the side of his horse for several minutes, willing everything to start working again. He managed not to throw up this time, but he was so close to breaking down emotionally and mentally… It wasn't enough for them to take away his freedom and his ability to use his voice and his magic? No, they had to take away even his control over his own body?

He was angry and shaking and just wanted to sit down and scream, but of course he couldn't.

"Come on, boy," Stupidly-Handsome growled, giving him a shove. "There's work to do."

Of course there's work to do, Merlin thought bitterly. There's always work to do.

He allowed himself to be pushed and shoved and semi-dragged across the camp as he fought to regain control of his own gangly limbs. To his surprise, however, he found he wasn't the only doing the work that night. He was taken over to the back of a wagon he was sure hadn't been with them before, and a group of busy people he knew instantly from experience were servants.

Apparently he'd been so out of it he hadn't even noticed they'd met up with a larger group and more supplies.

If he thought the servants would be more sympathetic to him than the soldiers had been, he was completely wrong. There were three of them: one adult man, one boy in his mid-teens, and an older woman. The woman ignored him, as if he wasn't worth her notice, but the men gave contemptuous sneers, their eyes roaming up and down him as though he were a disgusting piece of dung beneath their feet.

"Make good use of him," Stupidly-Handsome said flippantly. "He has yet to learn his place." The soldier gave Merlin one more shove for good measure as he left, sending him crashing into the side of the wagon, his manacles clanking as if to shout to the universe, Look, here is a pitiful slave!

"That right, eh?" the older male servant drawled, a calculating look on his face that made Merlin very nervous.

"Well, ain't that my lucky day!" the teen hooted, and shoved two metal pails and a half dozen water skins into Merlin's trembling arms. "Now you can freeze yer fingers off an' git the water."

Merlin shuffled, and juggled, and dropped the lot in the dirt. It took him three tries to get it all back in his chained hands while the boy snorted in open laughter and the other two just glared. Finally situated, he glanced around, not sure where to go.

"Over there," the woman said impatiently, pointing down behind the horses. "An' don't take all day."

He wondered if he was allowed to leave the camp without one of his guards, but decided taking the time to try and make someone understand his question would bring just as much punishment as leaving the camp alone.

Injured leg and recent bruises throbbing, Merlin made his way stiffly down the steep slope to the water and then just stood there for a moment, contemplating his options. It was a good-sized river that rushed through the forest, tumbling over rocks and logs, water churned white from the motion. It looked cold as ice. Even on a good day taking a tumble into the water would have been a risk for him, and this had been anything but a good day. He had no desire to die that night of exposure to the cold, nor did he want to get washed downstream and drown in chains.

He finally found a spot where the water shallowed slightly, its speed slowed by a small turn, and he was able to approach. His feet and hands would be soaked and frozen, there was no way around it, but hopefully he could keep the rest of him dry.

It was all he could do to hold back an audible gasp as he stepped into the crystal-clear water and then lowered the first water skin under its surface. It felt like mere seconds before his hands and feet had gone numb.

Soon his mind had as well as he worked at the thankless chore. Back up the hill with part of his load, back down for more. Up, back, up, back... Water for cooking, water for dishes. Water for the soldiers who had decided they just had to have a wash. One full bucket for each of the horses because the slope had been deemed too treacherous to risk their legs on. Merlin's lungs burned and his abused body trembled from exertion, which coupled with his hunger and exhaustion threatened to send him head-over-heels down the hill at any moment. He gritted his teeth and kept going through sheer stubbornness alone, because he had no other choice.

His last trip to the river ended in a painful heap as he lost his footing about halfway and slid the rest of the steps down. He lay on his back, breathing hard and silently cursing everyone and everything, until he noticed the white plant right over him.

Yarrow, he heard Gaius' voice inside his head. Good for fighting infected wounds.

It was a miracle it hadn't frozen yet, this late into autumn. His silent murmurs ceased, and he sat up slowly, gazing at the darkening sky with narrowed eyes.

Was there perhaps something out there, still watching over him?

Sending up a voiceless thanks to whichever deity watched over hapless slaves, he climbed to his aching feet and gathered as much of the herb as he could. Then, in his first act of open rebellion, he limped up to the river and took a moment to care for himself.

First, he drank his fill, letting the sweet, clear water quench the powerful thirst he'd been fighting for almost three days. Then he hastily pulled down his trousers and examined the wound on his right thigh. It wasn't long, but it was deep and as he'd suspected, highly infected. It oozed discolored puss, the skin around it tight and hot to the touch, red streaks shooting off in different directions around his leg.

