9. Whispers of Acceptance

"The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived."

- Robert Jordan

00000

Morning dawned bright and very cold. Stupidly-Handsome woke Merlin in his normal, gentle manner and set him to work once he was released from his tether.

The other servants were in charge of breakfast that morning, and Merlin was highly jealous of them as he staggered into camp with more buckets of water for the horses, because cooking meant fire and fire meant warmth. And food. His painfully empty stomach gave a loud growl, and he forced himself to turn away, back down the slope for another trip. He knew the routine well enough by this point to know slaves were given one meal a day, if they earned it, and he refused to let the bullying servants see his longing – he still had too much pride for that.

On his final trip to the river, he stole five minutes to again check his wounded leg. Though still horribly sore, it oozed less pus and the red streaks of infection had retreated slightly. He washed it thoroughly once more, packed it with new yarrow, and then bound it again with the improvised bandage, trying to wrap the cloth in such a way as to cover the wound with a clean section. It was the only bandage he had and he had no time to wash it.

It would have to be enough.

The camp was bustling that morning and he was afraid his longer absence would be noticed and met with more blows, but no one said anything as he crested the hill with the last pails of water. Sir Einar was anxious to get on the trail and everyone was working for once. Hab and the other male servant tended the horses, Arthur's guards were giving the smarting prince his breakfast, and several of the other soldiers were packing and arranging the two wagons for the road.

Merlin moved around the doused fires, gathering and folding bedrolls. When he brought the last stack over to one of the wagons, he dragged along his sack of now-cooled rocks. If the soldiers were going to insist he heat stones to warm their beds each night, there was no way he was gathering a new lot at each different camp. He hefted the clattering bag onto the wagon tongue and then glared defiantly at the soldier who was packing – a red-haired fellow who whistled while he worked – daring the man to tell him the pile had to be left behind.

The soldier glanced at the heavy sack, then at Merlin's face, and then burst out laughing.

"You've got guts, lad, that's for sure," he said with a wink as he took the heavy burlap sack, still laughing. "I think we can find room for this. It can be our secret."

Merlin smiled back, soaking up the laugh and kindness that had become so rare in his now bleak life.

As he scurried around, following the last minute orders that were barked at him from many directions, he dreaded breaking camp. The potion, the feeling of being trapped in his own unresponsive body, the humiliation of hanging over his horse like a sack…

The wagons packed, Arthur was hoisted back into his saddle, restrained and blindfolded as usual, though Merlin noted with gratitude that someone tied a warm cloak around his neck.

Good! It was cold today!

Stupidly-Handsome collected him and brought him over to his mare – she'd been roped to the back of the last wagon – and Merlin's shoulders drooped, prepared to simply endure. His guard didn't stoop to tie his ankles, though, instead reaching for another length of rope that hung from the back of the wagon and fastening it to the chain between his wrists.

Apparently, with the extra men, and the servants, and the wagons which would slow their travel considerably, they were following through on their conviction that slaves should walk.

"You're gonna be wishing you were still riding before midday," Stupidly-Handsome said, tugging on the rope to make sure the knots were secured.

I highly doubt that, Merlin spat back inside his head, though a steady refusal to lower his eyes was the only outward sign of his sass. His guard growled, cuffed him about the head, and walked off.

He was tired and everything was exceedingly sore – his injured leg left him limping before they'd gone more than a few hours – but he'd take walking over the enemy's version of riding any time. For one, it kept his blood flowing on a day that refused to gain any warmth, but just the ability to control his own body and watch the world right-side up helped restore his shattered dignity just a bit. Besides, it was much easier to keep an eye on Arthur like this. The pace was doable – eventually the constant motion even worked out some of his stiffness - and if he kept close to the end of the wagon he found he could avoid most of the kicked up dust and grit, so he tried to ignore his aching feet and leg and instead be grateful for small favors.

Still, that didn't mean that he was enjoying himself. He was chained up as a slave to the back of the enemy's cargo, lugged along like property, as Arthur rode ahead of him – blindfolded and bound – a captive pawn in some horrible plan.

It made Merlin want to scream, except he couldn't even do that anymore! Which, besides the loss of his magic, was what he felt most keenly. He was not naturally a quiet person; he never argued when Arthur accused him of yammering on about nothing – he just liked to talk. And now, to go the rest of his life without speaking, without saying anything? To live with no way to communicate except by going to great lengths, when surrounded by people who would never bother to understand anyway? He felt like sitting down in the dirt and curling up in despair, even knowing that would just lead to him being dragged.

