10. Keep Quiet

Death twitches in my ear;
'Live,' he says…
'I'm coming.'
- Virgil

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"I demand you set my servant free!" were the words Arthur greeted Sir Einar with when he was led blindfolded from his tent the next morning. Behind him, he heard the sound of poles and canvas and he wondered if Merlin were close enough to witness this conversation.

"The saddle horn is here," Sir Einar answered instead, guiding his cuffed hands to the leather. In a new break with the routine – one he was very grateful for – his hands had not been rebound behind his back but were instead cuffed with iron manacles in front of him. There was no length between them for movement – only two small links of chain – but at least he retained feeling in his hands this way.

He did not particularly care about his hands at the moment, however, as the other knight was still refusing to answer him.

"Are all people in your country deaf? Do you not hear my words?" he spat again, refusing to mount the horse. "Let the boy go!"

Sir Einar sighed. "I hear you, Prince Arthur, but I have nothing to say to your requests, so why waste breath?"

"He's just a peasant boy, dragged into things beyond him!" Arthur tried again, almost pleading. He couldn't shake the image of Merlin – a dirty and silent Merlin, trying to hide his tears – chained and collared. "He doesn't deserve this!"

"Most men rarely deserve the road fate sets out before them, but they must walk it just the same," the older man answered, and Arthur almost thought he heard a trace of sorrow in his voice. "They have no choice. I have no choice – I must obey my orders. The boy has no choice – fate has seen fit to take it from him. The only one here who really has a choice is you, Your Highness. You may choose to get on this horse willingly or to cause your young friend more pain through your disobedience. It's up to you."

Biting back all the vicious words that longed to spew forth from his mouth, Arthur got on the horse.

For Merlin, he stayed silent as they roped his chained hands to the saddle horn and lashed his feet to the stirrups. For Merlin, he didn't utter a word about the unfairness as a warm cloak was draped around his shoulders. But he knew in his heart he couldn't stay silent for long, and he would have to try again. Merlin could no longer speak for himself – Arthur would have to do it for him, at least until he could think of some way for them both to escape.

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As the raiding party made ready to leave camp the next morning, Merlin ignored his guard as he was tethered to the back of the wagon, instead keeping his eyes focused on Arthur. Even captive and tied to his horse in chains and a blindfold, the prince cut a regal figure – back straight and proud, jaw set and determined with no hint of fear, though Merlin would be lying if he said he couldn't see rage.

Rage his master had only restrained on Merlin's own behalf, he knew, recalling the argument he had been witness to as he packed up Arthur's tent. It warmed his heart, knowing someone in his now cruel world still cared for his well-being. He was embarrassed about the conversation with his friend the night before, his show of emotion and the revelation of things he'd hoped to keep from Arthur for as long as possible, but he couldn't deny that it had fortified him as well – being able to finally look his friend in the eyes and share a moment of mutual compassion.

But just as Arthur's concern and care for him brought him hope, it also filled him with waves of guilt. He was being used against his prince – used to force him to comply and be controlled. That made him even more of a tool than the slave collar around his neck, and filled him with disgust and self-loathing.

If he'd had a voice, he would have yelled at Arthur to stop being so blasted noble and save himself by now. But he couldn't, and somehow he knew even if he could, the older boy would not listen anyway.

Merlin didn't know what to do, and every step he took led them both farther from Camelot – from help and home.

Those steps were harder today, his limp worse given that he hadn't been able to care for his wound at all the day before, and he had to admit he was struggling slightly to keep up with the wagon he was attached to. An injured leg and the natural ability to trip over his own feet, let alone rocks and protruding roots, was not a good combination, and he knew if he went down no one would stop to help him back up.

So he forced himself to grit his teeth against the gnawing hunger, the biting cold, and the shooting pain in his right leg and walk – on and on and on.

He distracted himself by observing, though it was a calculated risk to take his eyes off of those very weary feet. Still, he learned a lot, for it seemed that as soon as the collar was placed around his neck, he became invisible. Oh, he wasn't when they wanted something done, or needed something to torment and laugh at, but for everything else, it was as if he wasn't even there. He wasn't a person, but a thing, and he faded into the background unnoticed like a pot or a chair or any other possession. It was infuriating, but also helpful.

As he walked by day and slaved by night he gathered names.

There were Hab, and Gobert, and Molls, – the servants, of course, and Sir Einar. He learned Arthur's guards were Owain and Gerard – the latter being an extremely unpleasant fellow who seemed to be swallowed in a black cloud of anger and hurt. Merlin's few interactions with the man had all ended painfully.