This is bad, my boy, very bad… he heard Gaius' voice once more and he couldn't help snapping an annoyed but silent, I know! back.

And great, now you're talking to yourself in your head.

He forced himself to focus.

Scooping water from the river, he washed the wound until it ran clear, then tore a strip from the bottom of his tunic. For the best results, the yarrow should be ground into a paste and applied as a poultice, but that wasn't an option for him. Using two rocks, he chopped it as fine as possible and then packed it around the gash before winding his makeshift bandage around and tying it off.

He'd taken far too long on this trip, he knew it. He hastily fixed his trousers and stuffed his pockets with the rest of the yarrow for later, then washed his frozen hands and filled the two buckets before practically running back up the hill to the camp.

Stinging whaps to the head and the hands with the handle of a wooden spoon were his greeting when he set the full buckets down by the wagon.

"Ya got anything 'tween those stupid ears of yorn, boy?" the woman shouted. "Be quick beyond yer ken?"

She struck him one more time across his ear, then stormed off with the the buckets to the fire, leaving Merlin alone with the older male servant.

"Go help Hab gather stones fer th' fire," the man ordered, pointing to the clearing on the other side of the camp.

Merlin just looked at him in confusion, nursing his ringing ear and bleeding knuckles.

"Stones! Ta heat in th' fire! Ta warm the soldiers' bedrolls tanight!" The man grabbed his chained hands and dragged him stumbling through the camp. "Worthless waste a bones and breath!" he cursed, stopping at the halfway point and pushing Merlin forward hard. "Don' come back 'til the sack's full!"

Hab was delighted to have help, promptly slinging the burlap sack onto Merlin's already bruised back and forcing him to trudge around the clearing after him while the bag grew heavier and heavier from the weight of the stones the boy tossed inside, making sure each one bounced off Merlin on the way down.

Finally, when it was too dark to see anyway, the sack was full. Bent double from the load, Merlin practically stumbled back into the light of the camp and up to the largest fire, letting the sack flop down with a tumbling thud a safe distance from the sparks. He trembled and closed his eyes, willing himself not to collapse, before sighing and getting back to work.

At least this job is warm, he thought as he tossed the rocks around the edges of the flames, using a long stick he'd found to turn them about. Pausing, he stretched out his hands that were red and raw from all the time in the water, letting a little warmth seep back in. He was just about to sit on his rump and stick out his feet, hoping to dry his boots before he was chained up for the night, when one of Arthur's guards suddenly stomped up and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

Merlin clamped his lips tight to keep back a startled yelp, and scrambled to get his legs under him as he was dragged off without a word. His eyes widened when he realized where they were going.

The man was furious and he tossed Merlin onto Arthur's feet with a growl. Hastily, the boy scrambled back, not sure if Arthur would appreciate him touching him or not.

"Get this idiot of a prince to eat or I will take it out on your own hide!" the angry man yelled at him, then threw a few pieces of bread their direction, set down a water skin and a bowl of stew with so much force it almost slopped over the side, and left.

A little shocked to suddenly be thrown right at his friend after days of being kept apart, Merlin gathered up the pieces of bread, brushing the dirt from them before setting them carefully aside. He tried to keep his chains from clanking, not wanting his master to know what a sorry state he was in, but from the frown that settled on Arthur's face, he was pretty sure he wasn't successful.

Merlin picked up the water skin, one of those he'd filled, and then just held it for a moment, able to see his master up close for the first time since they were captured.

The prince had a nasty bruise across his face, was dirty and stiff, and Merlin knew how much he had to be absolutely hating the blindfold, but otherwise he seemed fine. The boy let out a little breath of relief.

"What's your name?" Arthur asked suddenly, breaking the stillness with a quiet voice.

Merlin's heart skidded to a stop.

Arthur didn't know it was him!

Not at all sure how to react, Merlin moved on instinct, bringing the water to Arthur's lips with trembling hands. As he worked, giving his friend water but not too fast after the prince's self-imposed fast, his thoughts swam.

Arthur didn't know who was helping him. And he had no way of telling him the truth.

Perhaps that was a good thing? Perhaps Arthur was glad to be rid of him and wouldn't want to know he was still around.

In turmoil, Merlin put the water away and picked up the food. Arthur spoke to him again but he barely noticed the words, too torn up about what he should do.

Arthur ate the stew, and the bread, and drank the rest of the water Merlin offered, unware of his servant's racing thoughts.

"Thank you," the prince finally said with compassion, and that was all it took. Arthur might not need him anymore, but Merlin desperately need Arthur, needed a kind voice and a friendly face in this nightmare.

