19. Inconvenient Wisdom

"Even strength must bow to wisdom sometimes."

- Rick Riordan

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By the time Arthur was clean and in an only slightly-hideous turquoise tunic and brown trousers, Merlin's arm was burning in agony. He tried with all his might to hide it, to keep Arthur from noticing the trembling and flashes of pain, knowing every wince would be piled onto the prince's own shoulders in the form of guilt, as if somehow Merlin's suffering was Arthur's own fault. The young warlock couldn't do much to help his friend, but he could at least refuse to add to that burden.

Tossing the sleeping clothes Arthur had removed into the open trunk, Merlin looked the prince up and down with a critical eye then shrugged somewhat in defeat and prodded his friend over to the table where the rapidly cooling breakfast was still laid out, his gut starting to clench with worry.

How long had he been here with Arthur? How long was he allowed? Would someone come looking for him? Would he be punished if he wasn't back by a certain time?

Still, he couldn't leave until Arthur had dismissed him, or at least finished his food so Merlin could return the dishes to the kitchens.

Too nervous and uncertain to stand still, Merlin moved to the wall where the remains of the broken chair lay scattered. It was better to stay busy, and better to be farther away where the scent of Arthur's breakfast was less torturous on his ravenously empty stomach.

Should have brought up a broom, he couldn't help thinking as he tried to gather up even the smallest pieces of ruined wood and throw them in the fire, erasing the evidence of Arthur's momentary temper. Hopefully, the castle wasn't keeping too close of tabs on the furniture in their captive's room.

"Merlin," Arthur called suddenly, causing the boy to glance quickly around. The prince was sitting at the table, listlessly pushing his food around while staring at his servant. "Mind your feet for…for splinters."

He looked down at his feet that were black from ashes and dirt – feet that were so cold he doubted he would even feel a splinter if he stepped on one…but Arthur didn't need to know that. Instead he smiled and offered a reassuring gesture – touched by his master's concern – and continued with his task.

There was silence for a few minutes as Arthur pretended to eat, his mind obviously troubled, and Merlin threw the last of the broken chair into the flames. Then he grabbed the bucket of lightly used water and a rag and set himself to mopping the floor. He couldn't help wondering exactly how many years this chamber had been abandoned, to collect such an impressive layer of dust.

Suddenly, Arthur broke the silent rhythm of his work with a soft voice.

"Have you ever been faced with an impossible choice, Merlin?"

If he'd still had the ability nothing would have been able to stop Merlin from giving a bitter laugh at Arthur's words as he quickly glanced up at the older boy. Impossible decisions seemed to be the sum total of his life! But maybe it was better the horrible collar diverted his first reaction and forced him to pause instead, allowing him to notice the deep vulnerability in his master's voice, see the horrible lost look in his eyes.

Merlin let the rag fall into the bucket and sat back on his heels, nodding slowly.

What is it? he tried to convey with his eyes.

"Apparently, I'm getting married."

And Merlin fell backwards, landing solidly on his rump after those words, his mouth gaping like a fish as he stared at his friend.

"Wish I'd had the luxury of that same reaction," Arthur muttered, a small smile turning up his mouth though he was obviously still very serious.

Merlin threw his hands out to the sides in the universal "what the heck, explain right now!" gesture, his eyebrows rivaling Gaius's, and to his surprise Arthur listened.

"Come sit by me, Merlin," Arthur offered, pushing his barely touched breakfast to the side and pointing to the remaining unbroken chair.

Quickly, Merlin shook his head, curling his frozen feet beneath his legs. He needed to stay close to the bucket of water, just in case someone came into the room so he could look busy, like a good little slave. Besides, it was warmer there on the floor near the hearth, and it was the first time in days he'd been allowed more than a few moments of steady heat. He conveyed this to Arthur with a tiny nudge of his head toward the flames.

Arthur's eyes softened with silent understanding and he nodded then set his elbows on the table, clasping his hands and resting his chin on them as he started to explain. As the evil plan of Tharennor's mad king rolled from the prince's tongue, Merlin felt a coldness creep inside that not even the roaring fire could chase away.

