Author's Note: I am so sorry for how long it has taken me to post this chapter. I assure you, this story is not abandoned, nor have I lost my way on it (it is very much fully outlined.) But I did, for a while, lose my muse as real life ganged up in me and I worried about making sure this most pivotal chapter came out how it should. I'm hoping I got it right.

Fingers crossed that the next chapter doesn't take this long, but I should let you know I'm a music teacher, and I'm right in the middle of the school I work at putting on their fall musical. So, if I'm slow, that's why.

Thanks as always to Missy, Smuffly, and Lizzie for endless patience and encouragement.

17. Telling

"I have felt the wind on the wing of madness."
 - Charles Baudelaire

00000

Two thousand, six hundred and forty three.

There were two thousand, six hundred and forty three nails in the wooden ceiling of his new room.

He knew because he'd counted them – twice.

As Arthur lay on his back on the bed, head hanging over the edge so he could stare up at the old wood overhead, he pondered if it would be any more entertaining to count them for a third time.

Probably not, he admitted, running hands through his already mussed hair.

With a sigh, he pushed up and swung his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the built-in corner bed, surveying his new "chambers."

If they were planning to torture him, they had picked the most excruciating method. Pain and torment he could cope with if he had to – but boredom and being ignored? It was driving him to distraction, as were the contradictions by which he found himself surrounded.

He almost stood and started pacing the circumference of the little room again as he had at least three times an hour for the last two days – there was nothing else to do! – but he'd been placed on the top floor of an old, weathered tower and he knew by now that it was painfully unconducive to mindless wandering.

The chamber was small and oddly-shaped – mostly square, but with only one true corner. One was lost to the triangle shelf he currently sat on; Arthur suspected it had once been a spacious window seat but had been made up into a cramped bed instead. While the covers were thick and the mattress soft, they were old and faded – as though they had been quite grand but were now just quite sad – and the window in the corner let in a chill even when shuttered. To accommodate his height he'd had to sleep either sideways or on the very outward edge, and the two nights he'd spent there had left him stiff and restless in the morning. A curtain hung from the stone at the head and could be drawn across to hide the whole ledge from the rest of the room, providing a privacy that seemed too dangerous to indulge in, while he was obviously still a prisoner.

Because yes, though he might not be wearing chains or languishing in a dungeon, he was a prisoner and this room was his jail – that much was evidenced by the fact that his door locked from the outside, not the in. There were no bars on his windows (though the drop from them was of a height not pleasant to contemplate – it was the first thing he'd checked – so the lack of bars really didn't mean much), a fire blazed in his hearth, warm rugs and bedding had been left, and both a wardrobe and a trunk were filled with clothing and other items clearly intended for his personal use – but it didn't matter. He was forced into this room against his will and no amount of mocking comfort could hide that fact.

He knew he could have escaped – overpowered the timid, mostly-silent servants who had appeared several times a day to bring him food and drink and to tend his fire – but to what end? The avalanche had blocked the pass – the king knew it, the knights knew it, and Arthur himself knew it. He couldn't possibly hope to stay hidden within a small country until springtime so where would he run?

Besides, he had to admit the real truth of the matter was that he would never leave without Merlin, and at the moment he had no idea where the boy was.

Unable to help himself after almost two weeks of forced inactivity, he stood and strode east past the trunk that sat against the wall. It took only a pitiful eight paces to reach the next not-corner. Here the stone room bulged outward into a circular shape that held two deep-set windows and added a tiny bit more space to the chamber – enough to hold three mostly empty, skinny bookshelves and a small table and chair. A glance out one of the windows showed the same scene he'd looked at a dozen times already – the bleak and snow-covered mountains of Tharennor rising up to meet the heavy, black clouds that were ready to dump more of the blasted whiteness on this cursed country. He growled in frustration and turned away and his eyes landed on the few tattered books that lay forgotten on the dusty shelves. He contemplated picking one up and sitting down at the table but figured he wouldn't be able to read the ancient, foreign script any better this time around than he had the last ten times he'd tried that activity. There weren't even any pictures to look at, something he took as a personal offense! And he'd just recovered from the sneezing attack the dusty, mildew-ridden pages had caused him the last time he'd tried. No, it was better to leave the useless things alone.