Except, that also wasn't who Merlin was. He might not be a naturally quiet person, but he was also not inclined to be a quitter either. If he was, he wouldn't have lasted more than a week as Arthur's servant. It was that tenacity coupled with the silent vow made to his absent loved ones that first horrible night that kept him stubbornly putting one foot in front of another.

Stay alive. Fight for survival. Don't give up. Pay attention. Find some way to get Arthur to safety.

The thoughts ran through his head as his feet stumbled through the miles, a kind of self-imposed mantra to keep himself going.

Because, while his captors had stripped him of so much, they hadn't taken everything. He could still look around, still think, still observe – much better, in fact, than even Arthur could right now. A lifetime of having to live wary of others and two years of trying to keep a headstrong prince alive had taught him that a person could learn much from the edges and the shadows.

So, he determined that he would keep his head down and stay alive, but also watch and wait. If there was even the smallest chance of getting Arthur out of this mess unharmed, he would take it, regardless of what happened to himself afterwards.

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In late afternoon, a frigid wind picked up and by the time they made camp, Merlin's fingers, nose, and ears felt completely frozen. He was also limping strongly, his wounded leg throbbing.

"Tents tonight!" Sir Einar called as he dismounted, and with those two words Merlin found his workload quadrupled as poles and canvas were pulled from the wagons and set about.

It wasn't very long before he was mentally cursing – his stiff and frozen fingers, the fact that idiots thought people could work more effectively in chains, and the horrible excuse for a teenaged human who was supposed to be "helping" with the chore but was really just ordering Merlin about and whacking him with a thin stick he'd picked up whenever he was too slow. Merlin knew his type well – the ones who had no clout or status of their own so relished it when they were elevated slightly up the pecking order – there'd been at least three boys just like him back in Ealdor who had delighted in making his life as miserable as they could.

Merlin reached for one of the ropes to tie off on the last tent – an exceptionally worn contraption with only three poles - but his chain caught on the post and he toppled over, taking the whole thing down with him.

"Oi!" Hab cried, bringing the stick down hard across his back, "Can't ya do anything right?"

Angry words flew to the tip of Merlin's tongue and he had to physically chomp down on it to keep them inside as he fought to escape the mess of ropes and canvas and poles. Once he'd stomped his way free, he jerked his bound hands up with a furious glare, yanking the chain taunt between them, and shoving them in the kid's face to make his point. He might have to take all the cruelty the men who had enslaved him threw out, but he didn't have to put up with it from this whelp of a boy who had to be at least four years younger than him and didn't even have all his teeth.

Hab's dark eyes narrowed and he shoved Merlin backwards, nostrils flaring. "Watch it, slave!" he shouted. "Soldier's got a whip 'round here somewhere, I know't. Fer when the vermin get rebellious!"

Merlin stared defiantly back, refusing to lower his glare even though he knew it was going to cost him, but thankfully it didn't come to that.

"Git that thing up er I'll tan both yer hides!" the other male servant – whom Merlin had learned was called Gobert – hollered at them from across the camp. "There's more work ta be done!"

With a reluctant scowl, Hab threw down his lording-stick and finally started to assist, muttering some very colorful words as he did.

Merlin didn't care what he muttered, a small smile on his face as he ducked his head to pull the canvas back up; he figured he'd just won that round.

"There ain't one fer you, ya know," Hab said nastily, obviously also aware of the score from their little altercation. He gestured to the ragged tent they were almost finished with. "This here's fer me n' Gobert n' Molls, but slaves don't get one. Gonna be mighty cold tonight…"

Like I'd want to share sleeping space with the likes of you, Merlin shot back at him silently, missing his voice greatly. He allowed himself a beautiful moment to picture the boy with the greasy, brown hair as a large, warty toad instead.

"Better get used ta the cold," Toad-boy continued, jabbing at him with words since he couldn't do it with his stick anymore. "It's the mines fer you anyway – 'at's where all slaves go." He grinned maliciously at Merlin, looking him up and down. "Bet you don't last a fortnight."

Something constricted inside Merlin's chest at the words and he forgot about the previous fight, instead glancing over to where Arthur was being led into the very center tent by his guards. If he was sent to these mines, how would he protect Arthur? How could he keep his friend safe if they were separated? The thought froze him even more than the bitter wind and he shuddered.