There were others, names he caught as they flew around him in the camp: Aram, Joalf, Twyford – the red-haired soldier who'd been kind to him, and Hermund.

Merlin didn't know if he was disappointed or amused when he learned that Stupidly-Handsome was actually named Basil.

Basil? Really? The man who was responsible for most of the bruises that now littered his exhausted body, the man he'd come to hate and fear, was named after a plant? And an incredibly wimpy plant at that, he thought, as he recalled the green herb that grew in pots in the kitchen gardens and would curl up and die at the first sign of frost or heat.

It was amusing, and yet it also wasn't. Merlin was rather sure that nearly half of his favorite foods had now been ruined because of this knowledge.

Not that it mattered, considering he'd probably never get to eat any of them again.

His hungry stomach gave a harsh growl at the thought of good food and he quickly forced his thoughts elsewhere.

By midafternoon, the party had left behind the deep woods Merlin had grown used to. There were still trees, but they thinned, allowing a view of the countryside beyond. Soon they emerged from the forest altogether, Sir Einar turning them onto an actual road.

Weary and trying desperately not to stumble, Merlin forced himself to gaze around, only to realize he had absolutely no idea where they were. The land was completely unfamiliar – the trees giving way to a flat, desolate expanse colored in the faded browns and greys of late autumn and shrouded in a thick mist. It felt ancient and magical, and given other circumstances Merlin might have been fascinated, but now he was just filled with a sinking dread. They were so far from home, in a place he wondered if even Arthur would recognize, and getting farther and farther from any hope with each hour that dragged past.

The afternoon worn on into evening and occasionally the mist would clear giving Merlin a glimpse of cold, craggy mountains in the distance. Gut instinct coupled with the group's general sense of direction told him that's where they were headed.

Mountains had mines – slaves were sent to the mines.

Merlin couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking his own life away, drawing ever closer to the place it would end, to his own death.

He forced the tears back, unwilling to let his captors see his fears, and plodded on.

Throughout the later hours, they passed the occasional merchant or group of travelers – the first other people Merlin had seen since this nightmare began. At first he had hope that the sight of a chained captive might cause some of them alarm, but he quickly realized he was wrong. A few spared him a pitying glance, but that was all, and he remembered with bitterness that for most of the land, slavery was just a fact of life. It was only Camelot in general and Arthur in particular who abhorred it. His sad state was nothing these people hadn't seen before and certainly wasn't something they would concern themselves about beyond being thankful it was him who was experiencing it and not them.

A few took notice of Arthur, blindfolded on his horse, but the cloak completely hid his limbs and any evidence of his bonds. To anyone who didn't know, he was simply a soldier who had sustained a grievous injury to his eyes and was being lead home by his comrades.

After a while, Merlin gave up looking at the faces of the few people they passed – it hurt too much to have his hopes dashed every time there was no flicker of recognition or compassion.

They camped that night on the outskirts of a small, dirty village, its one redeeming feature, at least to the rest of the camp, being the fact it had a tavern. As he scrubbed the dishes, Merlin watched groups of laughing, carefree men drift from the camp toward the warm glow of buildings down the road and the chance to slake their thirst. He pondered, for just a moment, if this might be the chance he was looking for – the opportunity to get Arthur free while there were less men about – but he quickly discarded that idea. There were still plenty of armed and dangerous soldiers between him and the prince's tent: Sir Einar…a very unhappy looking Basil who had apparently been left behind just to guard Merlin, as well as Arthur's second guard Owain who was standing alert and grumpy outside Arthur's door. There were also others, perhaps not feeling the call of the mead that night, scattered about the camp cleaning weapons and mending armor.

Merlin sighed and went back to his chores, head and shoulders drooping and shivering violently from the cold.

He was so frozen by the time Basil tethered him out with the horses that he honestly didn't know what to do. He needed sleep – he'd had no chance to tend his injury for two days now and he could tell it was dangerously infected again. Sleep was the only medicine he had and his body craved it, but he also feared the cold. If he lay down and drifted off, would he ever wake again?

Would it be so bad if he didn't? a little voice in the back of his mind interjected. Would it be so horrible to die peacefully in his sleep rather than violently as a slave?

Angrily, he shoved the thoughts back into the dark corners of his head. Arthur still needed him. He was not going to give up.

