21. Silent Prayers

"Don't pray for lighter burdens, but for stronger backs."
- Budda

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The servants' common room was dark. Only the faint glow of a fire that had burned down to embers pushed at the blackness, but it was in vain. Outside the poorly constructed half-stone, half-wooden building a storm raged, wind whipping snow up into icy weapons it hurled at the roof and walls and drove through any crack or hole, sucking away all warmth just as the night had claimed the light.

In one corner of this cold and deserted place stood a boy, beaten and bloody, head and posture slumped in misery and pain. Only the unforgiving, wooden frame he was trapped in stopped him from collapsing to the floor, but it still took every bit of willpower he had left to keep his wobbly, injured legs beneath him so he wouldn't fall and choke.

A lose board on the roof banged, caught in the icy fingers of a power beyond even kings, and Merlin shifted in place slightly, gritted teeth only barely holding back a deep groan as his head drooped farther, the clank of the chains binding his wrists swallowed up by the roar of the storm.

Well, there was one thing, Merlin thought bitterly – the Steward was a man of his word. As promised, the warlock wasn't sure he would even be able to crawl after the flogging and beating the man had given him, let alone walk when he was released from the stocks.

All because he dared to glance up from the floor – look at the other humans breathing in the same room as him – assist his master like a competent servant.

The exhausted boy shuffled his bare, bruised feet again, trying to ride out the anguish. As a distraction, he raised his aching head slightly and looked around the room – at least what little of it he could see with the miniscule light.

Being a servant wasn't exactly a glamorous position, no matter where one was employed. Service was hard, drudging work – Merlin had learned that first hand – with low pay and long, dirty hours. But at least in Camelot, servants were treated as people – human beings with needs and feelings. Camelot housed its servants who didn't have their own homes to return to in four large dormitories – two for men and boys and two for women and girls – firmly within the castle walls. It wasn't the height of luxury by any means, but there were beds for everyone and decent meals in sturdy rooms where the fires were kept lit for warmth.

It was survival, but it was also a life and a…home.

Ulethien Castle was anything but.

It was a place of pain and torment, for everyone but the very elite.

The wind howled louder outside, making the rickety walls tremble, and Merlin gave up trying to see through the gloom, hanging his head and closing his eyes. A few tears – reactions to the pain he couldn't hold back – trickled down his face but he didn't care. There was no one there to see it now.

Unlike earlier.

He supposed he should be grateful that he was on display in the indoor stocks of the common room, at least there he avoided the certain death of exposure to the elements that would have come from the stocks outside. Though it sickened him to the core, that this country even had indoor stocks, set up right in the room where the servants cooked and ate, washed their clothes and…lived during their precious few hours of downtime.

Merlin was a gentle soul, someone who tried to always look for the good in things and to do good in return, not someone prone to malice or hate…

But oh, how he hated this kingdom!

Hated the ramshackle wooden buildings that huddled up against the castle proper, the places where the people who served and labored for the nobility were forced to live, lest they sully the real castle by mingling with their betters.

Hated the king who had captured his master and forced him into this farce.

Hated the Steward with his whip and his heavy stick and his eyes hungry to cause torment.

Hated that barbaric cruelty which had taught the other servants to live lives of fear and pain, and then turn around and inflicted it on others, because even the small comforts of the pitiful servant quarters had been denied to Merlin. Share meals with a slave? Bed down beside a creature that low? The disgust in their eyes and voices hurt almost as much as the Steward's lash.

Hated the way he'd been forced to give up all dignity, become a shadow – eating the scraps off plates to survive and sleeping in dingy corners when he finally collapsed.

Hated that –

"You alive?" a timid voice whispered from the dark, breaking into his thoughts, just as a cold hand brushed his bare arm.

Merlin's eyes shot open. He jerked his head up, only to bash his neck painfully against the rough wood of the pillory, grimacing at the anguish that flared back to a fiery agony all down his back and legs and jabbed up through his brain.

"Sorry," the voice said morosely.

Midge stood before him, barely discernible in the dark, shifting from foot to foot and throwing nervous glances over his shoulder every few seconds. He was looking at Merlin with unreadable eyes.

"Steward licked ya good," the child muttered sadly.

Merlin wouldn't have known what to say to that even if he could speak, so he just nodded dully.

The little boy was silent again for a long while, twitching as though torn between a need to say something else and a deep sense of self-preservation that told him to quickly scurry back to a safer corner. Finally, he turned with a jerk and Merlin squinted at him as he walked off, assuming the strange encounter was over, except Midge didn't disappear into the black doorway that lead to the sleeping quarters, but instead went to the cooking area. Quiet as a mouse, he withdrew a ladle from a wooden bucket and then carefully retraced his steps until he stood in front of Merlin once more.