"I always knew, though my heart longed for it to end differently, that the chances of Guinevere and I…" Arthur muttered, having given all the important details. "Still, the thought of betraying her – and like this – it tears me apart, Merlin, but to save Camelot's people from harm, my knights and my brothers, to save yo –" He broke off abruptly, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "I see only one choice. I must agree to court this girl, marry her to keep the peace, and then when spring comes and the pass melts try to find a way to escape, taking her back to Camelot with us. King Alfhild would be hard pressed to start a war with Camelot once the marriage had taken place – that would fly in the face of all established rules between countries – so if we could just get away, I could keep the kingdom beyond his control…"

Merlin was scrambling to his feet – shaking his head firmly – before Arthur had even finished his anguished words.

"What else would you have me do? Refusing the marriage means war and death, for my people and those I care about!"

Thoughts and emotions whirled through Merlin's head and he ground his teeth in frustration at his inability to express them, to rattle off all the insults and advice and warnings he would normally spout. It was so…infuriating and demeaning to have to condense his communication to ape-like gestures and two-word phrases that could be scratched in the dirt or written on the palm of a hand! But, like it or not, those were his only options now and he somehow had to make Arthur understand – stop him from making this very permanent mistake.

With urgency, he grabbed Arthur's hand away from where it was still tugging on the prince's hair and forced it flat on the table, palm up.

Idiot, he wrote first, unable to stop it.

"Merlin," Arthur started in exasperation, but Merlin shook his head, cutting him off with more words traced on his palm.

Not wed. Pretend.

It often alarmed him how easily a life of dishonesty and lies came to him now, and it was certainly not something he was proud of, but at the moment he was grateful at least one of them was able to think outside the upright and honorable box.

Arthur looked up at Merlin with a frown. "Are you suggesting I court this girl under false pretenses? With no intention of wedding her?"

Merlin nodded emphatically.

Court to stall.

Escape before wed.

"That I can't do!" he cried incredulously, rising angrily to his feet and pulling his hand away. "Lie! String her along! It goes against all my vows of knighthood and everything I've pledged my life to support!"

Merlin threw his hands up in the air before trying to tug Arthur's back out so he could continue writing, but his friend wouldn't have it. "No, Merlin, I won't hear this. It isn't honorable," he said, stubbornly crossing his arms to stop the boy "talking" to him.

Merlin ground his teeth and huffed a breath out of his nose. No, you prat! he screamed in his mind, his eyes flashing with anger. Not you, too! It was too much, on top of everything else, to have Arthur use the collar against him – use it to shut him up – simply because he could and he didn't like what Merlin had to say. Near tears from rage and helplessness, he stomped over to the fireplace and dropped to his knees in the cooled ashes, scratching furiously.

DON'T IGNORE ME!

It took a few moments but eventually Arthur's curiosity got the better of his stubbornness and he came up behind Merlin. As soon as the boy was sure the prince had read his message, he scrubbed it out and wrote just as harshly: Just like them!

Arthur looked stricken. "Merlin I –!" but the servant wouldn't let him finish, writing again.

Used this against me! Then he yanked at his collar to make sure Arthur got the point, before swiping a filthy hand at a traitorous tear that had managed to leak out, leaving behind a streak of black soot.

Arthur sighed. "Stand up, Merlin," he ordered quietly.

Somewhat reluctantly, Merlin obeyed.

After a long silence, his master extended his hand again, palm upward. "I'm sorry. You're right, that was horrible of me, and I won't do it again. Now, what did you want to say?" he asked.

Merlin sniffed, hating himself for his weakness, and scrubbed his fingers on his ragged trousers before daring to reach out and write on Arthur's clean hand once more.

Not dishonor.

Strategic. Like battle.