Not that there was really anything in his chamber that was useful - at least not to him. At seemingly random intervals small, square windows punched through the thick walls, the stone around them cut in the shape of a spade, leaving ledges for sitting on below while the top rose to a blunt point. Each had a single, hinged shutter for nighttime that only partially blocked the chilly, Tharennor air from whistling through the thin, cracked glass. Directly diagonal from where he now stood in front of what he'd dubbed the "library circle," another of the room's corners was missing, given over to a thick door. Here the walls of the chamber turned inward to accommodate a housing for the winding stairs that were just outside the door and filled the true corner of the tower.

It was the only way in and the only way out of his room – and even though Arthur knew it was locked firmly from the outside, it took real will-power not to test it yet again.

Instead, he forced himself to turn to the side, striding a few paces over to the east wall which held no window but a surprisingly large and unexpected hearth. A fire burned happily, throwing warmth out and making the small, drafty room bearable, with more wood stacked next to the wall for him to add throughout the day. It took up at least a full third of the wall, and was easily the most interesting thing in his entire room. Across the top where a mantle would normally have been, an intricate raised carving stretched instead – of a fierce dragon and a beautiful tree. It was incredible and almost life-like, and he'd be a liar if he didn't admit to a rush of fear the first time he'd noticed it. The dragon's toes curled, sharp talons extended. Its wings, tongue and eyes still glowed a faded, painted red, and its head turned backward in a roar that showed razor-like teeth. On the right side of the hearth was carved the tree – tall and delicate, and yet somehow exuding a strength he couldn't even explain. The dragon's muscled tail curled protectively around its trunk, while the tree towered in equal measure of protection over the scaled beast.

As he had done many times over the last few days, Arthur stared at it, rather transfixed.

Dragons were obviously creatures of magic and therefore evil, and yet, once he became accustomed to its frightening appearance, he felt almost comforted by the artwork. After all, dragons were also the symbol of the Pendragon line and of home – an irony that had never been lost on the young prince. He felt somehow – protected and watched over – closer to Camelot and safety when he stood there, gazing at the stone creature.

That didn't mean he felt comfortable with all the other obviously magic related things he'd discovered in his new chambers. Being trapped in this room for the last two days, he'd gone over every inch of it – looking for weaknesses, weapons, routes of escape, something to keep him from going spare with boredom – none of which he'd found, though he had discovered that his "guest quarters" came complete with a roof that leaked in two places and a few floorboards he doubted were entirely stable. More importantly, however, he'd realized with slight trepidation that at one point this had to have been the living quarters of someone who seriously dabbled in magic, because the signs of it were everywhere. There were runes he couldn't read carved over the door and windows, markings on the wood floor near the corners, and once he knew what to look for, little carvings of plants and animals all over the walls and furniture. And the most glaring evidence – besides the dragon on the mantle place of course – was a large tapestry on the south wall that, after hours of studying, he was sure was some sort of catalogue of magical acts – though strangely none of them seemed malicious or deadly. It bothered him and added to his ever-growing sense of unease and unanswered questions.

Why had he been put here? Was the magic active? Was it affecting him? Was he enchanted? Being manipulated or corrupted against his will?

After two (now going on three) days he'd slowly decided that while he still didn't know the reason behind sticking him in this tower room, he didn't think he was being influenced by magic. He was too bored and grumpy and irritated – emotions he reluctantly had to admit were all his own – for there to be magic acting on him. Apparently, the magic that used to infuse this room had worn off, leaving only the markings as a memory.

Still, it was just another unfathomable piece in this puzzle that was driving him nuts.