"At's right. Yer a gonner fer sure," Hab sneered, misinterpreting Merlin's reaction. "Now be a good doggy an' fetch." He kicked the metal water pails at his feet and snickered as he walked off to gather firewood.

The thrill of his little victory had fizzled out and Merlin limped to the stream with worry and dread once more settled back in his heart. Thankfully, this camp was much better situated than the last one, with a gentle stream flowing just beyond the clearing on blessedly flat ground. His aching body and legs were immensely grateful, but it also meant he was in sight the entire time he worked and couldn't steal a few moments for himself to check his injury or get a drink.

"Boy, hurry!" Molls yelled after him. He sighed and struggled back to camp, bracing himself for the thwacks of her deadly spoon that she wielded like a weapon. When he finally escaped to his next chore his ears and shoulders were bruised and stinging, and he had decided that he thoroughly regretted ever thinking that Arthur was a harsh master.

00000

Arthur was fuming.

Not even the facts that he could move, he could see, and he could use his hands again – although it had taken a good hour or so just to work feeling back into the abused limbs – were enough to assuage his anger. In actuality, all those facts just increased his rage – because he was mostly unbound and the blindfold had been removed, and yet he was just as stuck and helpless.

He growled, and turned to retrace the five steps in the other direction like a caged beast. It was a pitiful amount of room for pacing, but it was all that the small tent and the chain attached around his ankle and fixed to the center post allowed him.

When he'd first been led in here, Arthur had started plotting almost before Sir Einar had cut the ropes and removed the blindfold. If they were confident enough to give him his mobility back, he was going to turn that against them the first chance he got. But, the enemy knight had blown holes in his plans before he had even finalized them in his own head.

There was an armed and ready guard just outside the door of his tent at all times.

His tent was in the center of the camp, where it was visible on all sides by everyone.

He was chained to the center post as an added security measure.

And, should he disregard all of that – pull down the pole and tent to get free, somehow manage to untangle himself from the fallen tent and take out his guard and acquire a weapon – he would never manage to fight his way through the camp before Merlin was dead.

He growled again and slumped in frustration on the bare cot that had been left inside the tent with him, letting his head fall forward into his hands.

He'd made an error when he let his captors realize that he cared for Merlin – it both put the boy's life in danger, and gave the enemy a threat to hold over his own head that tied his hands more completely than any rope or chain. And yet, there was nothing else he could have done. Servant or not, Arthur couldn't let his only friend perish back in that clearing, and he couldn't risk his life now on some half-baked escape plan that would probably fail anyway.

"What?"

Arthur's head shot up, his eyes darting to the closed tent flap and the loud, unknown voice that had just come from outside.

"Bedding and supper? What do you think this is, kid, the bloody palace?"

Arthur's forehead wrinkled as he narrowed his eyes in confusion. It sounded for all the world like his guard – thankfully not one of his normal, delightful fellows – was talking to himself.

"Fine, but his bratty highness don't need bread and meat and cheese."

There was a moment of rustling and then the flap opened and a pile of blankets topped with a food plate and a water skin stepped through.

"Merlin!" Arthur cried, jumping to his feet as the boy set his load down on the cot and then turned to him with a tired grin.

The servant didn't answer, just picked up the tin plate – which Arthur noted absently now only held bread and some kind of cooked meat, no cheese – and held it out to him with an insistent nudge. Arthur took it out of habit, but didn't eat, looking intently at Merlin for the first time in almost four days instead.

He was appalled by what he saw.

His young friend was filthy, his clothes torn in places and covered in mud stains and dirt and a few spots Arthur suspected might even be blood, and the boy was gaunt with dark circles under his eyes. Bruises stood out stark against his overly pale skin, and his hands trembled as he immediately set to spreading out the blankets he'd brought with him, making up the prince's bed as if nothing were amiss, as if there weren't – chains – binding his wrists.

Merlin produced a bundle wrapped in cloth from the depths of the bedding and lifted it up to Arthur with a triumphant smile and a finger held to his lips before tucking it down at the foot of the bedroll, and the prince suddenly knew what was bothering him the very most.

"Merlin," he said, setting the food aside on the ground, "stop. Just stop for a moment."

