16. Marked

"Life is filled with unanswered questions, but it is the courage to seek those answers that continues to give meaning to life. You can spend your life wallowing in despair, wondering why you were the one who was led towards the road strewn with pain, or you can be grateful that you are strong enough to survive it."

- J.D. Stroube

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Merlin found himself alone for a moment after Sir Einar left – Twyford nowhere to be seen yet. Soldiers came to start unloading the wagon he was still behind, so he shifted to the side – out of the way – and waited.

As he stood there, he found his breathing slowing down, returning to a more normal rate as his panic and fear subsided slightly. It cleared his mind and allowed a little normal, rational thought to leak back in.

He wasn't going to the mines.

He wasn't going to die in a dark pit, hacking at stone.

He wasn't going to die as an abused plaything for other slaves.

He was going to work in a castle.

Under an apparently horrid man and for a king who might just rival Uther in the area of terribly frightening.

But still – a castle.

After two years in Camelot, he knew castles, and servants, and serving work. He had no doubt he'd end up miserable and starved, forced to do the worst of the worst jobs that kept a castle running – but still, no matter how awful they made it, these were things he knew. This – he could survive this.

And he would still be close to Arthur. They might not let him near the prince, but at least he might be able to keep an eye on him from afar – perhaps he could even help his master in some small ways.

A splash of dull red caught Merlin's eye and he glanced over to find his neckerchief still lying limply in the dirt where the king's boot had ground it. He moved and picked it up, working the worn cloth between his fingers.

His mother had sewn this for him – out of a piece of fabric left when one of her dresses grew beyond the point of mending. To be perfectly honest, he was amazed Sir Einar had let him keep it – that he'd been allowed to hide the collar for as long as he had – that it hadn't been ripped off long before.

Suddenly, with the overriding terror of the mines removed, Merlin found his natural curiosity returning, raising questions. First there was Twyford and his "mistake" on a task assigned to him specifically by Sir Einar, and now that same knight with his risky suggestion to the king…

Had these two men just neatly conspired to save his life?

"You won't be allowed to keep wearing it, Merlin," a voice said quietly.

He turned to find Twyford standing beside him, looking at the red scarf still in his hands. The man's face was pale and slightly pinched, and he held his shoulders in the tight, strained posture of someone hiding pain, but otherwise gave no outward sign of the ordeal he'd endured just that morning.

Merlin looked at him – stared hard at the red-haired man he was more convinced than ever had saved him from torture and death, and endured the punishment for it – and wished deeply he still had a voice to express the overwhelming gratitude that was filling him now. Instead, he reached out and took the man's hand, pushing his cherished neckerchief into it and then closing it tightly to a fist.

Thank you! he longed to cry, but all he could do was hope Twyford would somehow understand.

And it seemed he did, for the soldier nodded, placing the cloth reverently in his pocket. "You're a good lad, Merlin," he said very softly. "I would not see you suffer that fate. Though I'm not sure how much kinder this one will be. Still…" he trailed off, leaving Merlin unsure what the man had started to say and with no ability to ask.

"Come on," he said instead, steering Merlin toward a lower, more hidden entrance to the castle. "The Steward will be even more unpleasant if he's kept waiting."

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Apparently, the rumor mill in Tharennor worked just as fast, or perhaps even faster, than the one in Camelot. As Twyford took Merlin through the lower corridors of the fortress, people were already whispering – shooting him scornful glances before turning away. Merlin fought the urge to duck his head in shame – reminding himself that these were not soldiers with the power of life or death over him, but simply busy-body servants eager for any break in the mundane drudgery of their lives.

Still, the gossip served one purpose – the Steward was expecting them.

Merlin was not used to instantly disliking people. Generally, he tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, at least until he got to know them better, but this man needed no trial period for the boy to spot his true colors. He was well dressed – clean tunic and trousers, leather belt with dangling keys that spoke of his station, long felt coat with darker cowl, and a red cap that flopped carefully to the left. But it wasn't his clothes that set Merlin on edge but rather his face – his eyes were cruel and menacing and the trimmed beard and mustache that filled out his already round cheeks helped accentuate the haughty sneer of revolted arrogance inside of them.