Tapestries took years to make – were worth good money. And that dragon and tree carving had taken much skill and many hours to produce. The curtain by his bed was made of velvet and the rugs on the floor were expensive furs. His wardrobe and trunk were full of trousers and tunics, doublets and belts, warm jackets and socks and leather boots. And yet, the tapestry and bedclothes were faded, the velvet and furs worn and sporting more than a few holes, and the clothes ill-fitting and either garish and tasteless or plan and threadbare. Servants bowed and called him "My Lord" and "Your Majesty," just as the soldiers had from the very onset of this debacle, but he was locked in his room – this chamber that bore the trappings of past finery but was now old and worn with a leaky roof and cracked windows.

It was such a contradiction – the appearance of respect and honor, but a dark, deeper undercurrent of mockery and contempt. He couldn't fathom what was meant by it and worrying over the possibilities sent his thoughts spiraling in circles the more he was left alone with them.

Alone. Such a horrible word, and one he hadn't had to really contemplate since Merlin had crashed into his life with his incessant chatter and dogged loyalty.

Sighing again, Arthur drew himself away from the warmth of the fire. He walked around the old table that ran most of the length of the south wall and to the window beyond it, sitting on the stone seat and gazing out at the castle that sprawled below. It was a hodge-podge affair of towers and buildings that climbed the mountainside in several layers – gardens and courtyards wedged between them – with stone walls that circled the whole lot. It was darker and older than Camelot, as though it had been cobbled together and added up on over many years and generations, and then worn down by ages of harsh weather and secrets.

Somewhere out in that mess of stone and wood was his servant – at least he hoped so because he refused to entertain the notion that the young man wasn't all right. He prayed his friend was well, that the boy wasn't suffering in a dungeon or dark pit. Because, he missed him – needed him – something he would never admit out loud but knew was still completely true.

He'd wanted to demand information about Merlin's welfare and location from the servants who had come to tend him off and on, but something had stayed his tongue. They were only servants after all, and hardly privy to the plans of their disturbed ruler. But more than that, he understood he had to be careful now. He had become a pawn in some game and he couldn't afford to make rash demands and decisions without adequate information, especially given the fact that Merlin's life was even more precariously balanced than his own. As much as he wanted to be insufferable and – as Merlin would say – a royal prat, he knew he had to exercise caution and restraint – an act that was becoming more and more difficult with each hour he was left shut up in this room with no answers to his overflowing fountain of questions.

Still, if he didn't receive some answers soon, he was afraid his old, wooden ceiling was going to end up with even more holes.

The day had dragged on into evening as a storm raged outside and Arthur was once more lying on his back on the cramped bed plotting the detailed and extremely painful deaths of everyone who had hurt Merlin in the last two weeks when he heard the sound of the locks on his door sliding open. Instantly, he sat up, fully alert.

A middle-aged man dressed in plain servant's clothing entered, hauling a bucket of steaming water. He set it on the floor, turned and closed the door (Arthur noted that he didn't lock it), and then bowed low.

"My lord," he said to the floor, his voice quiet and uncertain. "King Alfhild has requested the honor of your company at dinner. I am here to help ready you."

"I already have a manservant," Arthur growled, crossing his arms and refusing to stand. "Why don't you send him up to get me ready?"

The man faltered. "I wasn't…I didn't… I wasn't aware a servant was brought with you," he finally stammered after several false starts.

"You mean dragged here as a prisoner with me?" the prince snapped. He was fully aware that he was being waspish and mean, but nearly three days of almost solitude had pushed him past the point of caring for niceties.

The servant finally raised his head, meeting Arthur's eyes with his own panicked brown ones. "Please, my lord," he pleaded, "I know nothing of your manservant, just that I was ordered to see you properly tended to."

Arthur sighed, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was obvious this man was terrified - whether that was because the servant was frightened of what the prince might do to him, or because he was afraid of what others might do to him if he failed to follow through on his orders Arthur had no idea, but it hardly mattered. The terror reminded him too much of Merlin – chained and collared and silenced as a slave – and he couldn't add to it.