Shocked, Merlin gratefully drank the cool water the little boy tipped into his mouth from the dipper.

"'Nother?" Midge whispered.

Merlin nodded.

Two more times Midge filled the water ladle and brought it to him, and Merlin savored each drop. The child would have done it again, but after the third Merlin shook his head no when asked if he wanted more, afraid of what would happen to the boy if someone entered and witnessed his kindness.

Thank you! he tried desperately to convey with his eyes.

Midge paused, empty dipper still in one hand, and stared hard at Merlin, his eyes again ages old and unreadable. Suddenly, he dug a grubby hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small wad of dry bread.

"Don't die, 'k!" he pleaded, then he shoved the remains of his own dinner into Merlin's astonished mouth and turned and ran off.

Merlin clamped his lips tight before the stale hunk could tumble back out, staring after the kitchen boy. Hunger won over shock, however, and so he stood there painfully in the dark, eating awkwardly without the use of his hands, grateful the night kept him from seeing what he was actually chewing.

His thoughts whirled – hatred and hope, kindness and exhaustion – while he simply endured.

Outside, the wind still howled all night.

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When in a room and a bed, Arthur was usually a deep sleeper who had issues with waking up in the morning, something he was sure Merlin would heartily corroborate. But apparently, captivity had the power to change what twenty-three years of nurses and servants had been unable to put a dent in, because as soon as the prince sensed someone moving about in his shabby chambers, his eyes popped open.

"Merlin," he muttered from his cramped and rather uncomfortable corner bed, and as the word slipped from his lips he realized why he'd slept so lightly and poorly. The servant boy had started the feast last night cowed and hiding, but Arthur had watched that change. As the prince – who'd felt like a horrible fish out of water, one on public display – had floundered and stumbled Merlin had purposefully stepped up to help. His friend had refused to let him face the embarrassment alone, but as a result Arthur had gone to bed worried the young man would pay for his stubbornness. To hear him puttering silently about eased his heart.

"I hope you brought a better breakfast than yesterday, Merlin," he teased. His friend had drawn the curtain across the front of his bed before he left the night before, telling Arthur it would help keep him warm in the drafty tower room. Now he threw it open and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. "It really was –"

He trailed off as he caught sight of the timid servant removing clothing from the wardrobe. "You're not Merlin," he stated, frowning.

"No, my lord," Linus said quietly.

"Where's Merlin?" Arthur demanded, standing and running a hand through his hair. "I was told he would continue to serve me."

"I…he's…the Steward…," the man stuttered. "I was just told to come, your highness."

Arthur sighed and snapped his lips shut, worry returning tenfold but knowing he'd get nowhere with the frightened servant. He allowed the man to dress him, then ate the food Linus had brought up while the other man made his bed and straightened his room, and then the servant took the dishes and scampered away after a hasty bow.

The door shut and silence covered the room as Arthur just stood there.

Now what did he do?

It was early morning and he was fed and dressed and ready for…what? He had no meetings to attend, no training to run, no patrols to lead. He was a prisoner with an unlatched door and a missing friend, and his only impending activity was the fake courtship of a princess.

He walked to the window, gazing out. A storm had blown through in the night and everything was blanketed in a deep carpet of white snow. In some places, where the wind had whipped around the walls and turrets of the castle, the drifts were as tall as a man. It was pristine and beautiful and altogether uninviting.

A winter kingdom with no escape…

No! he suddenly thought, clenching a fist as he shook his head. No one built a kingdom or a castle with only one way in or out! It was insane. There had to be an escape route, another exit, a second pass. And Arthur was going to find it even if he had to personally examine every stone in this whole horrid castle!

And then when he did, he was going to find his infuriatingly loyal servant and get them both home!

Though, he might start with finding said servant, because, while he would normally vehemently deny it, he was worried and Merlin was scared and wearing far too little for such cold weather, and…

Yes, he had a battle plan. Explore castle. Find Merlin.

He strode to the wardrobe and rummaged around for a bit before he found a leather coat that only had two mostly hidden holes in it. He yanked it out and pulled it on, then left his tower room, trying once again not to dwell on how naked he felt without a sword at his side.

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Camelot's castle was old; many generations of rulers having come and gone inside its walls, each king leaving his own mark on the design and shape of the fortress. There were old sections and newer sections, and though Arthur had spent his entire childhood exploring it from top to bottom, he was still sure that there were secrets he had yet to discover.