His mare was once more attached to the same tree, along with the two horses that pulled the wagons. Quietly, he limped over to her side and reached up a hand to stroke her shoulder, trying to keep his chains from clanking. She responded warmly, leaning into him and nuzzling his hair before nosing at his pockets where he usually kept a few treats for her.

I'm sorry, he thought sadly, resting his head against her side as he continued to stroke her. I wish I had something for you. After a while, he stepped back slightly and grabbed her bridle, gently tugging down on it. She shook her head, moving away from him and Merlin wished for the thousandth time he had a voice to utter praise and commands. Instead, he hobbled with her and then knelt down painfully, pulling more firmly on the leather while still stroking her head, urging her to follow him. With a huff, she obeyed, lowering herself to the cold ground and folding in her knees.

Good girl, he thought with relief as he stroked her, trying to show his gratitude the only way he could. After a while, she snorted with pleasure and rolled over slightly, her eyes closing, and he dared to let go of the bridle knowing she was comfortable and less likely to move. One of the other horses had joined them on the ground, eager for attention as well, and Merlin carefully shifted his sore body so he could curl up next to them both, soaking up their warmth and the softness of their skin.

Finally, exhausted beyond anything he'd ever felt before, Merlin let his eyes drift shut and went to sleep.

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He woke to blinding pain and absolute chaos.

"- stupid, worthless filth!"

As Merlin struggled to snap his eyes open and focus his mind, boots and fists rained down on him along with hateful words. Horses squealed in terror and the warmth he was curled next to disappeared, deadly hooves joining in on the madness.

" – dead! Bloody Majesty killed him!"

One of the horses clipped him on the ribs as it fought to flee the unknown threat that had assailed it but then Merlin was jerked clear of them by the chain between his wrists, dragged to the opposite end of his ankle chain, and thrown back to the ground.

Holding his trembling arms before his face, he blinked up at his attacker. It was Gerard, Arthur's guard, and judging by the anger and the smell, he was well into a drunken rage.

A boot came straight for his face and Merlin whipped his head down, curling in a ball with his bound hands trying to protect his head.

" – my brother!"

Blows to his arms, his stomach, his ankle…

" – treated like royalty! Spoiled brat!"

Merlin's cheeks were wet and he could barely breathe as he trembled in agony and fear. The world was going slightly fuzzy around him and only parts of the shouts and obscenities were filtering into his ears.

"Can't touch His Majesty!"

The next strike hit his back with a resounding crack, and Merlin peeked through streaming eyes to see the man had now armed himself with a thick branch.

" – his little pet!"

Blow after blow came down on his vulnerable body and all he could do was fight the dark edges that were trying to creep up on him while he endured, until the raging man brought the wood down directly onto his already inflamed wound. Merlin's back arched in agony and a scream tried to claw its way out of his throat, so strong that even biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood couldn't stop it entirely. The collar stole any sound of what would have been a small, keening wail, but his mind's instinctual attempt to give utterance to his pain triggered the magic. Knives of fire spiked up his neck and behind his eyes as his fingers spasmed, reaching blindly for his throbbing leg, heedless of the improvised club that still flashed through the air and smacked against his flesh.

"SOLDIER GERARD!

The harsh voice shouted across the camp even as the dots of blackness floating before Merlin's eyes coalesced, stealing his vision as he lay tense, chest heaving from suppressed sobs that left him unable to breathe properly. He was vaguely aware that the brutal beating had stopped for now – new, angry words from a different voice poking at him as he struggled to cling to consciousness through the blazing pain in his body and his head.

" – disgrace to the ranks –! – no longer trusted to guard –! – helpless boy –! – sober up!"

After a while, the yelling ceased and Merlin felt someone tugging at his tunic and trousers. Already half faint with pain and terror, his mind immediately conjured up the worst and he struggled weakly, pushing at the invading hands.

"No, please!" he tried to beg, then arched and twisted again as his brain attempted to explode once more before going completely still and limp. He was chained and tethered, unable to escape and rendered utterly immobile and helpless from the searing agony, teetering on the edge of oblivion. Hands fumbled over him – his head, his arms, his ankles – but Merlin's only acknowledgment was the trickle of tears running down his face. He could do nothing to stop whatever was going to happen to him, and with a silent cry of resignation, he gave up.

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Sorry for the much longer wait this time. Life has been busy and this chapter was hard to get out. I appreciate your patience with me. Hopefully the next chapter will go up much faster.

Also, thank you to Missy and Smuffly for their reassurances on parts of this.