Arthur looked away slightly. From the sheen of his eyes and tightness of his jaw, Merlin could tell the great war raging inside his friend, so he gathered his courage and wrote again. This time he moved slowly, needing the understanding achieved by a full sentence rather than an abbreviated jumble of words as he bared one of the supreme truths of his life.

Sometimes lies can save lives.

Arthur grew even more pensive, still not answering, and Merlin knew his master would have to take time now. Time to mull these thoughts along with all of his own over in his head – to let his heart and values and sense of duty do battle with their stark reality, and then he would make up his own mind, no matter what Merlin had said. That was just how Arthur Pendragon was made and nothing could change it.

Merlin sighed and reached for his friend's hand one more time.

Need to go, he spelled, a sense of urgent dread settling in the pit of his stomach as he realized how much time he must have spent in Arthur's chambers. He nodded toward the abandoned breakfast in question.

"Yes, go. I'm done."

Quickly, the servant boy gathered the rejected food back onto the tray, balancing it carefully on his right arm in an attempt to spare his branded skin, then bent to pick up the bucket of dirty water and rags with the trembling, injured limb. He turned to leave, but Arthur called him back.

"Merlin, will you serve me tonight, at the feast?'

Instantly, he shook his head no, furrowing his brow and glancing down at his rags and bare feet. Merlin had worked in a castle long enough to know how formal, royal banquets worked. Even the servants were expected to dress their best and put on a good show. Serving his master in his present state would be an insult to Arthur and all of Camelot. But as he was fervently objecting, Arthur stepped up to him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Merlin, you are my servant and my friend. All the rest of this is their doing, their shame, not mine and certainly not yours. I…I wish you by my side tonight, so…please, Merlin? Will you serve me?" The prince's blue eyes bore deep into his own, emotions laid naked and bare.

The boy wanted to agree, amazed at the uncommon show of feelings from his prince, but the Steward's warnings about "the disgusting slave" being in the presence of royalty – warnings that had been beaten into him over and over throughout the last four days – rang loudly in his ears and he hesitated. Setting the bucket back down, he gestured to the metal the circled his throat and again shook his head.

I'm not allowed, he tried to say with only his face and his eyes.

"I don't care that you can't speak, and it's not like you would be required to say much while serving food and pouring wine anyway," Arthur argued, completely missing the point.

Merlin shook his head, stamping down the growing frustration, and tried again. This time he rubbed his left arm against his side, causing the sleeve to ride up painfully, once more exposing the ugly brand, which he presented to his friend.

A flash of hot anger lit Arthur's eyes, along with understanding – finally. "You are not their slave, Merlin – not forever, I promise you! And besides, King Alfhild granted my request that you still be allowed to act as my manservant. If I ask for you to be there, they have to allow it."

Merlin wasn't entirely sure Arthur could keep either his promise or his request but still, he couldn't say no to his friend when he was looking at him like that – with such need and honest friendship – so he gave in and nodded.

"Come back to help me dress just before dusk," Arthur requested.

The servant nodded again, then grabbed up the bucket for the last time and rushed from the room.

He took the stairs as fast as his wobbly, aching legs would allow him, and then – three flights down in a cobweb-infested alcove just off the base of the tower – he paused long enough to inhale the picked-over remains of Arthur's breakfast, an act that was entirely new for him. Oh he'd "liberated" the occasional roll or sausage from his master's plate before, but he'd never actually stooped to consuming his half-eat leftovers. He might just be a lowly peasant from a dirt-poor farming village who was no stranger to hunger and cold, but he'd still had his pride after all.

Now though, that pride was long gone – had crumbled days ago – another voiceless victim of slavery. It was demoralizing, but he tried to remind himself it didn't mean his captors had won – just that he'd had to shift his energy to survival. His defiance – his silent rebellion – would now be to stay alive in the face of everyone who seemed to want to beat or starve that life out of him an hour at a time – even if he had to eat Arthur's scraps in order to do so.

When every morsel of edible food had been consumed, he gathered everything back up and raced to the kitchens wondering exactly how many more bruises he'd be sporting by the time he was allowed to report back to his master.