Without thinking, Merlin reached out and brushed his fingers across the dark bruise on his friend's face, hating that it was there. Beside him, Arthur suddenly stiffened, as if holding his breath, and Merlin had a sudden idea. He grasp the dirty collar of the other man's shirt and pulled it straight, smoothing it down, just like he did every single day as he helped the prince dress.

Arthur swallowed, his chin trembling ever so slightly, before finally croaking out "Merlin?"

Merlin's heart soared! The grin that filled his face threatened to split it from ear to ear as he rolled off his sore knees and allowed himself to collapse on the dirt next to his friend. He gave a little bump to the prince's shoulder, even though Arthur was bound fast to a tree and unable to move, knowing the young man would recognize the simple gesture of friendship they had shared dozens of times.

Arthur suddenly began to babble, words that were almost sobs gushing out. "I thought…! They said…They told me you were dead, Merlin! I thought I had lost you! I thought I got you killed!"

As he listened, Merlin's face was a contradiction of emotions. Tears carved tracks through the dirt at hearing the guilt and sadness his friend had suffered, but his grin refused to leave because he realized the sorrow Arthur had felt for the past two nights had been for him! His friend thought he was gone and had missed him. Despite everything, Arthur still cared for him!

Wishing with all his heart he could answer, could speak to Arthur and assure him he was indeed still there, Merlin settled for giving him another shoulder bump and then leaned up against him, soaking in the feeling of not being alone.

Arthur laughed and teased him about being too stubborn to let himself get killed, and all felt right with the world, until his friend's smile suddenly slid off his face.

"What have they done to you? Why won't you speak to me? Have they hurt you?" the prince suddenly demanded, and Merlin sighed. Oh, Arthur, he thought, even if I had a way to tell you, I couldn't explain without breaking your heart with another betrayal. Sadly, Merlin patted Arthur's knee, then glanced back out at the enemy camp.

The fires were dying slightly and he had a pile of hot rocks to return to. He shuddered, arching his spine - the consequences for not finishing his tasks would be painful. Reluctantly, he pulled away from his friend and back to his knees to gather up the dishes, which he probably also still had to wash.

"Merlin, wait?"

He stopped at Arthur's voice, gaze returning to his friend.

"I found the cloak-pin, stuck in the hem of the wool."

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Merlin froze.

"You didn't steal it," Arthur continued desperately, "of course you didn't! I should have believed you and listened to you, but more importantly, I should have simply known that you would never steal from me. I dragged you out on that blasted hunt so I could make things right with you, but I'm an arrogant prat, as you like to say, and kept tripping over the words in my head. I should have told you the moment we were a league outside of the city instead of letting you stew while I fought with my pride."

Merlin found it hard to breathe, hope and relief and a million other emotions he couldn't even identify welling up inside of him. He shook all over and as Arthur continued on, he clenched his fists, as if hardly daring to believe what he was hearing.

"I've spent the last two days believing you were dead, believing you had died and I'd never made things right between us! Merlin, I'm sorry, for everything. More sorry than you can know. I behaved abominably and I hope you can forgive me."

Something released inside of Merlin, an awful tension that had been building for days, and he launched himself at his friend, not even caring about Arthur's aversion to touching and hugs and girlish feelings. The manacles prevented him from wrapping his arms around the prince the way he wanted to, but he could still grip his shoulders tight and bury his face against his friend's chest.

"What are you doing?" the angry voice of Stupidly-Handsome suddenly shouted. "Get away from him, you brat!"

Merlin cringed, knowing more bruises were on the way, but before he could pull himself back from Arthur the soldier did it for him, yanking him away with a force that almost gave him whiplash. A backhand sent him to the ground as Arthur started to yell, but Merlin's poor, battered head was ringing too strongly to follow what his friend was demanding, or what the soldier said back.

It didn't matter, though. Not the ringing or the bruises or the way he was dragged off and dumped back to finish his chores, after another quick beating of course… Not his burned and blistered hands as he pulled the hot rocks from the fire and wrapped them in cloth to ensure the people who had enslaved him slept comfortably that night… Not the dishes he scrubbed, licking the pots and bowls when no one was looking because apparently touching a prince earned a slave no dinner for the night… Not even the cold the seeped into his bones as he once again huddled against a tree like one of the livestock… None of it mattered, because things were right between Arthur and him again. His heart was warm and mended, so he could endure.

Author's Note: I am having the time of my life reading the responses and reactions to this little story of mine, so thank you very much and I hope you'll continue to let me know what you think.

Once again, this chapter was pushed and prodded and whipped into shape by the careful help and assistance of the marvelous M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ing and Smuffly. Thank you!