Merlin's smile slipped away and he shook his head, still fussing with the bedding, before jerking his head meaningfully over his shoulder toward the tent flap and the guard who waited outside, a measure of worry settling in his eyes.

Arthur sat on the cot next to where Merlin knelt and reached out, stilling his shaking hands with his own.

"Merlin," he whispered this time, looking him up and down and all over now he was even closer, "what have they done to you?"

His friend seemed to deflate, but only until his eyes landed on Arthur's raw and bleeding wrists, then he wrenched his own hands free of Arthur's grasp and grabbed one of the prince's hands, gently running his fingers over the abrasions left by the ropes before looking around rather desperately, completely ignoring the question. When he took up the hem of his already ragged tunic, Arthur knew instantly what his intent was and reached out again to stop him.

"No, Merlin. It appears your clothing has already been sacrificed to other causes and its cold out, you need the protection. Am I right in assuming you don't get a tent to sleep in tonight?"

The boy shrugged noncommittally, still without uttering a blasted word, and looked around again. This time he leaned toward the bedding, determined to pull bandages from somewhere, and in what was becoming a horribly familiar pattern, Arthur halted him.

"It's nothing more than a little rope burn and a few patches of rubbed off skin," he said, fighting hard to keep his voice to a whisper as his emotions rose. "I won't see you beaten for tearing up the blankets when I'm fine, Merlin. But you, however, are not. Speak to me! Please!"

Merlin's eyes suddenly shimmered with liquid and he lowered his head, chin almost touching his chest. Arthur followed the motion with his eyes and noticed what he hadn't before. Something glinted at the boy's throat, almost hidden by the ratty scarf his friend insisted on wearing – and that was probably no accident if he knew his self-sacrificing servant at all.

"What is this?" he hissed angrily, voice rising slightly as he reached out and pulled the red cloth down, exposing a cold, metal band circling Merlin's neck. "How come you were hiding it?"

Looking more defeated than Arthur had ever seen his young friend, Merlin sat completely on the ground, bracing his back against the wooden cot as the moisture finally tracked down his grubby cheeks. He wiped a hand across his face in embarrassment, smearing it all, then squinted around through his tears at the forest floor that served as the bottom of the tent. After a moment, he picked up a small twig and then spread smooth a patch of the dirt Arthur had previously kicked up with his pacing.

Arthur watched in utter confusion as Merlin sucked in a hitching but completely silent breath, and then wrote in the dirt with his stick.

It's a slave collar.

The crown prince clenched his teeth and his fists, brutal anger shooting through him, but Merlin wasn't done, rubbing away those words as soon as he saw his master had read them, and replacing them with others, every short phrase more horrendous than the one before.

Enchanted collar.

Can't speak - causes pain.

For obedience.

No.

Arthur shook his head vehemently, as his thoughts exploded.

No they did not get to do this! Merlin was his servant – his friend! A citizen of Camelot! Strangers did not get to grab him and slap chains on his already too-thin wrists…to collar him like an animal and take away his idiotic but often wise and funny words!

He shook his head again, rage practically making him vibrate, and opened his mouth to –

"Boy, you're supposed to feed the princeling, not tuck him in for the night." A harsh rap came on the canvas wall of the tent. "Get back out here before I call your minder over and tell him you're trying to shirk your chores by hiding in the nice, warm tent!"

Real fear shot through Merlin's eyes at the interrupting voice. He snatched up the abandoned plate of food, scrambling to his feet, and while Arthur still just sat there on the edge of his cot, staring at the boy in shock and anger, Merlin took his hands and pushed them together, emptying the hunk of bread and cooling piece of meat into them. Chains clanking in his hurry, his friend then set the half-full water skin next to him on the blankets. He turned to the exit but not before piercing the prince with an expression he could have sworn was meant to say I'm sorry, then practically sprinted from the tent.

Arthur went to bed still furious that night.

Furious at the cruel men who would put a helpless servant in chains.

Furious that he got a tent and a cot while he was certain Merlin was shivering outside.

Furious at the warm stone he'd discovered in the center of the bundle the boy had tucked inside his bedroll, one he was sure wasn't supposed to be there and would bring more pain down upon his friend.

Furious that the useless prattle he complained so much about, but secretly enjoyed, had been brutally silenced.

Furious at himself, for being unable to stop any of it!

And especially furious that Merlin had taken the stupid tin plate away with him, because now he had absolutely nothing to throw about and bash against things, giving release to some of that fury.