Twyford brought him into the dimly lit room, paused to remove the manacles from his wrists, and then ducked away after throwing Merlin an apologetic look.

The silence reigned for a breathless moment – oppressive and dangerous and hinting at unknown suffering to come – as the man studied him, moving in a circle around him like a predator closing in on its prey. Feeling vulnerable and exposed, it took all of Merlin's willpower to keep facing forward as the Steward slipped behind him, but he stiffened his spine and held his breath until the intimidating man was done.

"You came from Camelot?" the man finally growled at him.

Merlin nodded, not liking the way the Steward had said the word 'Camelot' as if it were an expletive.

"The Princeling's personal servant?" he sneered.

Again, Merlin nodded, eyes narrowing in anger at the insult to Arthur.

"Well say goodbye to your cushy life because you aren't anymore. You are a slave – a thing – a possession – and everything from the clothes you wear to the food you eat to the air you breathe is a gift that can be withheld."

Merlin had been expecting this but it didn't stop the cruel words from hurting, each one like a stinging slap on raw and tender flesh as he listened to the Steward reduce his life and worth to nothing.

"Every person in this castle right down to the skinniest scullery boy is your better, and I…I own your life. You will do what I tell you, sleep when and where I tell you, and you will not speak to anyone unless asked a direct question. You will avoid being seen by royalty at all costs so they don't have to look upon your disgusting features – and this includes your precious prince! If you complete your tasks as ordered and on time, you will be fed each night. If not…"

The words hung in the air – a direct threat – and Merlin had the certain feeling he was going to be very hungry for the rest of his probably short life.

"Do you understand?" the Steward asked, speaking slowly as if to a simpleminded fool.

Merlin gritted his teeth and nodded.

"You will answer with 'Yes Master' when asked a direction question!" the bully snapped, a hand striking out like a snake to cuff the back of Merlin's head.

He eyed the man in confusion through watering eyes, certain he couldn't have missed the collar that circled his throat and made that order impossible. Didn't he know? But then he remembered the other slaves he'd almost been forced to join – they all wore collars, but they hadn't been silent. Apparently only the collars designed to contain magic also stole a victim's voice.

Hesitantly, he reached up and touched the collar then moved his fingers to cover his mouth.

The Steward's reaction was fierce and unexpected. He jerked back from Merlin as if bitten.

"A sorcerer!" he hissed, leveling a glare of utmost hatred at the boy. "From Camelot?"

He spat in Merlin's face and the servant cringed in disgust as he felt the spittle run down his cheek, but he didn't dare draw more of the Steward's wrath by wiping it off.

"Vilest of the vile and thrice cursed!" the man continued to rant, his face growing red beneath the beard. "A slave – from that foul country – now tainted with magic as well! I won't have you spread your filthy, foreign curses through my castle!"

Bitterly, Merlin wondered exactly how this horrid man expected him to curse anything with the wretched collar locked round his neck. Still, he figured it was healthier for him if he didn't try and correct the Steward by pointing that out.

"Strip," the man suddenly ordered coldly.

Merlin stared at him in shocked horror, not moving.

"Remove your filthy sorcerer's clothing or I'll do it for you!" the Steward repeated, stepping to an imposing, wooden table and picking up what looked like an ornate riding crop.

Rage filled him, made stronger by knowing how helpless he was. Glaring daggers at his newest enemy, he reluctantly conformed and pulled off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He continued, adding garments to the pile until he stood there shivering in nothing except his smallclothes and a few pathetic bandages. But he stopped there, chin jutting out defiantly – he would go no further willingly.

The Steward ignored his tiny rebellion, pointing instead toward the fire that crackled in the room's low hearth. "Now burn them."

Merlin's breath caught and he hesitated. He'd though he'd be made to wash them – "purify" them somehow – but to burn them? Surely he wasn't going to be forced to live without any clothing?