"Does the king regularly dine with his prisoners?" he asked as he reluctantly stood, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice at least.

The servant took his rising as a cue he was allowed to do his job. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, the man picked his bucket back up and moved to the washstand that was set up just to the side of the wardrobe, pouring the warm water into the ceramic bowl.

"Oh no, my lord," he said as he worked, his voice still quiet if slightly less shaky. "You're not a prisoner. You are our honored guest!"

Arthur scoffed harshly, eyebrows climbing as he eyed his worn-out room. "Says the man who just had to unlock my door in order to enter," he mumbled, then continued louder with, "Tharennor and Camelot obviously have a different meaning for the word honor."

"It's for your protection, sire," the man answered, throwing the wardrobe open and digging through clothes.

The action was so painfully familiar and yet completely wrong because it wasn't Merlin doing it, that Arthur let his arrogant annoyance slide away, the will and energy to keep it up fading.

Without protest, he allowed the timid servant to assist him out of his rumpled tunic, then stood silently and compliant as his skin and hair was washed carefully with the warm water and a soft flannel, memories of the last time his friend had performed these same actions flooding him. When he was guided to a chair and the older man produced a flat blade and a brush from a hidden drawer in the wardrobe, Arthur couldn't take the silence any longer.

"What's your name?" he asked, seeing Merlin's trembling and chained hands in his head instead of the new servant's as the man spread shaving foam across his jaw.

His fingers faltered for just a moment and he looked at Arthur in surprised shock. "Linus," he finally answered quietly.

"Tell me, Linus," Arthur continued after some time, speaking soft and earnest as the man deftly rid his face of the itchy hair, his resolve to wait for more information cracking at the painful memories. "Have you seen a new boy about the castle? Skinny and gangly, with raven hair?"

"Yes," Linus answered after a bit of hesitation, wiping the Crown Prince's face clean with the warm cloth.

"Where is he?"

Linus rinsed the cloth and rung it out, hanging it over the edge of the washbasin before answering. "He is…working, my lord."

"And is he well?" he couldn't stop the question from slipping out.

There was a pause and then the servant picked up the pair of dark brown breeches he had selected earlier. "We must get you dressed, sire. The king should not be kept waiting."

And Arthur found his heart clenching as he had his unspoken answer.

00000

As Arthur was led through the twisting halls of the castle by a silent guard, he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of his servant but saw nothing. In fact, the halls were practically empty, and it sent chills up his spine that the warm overcoat Linus had dressed him in couldn't stop. Finally, he was brought into a medium-sized chamber. A fire roared in the hearth across the room, antlers, furs, and tapestries decorated the walls and floor, and a solid table that was set for a formal dinner filled the center.

A man, dressed in black and crimson, stood in front of the fireplace, his back to the doorway and the shadows from the dancing flames lighting off his blond hair.

"Prince Arthur, Your Majesty," the guard announced officially.

King Alfhild turned, his face an unreadable mask though that didn't stop Arthur from trying, looking for any clue as to what this man wanted from him.

"Prince Arthur, welcome to Ulethien Castle," the king greeted, nodding his head as though meeting an old friend.

"Your Highness," Arthur answered warily, nodding in return as he determined to play along until he understood, but refusing to bow to this man who had kidnapped him and allowed such abuse of his missing servant.

"Come, sit," Alfhild said loudly gesturing to a chair.

Feeling off balance and unsure, the prince took the offered seat while the king settled into his own place at the head of the table. Immediately, silent servants appeared, pouring wine and serving up helpings of meat, cheese, bread, and boiled vegetables. King Alfhild waited until their plates were full and the servants had melted from the room, leaving the pewter of wine on the table and closing the doors behind them, before gesturing again.

"Please, eat!" he ordered heartily, digging into his own food with relish.

For just a moment, Arthur hesitated, wondering if perhaps the food might be poisoned and that was the king's end plan – to deprive Camelot of an heir while having the pleasure of mocking as he watched Arthur die painfully – but apparently, his thoughts were laid bare on his face despite his best efforts to hide them as Alfhild threw back his head and laughed, an almost manic quality in the sound that set Arthur shivering.

"It's not poisoned," the older man answered, still chuckling gleefully, reaching over and spearing a carrot from Arthur's plate before popping it into his own mouth. "I'm hardly going to bother bringing you all the way here just to kill you. I would have let my men run you through in the woods if that were my desire. So please, Arthur, eat," he said casually.

"Why did you drag me here?" Arthur ground out through clenched teeth, but Alfhild shook his head, eyes and mood darkening instantly.

"If they have not taught you it's rude to let a host's offered meal grow cold with pestering questions then Uther's court truly has sunk low. You will eat now, young prince, and hold your tongue in the presence of my great generosity."

Gone was the warm, welcoming façade as the room frosted over with the veiled threats. Unable to wrap his head around the yo-yoing emotions of the enemy king, Arthur bit back his words and started to eat, though he hardly tasted the food as his mind continued spinning.

How was he to use his strategic training to plan the best actions and responses in his desperate situation if he couldn't even predict the king's moods? He felt like he was floundering, set adrift in a shaky, leaking skiff on a very large and stormy sea.

They ate in silence for many minutes after that. The king refilled their wine – the servants did not make a reappearance – and Arthur picked at his food, his appetite having fled.

"You should feel thankful that I don't stoop to holding grudges," the king suddenly spoke without warning, eyeing Arthur and his cooling food. "I treat my guests with honor, unlike your father."

The waiting, the uncertainty, the confusion…it had all been mounting inside of Arthur, though he'd been trying his best to restrain it. At the dig to his father, however, the prince felt his hold dissolve and he spat out an answer in anger, throwing diplomacy to the wind. He'd halfway decided that diplomacy was going to be useless with this man anyway.

"Honor?" he scoffed, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. "Keeping me bound and blindfolded for days on end as you kidnapped me and brought me here? Locking me in an old, magic-tainted tower and refusing to let anyone answer my questions? This is how you treat your guests? Continually besmirching Camelot and now mocking my father?"

"Your great father laughed at my messenger!" Alfhild exploded, bringing his goblet down on the table with a crash that echoed through the mostly empty room and sent a small flood of wine over the lip to splash in horrible crimson on the white cloth. "Turned my peaceful delegation away without even a formal audience!"

Arthur wrinkled his forehead in confusion; he had no memory of a delegation from Tharennor, turned away or otherwise.

King Alfhild leaned back in his chair, letting out a cold, ruthless laugh. "See, Uther Pendragon thought so little of my honest proposal he never once in the last year mentioned it to his son."

Bewilderment filled Arthur as he gaped at the king. A year ago? This king was still holding onto a slight from a year ago? Outraged, he glared at the older man, putting every ounce of his princely fury into the move. "So this is what? You claim at holding no grudges yet you engage in petty revenge? Because my father wouldn't grant your man an audience?" he asked in disbelief.

"Oh, Prince Arthur. How young and naive you still are. You know nothing of what I desire."

"Perhaps that's because no one will tell me!" the prince replied icily. "So please inform me correctly, Your Majesty," he spat, "what exactly do you want?"

"A husband for my daughter and a male heir for my kingdom. To rule Camelot and make Tharennor a kingdom to be feared. Perhaps to even rule the whole world," King Alfhild muttered quietly, his eyes distant and far away.

Silence filled the hall as Arthur stared at him, waited for the cold laughter that goosed up his flesh but at least meant the king was acknowledging his not-very-funny jokes, but it never came. Instead, the words hung there, solemn and filled with truth.

Heavens above, the man really is mad, Arthur thought with panicked alarm. He opened his mouth to sputter a response, but then let it snap closed again, unsure of what exactly he could say in the face of such a claim. After a long moment, the king's eyes came back into focus and finally the laugh Arthur had been waiting for emerged, though for a different reason.