He'd paused too long and suddenly a searing pain slashed across his bare shoulder and chest. Tears sprang to his eyes as he realized the man's short whip was far from just for show.

"I won't repeat myself again," the Steward ground out. "Burn it all now!"

With great sorrow, Merlin gathered up his pitiful armful of belongings and limped to the fire. He fingered them one last time – his blue tunic and brown trousers – sewn by his mum so he'd look smart in his new home… His well-worn jacket – the scents of herbs and polish and old books still clinging to it – it smelled of Gaius… The boots had been a gift from Arthur and the socks a sweet gesture from Gwen… Desperately holding back tears, he consigned them all to the flames – one by one – knowing he was losing more than just clothes and his last connections to his home and family. As they turned to ash and smoke they took with them all remnants of what made him Merlin – a person – and left behind only a nameless, stripped-of-everything slave.

The Steward stood there holding court with his lash and his hate and watched it all burn until only smolders remained, then turned back to Merlin with open disgust and latched onto his arm. Without even a word or explanation, he pulled the boy from chamber.

Shame brought color to Merlin's face as he was dragged stumbling through the bowels of the castle in his horrible state of undress. The young man had never been comfortable flaunting his skin to others and now everyone could see his pale, bruised, and skinny body. Servants laughed and twittered while they pointed and he was ready to die of mortification by the time the Steward shoved him into a steaming-hot room.

"Over there," the man ordered, pushing him toward the far corner of what Merlin could now see was the bustling laundry. Unsure what was about to happen to him now, he obeyed with trepidation. Embarrassment kept his head lowered to the floor so he wouldn't have to meet anyone's mocking eyes, and so he noticed that the corner held a time-worn groove cut through the stone that channeled water out of a small hole in the wall and away from the castle. He stood there by the drain, shivering despite the moist warmth of the air, and listened as the man called two serving boys over with their buckets and brushes.

"Scrub it clean lest it spread its evil and plagues through our halls," the Steward ordered the boys haughtily.

The servants didn't argue and Merlin had to bite back a yell of pain as one of the pails was upended over his head, sending scalding water all down his unprotected skin.

The next few minutes were an exercise in pain and humiliation – some he hoped dearly to forget one day. He stood there like an animal while the boys scrubbed him raw with near boiling water and lye soap. The brushes were coarse and the servants ungentle, and soon harsh scratches littered his skin from head to toes, made even more unbearable by the stinging soap. He sputtered and choked as the foul mixture ran in his mouth, and was half-blind from it dripping into his eyes before a last bucket of freezing-cold water was dumped over him and it was done.

Through bleary, aching eyes he watched the Steward wave the boys away while he stood there dripping like a drowned and boiled rat. No one offered him even a sheet to dry off with, but the man who had just earned a place higher than Basil-the-Turd-Face on Merlin's hate list did move over to a basket of cloth just off to one side. Wearily, Merlin recognized it for what it was – the rag pile. Even Camelot had a mound like it, where clothes, sheets, and bedding that were too worn or stained to be worth fixing ended up. Any salvageable material would be repurposed to mend other objects, and even the most ragged parts would be torn into strips to be braided into rugs.

The Steward pawed through the pile for a while, then stepped back and lobbed a bundle of cloth at Merlin's face.

"Get dressed," he ordered.

Grateful to at least be given clothes Merlin didn't argue, pulling the soiled rags on over his sodden undergarments and bandages. There was a pair of trousers – black, ill-fitting, and mostly threadbare. They were held up by only a gathered drawstring and their frayed cuffs stopped inches above his bare ankles. The tunic he slipped over his head was the splotchy, mottled grey of a failed dye job with at least a dozen moth holes and the seam of the right sleeve split so that his elbow poked all the way through. It hung from his bony frame like a particularly shapeless sack.

And that was it for clothes. No jacket – no socks – not even a thin pair of shoes.

Of course not, Merlin thought bitterly. Why give a slave shoes when he can be barefoot in the winter and therefore even more miserable and aware of his awful lot in life. He wondered if the Steward was satisfied that his "vile magic curses" had at least been washed away.