"Look at you – the Golden Prince of Camelot – rendered speechless."

"You will never take Camelot!" Arthur retorted hotly, fire replacing the shock in his veins.

"I can and I will, though the manner of its fall and brutality to its people is entirely up to you, Prince Arthur."

Arthur straightened his back, holding his head erect. "I will tell you nothing, do what you will," he said firmly, eyes hard as rocks.

And Alfhild threw back his head once more and laughed, pitching Arthur off-keel again.

"Oh, Arthur," the madman breathed when he finally reined in his emotions, "you amuse me more than my own fool. I didn't bring you here to have you tortured, I brought you here to have you wed!"

Arthur's jaw hit the floor – he honestly couldn't help it – as the king's words penetrated his brain.

Wed? He'd been kidnapped so he could be forced to marry?

Gwen's sweet face flitted unbidden through his mind, reeling him in and centering him, and he pushed himself past his incredulity and back to the anger.

"You sent a marriage proposal for me to my father."

"I did," the king answered, leaning forward and meeting Arthur's eyes with his own smoldering and not-entirely-stable ones. "I thought it was high time the throne of Camelot was shared by someone actually of royal birth, rather than just a common usurper or his mongrel son! My Bodil would bring that back and eventually return control of Camelot to those with a purer claim on the land! But Uther spat on my goodwill, turning my messenger away with a note carried by a servant, too busy to even come himself!"

Rage flooded Arthur at the sneering man's words and he leapt to his feet, shoving his chair back.

"My father brought law and peace and prosperity to a land ravaged by barbarians and ensconced in chaos, and he has kept it for nigh on thirty years! He is recognized as rightful king and ruler by all the neighboring lands, including Tharennor! Do you forget the treaty that has stood for decades – signed by your own father – benefitting both our peoples?"

"My father was a fool!" Alfhild snapped, also rising. "The only thing he ever did to strengthen this land was manage to sire a male heir!"

"Well, he certainly has you bested there, doesn't he?" Arthur goaded even though he knew it was unwise. He was just so furious his tongue was getting away with him. "What is the count of daughters at now, sire? Six, isn't it?"

He expected Alfhild to explode – to retaliate, maybe even to draw a weapon on him – and he tensed in preparation to defend himself even as he chastised his rashness. The king, however, just braced his hands on the table and leaned forward, speaking in a deceptively calm tone.

"You are my guest, Arthur. You have been given chambers and clothing, and if there is anything else you desire you need only ask. The castle is yours to roam, within reason. You may join my knights and soldiers in training, as we all know a young warrior must do something to stay fit and wile away the long winter hours." He straightened and stepped forward, moving around the corner of the table and into Arthur's personal space, causing the prince to fight the urge to slide back.

"And you will court my daughter. Openly, declaring your intent before court and kingdom. Come spring, when the pass reopens, you will be wed, and word sent to Camelot of your new title and home. And when you sire a son of Bodil's womb, he shall be my heir, keeping Tharennor's bloodline untainted and bringing Camelot back into the control of those with true royal lineage."

"You're insane!" Arthur breathed, shaking his head in astonishment. "How can you speak of your own daughter with such callousness and disrespect?"

"I'm a king, Prince Arthur, and I do what I must for my kingdom! Bodil knows this."

"And if I refuse?"

King Alfhild turned and strode away, moving to the fireplace and pausing to gaze into the dying flames, hands held thoughtfully behind his back.

"Is your father well, Arthur?" he asked casually, abruptly changing the topic as he spoke to the fire. "I have heard whispers of late – rumors that all is not right at home… Old King Uther's mind might be faltering…"

Arthur hissed in a silent breath, clenching his fists at his side.

"Winters in Tharennor generally last four to five months," the king continued, again forging off in another direction. "The longer you go without pledging your troth to my daughter the more I will increase the ranks of my army. I warned you I would have Camelot one way or the other, and that the level of carnage would rest firmly with you. Marry Bodil and the exchange is mostly bloodless – your people will not suffer. Refuse and with the melting snow I will march forth with a well-trained army to take it by force. We may be small, but surely even you have noticed that one thing Tharennor does extremely well is make soldiers! How easy do you think it will be to wrest the kingdom from the hands of an ailing old fool, especially when he sees the head of his only son and heir going before us on a pike?"