His arm was seized again and he fought the urge to roll his eyes as once more the portly man twisted him through the castle passageways as though he was too stupid to follow on his own. This time they passed through an outside door and immerged into the tepid light of a cold afternoon. Merlin's toes curled instinctively against the assault of the frigid flagstones and his wet hair seemed to suck whatever warmth was left inside him right back out. He was dragged across a small, dirtier courtyard, past a well, and around a few more corners before arriving at a squat, stone building that billowed smoke. He only had a few seconds to recognize it as a blacksmith's forge before being yanked inside.

Confusion lined his brow as he glanced around. The end of the building they'd entered was dark and shadowed, but the far side held a fiery forge and the acrid smells of metal, sweat, and smoke hung thick in the air.

Was he going to be put to work in the smithy? He knew nothing of running a forge, though perhaps at least it would be warm.

A tanned, soot covered boy perhaps a few years older than himself who stood at the bellows noticed their entrance and hollered for his master's attention over the din of clanging metal and flying sparks. At the anvil, a great, grizzly-bear of a man put down his hammer at the shout and then turned around.

Merlin worked hard to stifle a silent gasp that still made the collar give him a warning spike of pain. The man was huge – muscles bulging beneath his leather apron and blackened tunic – but his face was… Three long scars disfigured the smith's forehead and left cheek, one disappearing down the neck and into the collar of his shirt. It was a miracle the man still had both eyes. In spite of himself, Merlin tensed and backed up slightly as the Steward released him to speak with the frightening man.

"Juno, heat up the king's mark. It's needed."

At those words, Merlin's knees suddenly felt weak for the second time that day and he knew exactly why the Steward had brought him there.

Juno the Blacksmith nodded to his apprentice who retrieved a long, iron rod with some sort of symbol on the end and thrust it deep into the heart of the glowing coals.

"I wasn't aware the king had any new stock…" the scarred man responded, looking puzzled.

The king's mark! Merlin fought the urge to hyperventilate. A brand! He was going to be branded!

"Just this," the Steward replied calmly, dragging him forward and thrusting him into the middle of the room.

Branded, like livestock! Marked for life!

The blacksmith's face darkened and he narrowed his eyes as he glanced up and down Merlin's trembling body. "You want me to brand a boy?" he growled.

And it was going to hurt…oh it was going to hurt!

"It's not a boy, it's a slave."

Juno's eyes sought out Merlin's collar, and the young servant thought he almost saw anger and pity flash through them.

"He wears the thrall ring – why does he need to be marked further?"

Dimly, Merlin realized the man was actually defending him, trying to save him from this anguish, and he felt a sliver of guilt, knowing he'd misjudged the man based solely on his frightening appearance.

The Steward drew himself upright and glared at the other man. "You would argue with a direct order from your king?" he asked with menacing arrogance.

Juno hesitated, looking toward Merlin again, but then looked away. "No, Master Steward, I would not," he said firmly, "though I don't have to think it right."

"I don't care a whit what you think so long as you do as ordered," the Steward spat.

"As you command, sir," the blacksmith answered coldly.

The man went to check on the progress of the heating metal and Merlin just stood there, waiting and trying to calm his racing heart so it wouldn't jump right out of his thin chest. He almost wished he didn't know what was coming – the anticipation was torture in and of itself. Finally, the blacksmith nodded.

Without preamble, the Steward manhandled Merlin over to a thick and scarred wooden table, then took a moment to rip off one of the wet bandages Twyford had placed around the servant's damaged wrists nearly three days ago. "You, boy," he ordered to the apprentice that had been hanging back in the shadows, watching Merlin with a strange mix of revulsion and pity. "Help hold it down."

Merlin's left sleeve was roughly shoved up past his elbow and his arm jerked down to the tabletop, palm facing upward. The Steward held his fist, crushing it into the hard wood, while the young apprentice gripped his elbow with one hand and wrapped the other arm around his chest to keep him from trying to tug away.

Trembling violently, it took everything the warlock had not to wilt or lose the meager contents of his stomach. A hand touched his shaking shoulder and he looked up through fear-blown eyes.

"Here, son," the blacksmith said quietly, holding out a thick leather strap. "Bite down on this."

Merlin opened his mouth and allowed him to place the strap between his teeth, biting tightly and feeling more trapped than at any other point in his life as he waited immobilized for the intense, scarring pain that was to come.

He watched the blacksmith pull the rod from the fire and turn, saw the strange design blazing orange with burning heat at the end, and then clenched his eyes shut.

Be brave! he ordered himself desperately.

Be strong!

Brave and strong, like a knight! Like Arthur! FOR Arth - AHHHHH!

The last thought became simply a wordless wail in his tortured mind as pain worse than anything he'd ever known before seared through the tender flesh of his forearm. His mouth shot open for an anguished scream that couldn't sound, doubling his suffering as the collar's evil spell joined the agony in his arm which caused him to sag limply in the apprentice's grip.

It seemed hours that the metal was held firmly against his arm, charring the previously unmarred skin and making Merlin gag on bile at the scent of his own burning flesh. Finally, the rod pulled away and the cruel hands released him. Boneless, he sank to the dirty floor, eyes opening so the tears could pour out, the leather strap falling from his mouth – gouged deeply – as he weakly coughed up bile.

His vision went dim and blurry for a while after that, everything but the agony in his arm and his head fading to the background. The pain flared bright again as a liquid that burned almost as strong as the fire was dumped over his damaged limb and he only barely kept his face from becoming acquainted with the black soot of the floor. Words he couldn't grasp flowed back and forth above his head…hands grabbed his uninjured arm and jerked him up to legs that wobbled as the world pitched drunkenly around him…and he stumbled through his suffering back to the castle, dragged by a man with no mercy.

More corridors, more turns, more hushed whispers that all hovered somehow on the edges of his anguish, unable to pierce through until finally he was dropped to the ground before a mound of dishes and pots that seemed to his fuzzy brain to reach toward the ceiling.

The Steward crouched down. "Laze about all you want, slave, but you'll see no food or bed 'til this kitchen is clean and the candles are snuffed at midnight. Should the sun rise without it done, you'll taste the lash." Then he stood, wiped his hand down his clothes one more time, and left.

Despite the warning, Merlin simply lay there for a long while, lost in the pain and hopelessness and not even sure he cared about the consequences of not moving. What was the threat of more pain when it already felt like every nerve had been flayed? But finally, the ache in his brain began to recede, leaving only the fire in his mangled arm. Turning it slowly, he dared to look at the mark he would bear for the rest of his life.

Three intricate and interlocked triangles - like mountains – had been burned into his arm, the wound black and red and weeping.

The Mark of Tharennor.

Somehow, it shoved the reality of his situation into his face in a way nothing had before.

Yes, he wore the hated collar – magic and voice stifled – but part of him still dreamed and plotted of how to remove it, what he would do once it was gone… Believed in a rescue from home or from Arthur, where it would be unlocked and life would return to what he once knew…

But this? This would never go away. For the rest of his life he would wear the shame of being a slave to an enemy king burned into his skin.

He was ready to let his head sink back to the floor and just fade away – wait for his fate in the morning and hope the beating was strong enough he just didn't get back up – but an annoying voice in the back of his head pushed through the agony.

Get up, idiot! Don't just lay there! Don't let them win!

Arthur.

Merlin snorted slightly and closed his eyes, turning away from the mound of stinking dishes.

Why did his inner monologue have to sound like the Prince of All Prats?

Because I'm your master and you have to do what I say, the Arthur in his mind answered back.

Not hardly, the Merlin in his brain replied.

But he gave a silent sigh and dragged himself up to his knees anyway, if only to shut up the argument that was happening inside his own head.

Some people got an angel and a devil, trying to influence their choices. How was it fair he ended up with a clot-pole? he mused as he wearily took the sponge out of the water with his good arm and started on the endless night ahead.