The threat should have sent a jolt of fear and worry though him, but all he really felt was perplexed disbelief. This king really believed his words – failed to see the spectacular holes in his flawed plan. Arthur had to admit he'd been grudgingly impressed by Sir Einar and his soldiers – could see that an army from Tharennor would pose a real challenge – but the King was confidentially assuming Arthur would let it get to that point! Refusing to let anger rule his words again though, to lose control like he had before, Arthur gritted his teeth and answered as a prince, rather than an offended son.

"Four or five months is a long time. Your threat is rather distant and ineffectual."

"Which brings us to the boy."

Real fear slithered into Arthur's gut for the first time, though he worked hard to keep it from his face.

"I admit that took me by surprise – the Crown Prince of Camelot, caring so for a mere slave boy," the king said, finally turning from the orange embers.

"He's not a slave!" Arthur cried, resolve crumbling in a few short seconds as rage over Merlin's treatment returned. "He's a free citizen of Camelot and my manservant!"

"It is my slave, captured fairly in battle. Its freedom is not up for negotiation, though its life and the extent of its suffering is."

The blood roared through Arthur's veins as he heard the king speak of Merlin as an "it," nonchalantly reduced to being a thing, a possession. But the threats were no longer veiled, instead hanging like an executioner's ax out in the open, and he couldn't help picturing Merlin's skinny and trembling neck stretched beneath. With great effort, he forced himself to still.

"How much is one filthy slave worth to you? Your pride? Your misguided honor?" Alfhild goaded, voice soft as a whisper. "Think on it, Prince Arthur. Tomorrow night I will have your answer at your welcome feast, and I hope it's the right one. "

It was a clear dismissal, but Arthur dug in his heels, refusing to move. He had lost all verbal battles with this deranged king so far, but he knew he had to try for one tiny victory, buy time to regroup and rethink without causing further harm.

"Sire, you said if there was anything I lacked, I had but to ask…"

Amusement flickered through King Alfhild's stormy eyes. It made Arthur sick, knowing the man would be thinking him already cowed, but still he forced himself to keep speaking as the king gestured for him to proceed.

"I wish for the boy to continue as my servant while I am your…guest." He knew the last word came out more as an expletive than was polite, but overall he felt his restraint in his request was of enormous proportions. And he was doing this for Merlin. He couldn't save the boy yet – had no way to set him free – but if he could find a way to make sure some of his hours were spent in Arthur's own care… It was all he had left.

Alfhild let out a wry snort, rolling his eyes. "Slaves are disgusting creatures, not fit to share breath with those of noble blood," he lectured and Arthur clamped his mouth shut to contain his again-boiling emotions. "That you would desire one as your attendant proves everything I already knew about the bloodline of Camelot's reigning family. Still, why should I save you from a dishonorable hole you dig yourself?" He threw out a hand dismissively. "The slave whelp may serve you – I'm sure it will provide great entertainment to myself and my court – though none of its other work may suffer or fall behind."

Then, before Arthur could think of a reply that didn't involve him continuing to insult his kidnapper – or laying him flat with a well-aimed punch – King Alfhild called loudly for a guard.

"Escort Prince Arthur back to his chambers. He's quite tired," the man said, somehow back to the kind and concerned host he'd appeared when Arthur had first entered the hall.

As he followed the nameless man back to his room (one that he knew was still a prison, no matter what the king had said,) the prince's thoughts spun in hopeless circles, leaving only one thing desperately clear: the King of Tharennor was entirely mad! And like flies trapped by a hungry spider, Merlin and he were caught fast in his carefully crafted web of insanity and lies, and anyone who knew anything about the world knew that almost always ended badly for the flies…