But the castle Arthur had grown up in was nowhere near as rambling and confusing as Ulethien castle was. The place he was now forced to call home was oppressive and smothering, it's dark, stone walls narrow and high and appearing much more ancient than Camelot. It had obviously been added to through the years, like his own home, but not with the same care. It was as if the builders just started going, without any sort of plan, and by the time they realized things wouldn't line up to meet correctly it was too late, so they just kept plodding along and cobbled it all together the best they could.

The result was a plethora of oddities. There were places with uneven floors, steps up or down to get to rooms technically still on the same level, and rooms tucked here and there in available but strangely shaped spaces. Some windows opened into hallways because the outer walls had been moved years ago. In some passages Arthur had to crouch to keep his head from scraping the ceiling, and in others, there was room for almost another person to stand on his shoulders. And the whole place was a mess of odd corners, nooks, and passageways.

Arthur wandered for several hours, spending much of that time going in what felt like circles as he tried to fathom out his large prison, intent on examining every inch for a possible escape route. It felt like he was clambering through a stone maze without a map though, and the prince was almost jealous of the servants he saw scurrying here and there through the labyrinthian layout as he passed the same doorway for what he was sure must be the twelfth time. By sheer luck he found the lower levels, passed rooms for laundry and mending, storage and cleaning. He stumbled upon the kitchens – two enormous rooms that billowed smoke and steam, loud voices and dozens of smells pouring from them with such force that he didn't dare try to enter.

"You ain't s'posed ta be here, yer highness," a grating voice suddenly said from behind Arthur. "You lost?" the voice continued as he turned around to find a rather insolent looking servant boy, probably a few years younger than Merlin, standing in the corridor with a basket balanced on his shoulders.

"No," Arthur answered firmly, something about the youth instantly putting him on edge.

"Lookin' fer that brat, ain't ya," the boy drawled, a sadistically gleeful look on his face.

Arthur decided he really didn't like the kid. "Do you know where he is?" he pressed through gritted teeth.

"Workin'," the servant answered. "Prob'ly wishin' he weren't," he finished with a laugh.

"Can you show me where?" the prince asked, using all his training in negotiation not to pummel the boy.

"Nope. Slaves ain't ta be seen."

"He's my servant!" Arthur spat, negotiation be hanged.

The youth just grinned snottily and shouldered past him, purposefully bumping Arthur with his load as he walked away, still laughing.

Arthur stood there for a long time after he left, fists clenched as he fumed in the empty corridor, anger, worry, and infuriating helplessness overwhelming him. Finally, having no other option, he stomped off in a random direction.

He wandered aimlessly all the rest of the morning, having nowhere to go but unable to sit still doing nothing. The wind outside the castle walls had once more started to wail and he found himself shivering, wishing he'd worn a warmer coat as his breath misted before him in the often tomb-like passageways. Occasionally he passed people – servants, nobles, a few guards. Most barely acknowledged him, brushing past as though he was part of the woodwork. It made him angry, and also strangely…homesick, longing for his familiar castle full of people who wanted him.

"Mereow?"

The tiny, unexpected noise caused Arthur to pause and glance down. At first he saw nothing, but once he crouched lower he noticed a small ball of orange fur huddled in a corner.

"Oh," he said softly, reaching out to gently stroke the kitten, not even caring that on a normal day in his normal life he wouldn't be caught dead talking to an infant cat. It was the first friendly creature he'd seen all day.

"Merrrrreow!" the little thing squeaked louder, uncurling and leaning into his fingers. "Merrrreow!"

"Merlin would love you," he said quietly, his spirits increasingly morose as they once again turned toward his gentle-natured servant – his missing servant. The fleeting thought crossed his mind to steal the little cat away to his chambers, just so he could see the delighted look on his friend's face the next time he was allowed to come…but he squashed it quickly, knowing it would never work. Instead, he patted the kitten for a few moments longer, then reluctantly stood to continue his aimless journey.

Halfway down the dark corridor, he realized he wasn't alone.

"Hey," he said sternly to the kitten determinedly following him. "Stop that. Stay put." He stepped away, and the little cat ran toward him. "Look," he said, not even caring that he was trying to reason with an animal, "they won't even let me keep and protect my own servant. I can't take care of a mangy cat. You're better off without me. So…shoo!" He stomped his feet and clapped his hands, making hissing noises and the little kitten squeaked in betrayal and fright and scurried off. For half a moment, he felt guilty, almost feeling Merlin's disapproving eyes on him, but he shook his head and walked off, knowing it was for the best.

He spent more time walking, thinking, and generally hating the lack of viable escape plans he was able to come up with, until he heard a familiar sound. The ring of sword-play was suddenly bouncing off the stone, pulling at him. Arthur followed until he came to an area of the castle that opened up slightly. Finally, he turned a corner and found himself in an indoor arena.

It was obvious that the place had once been open and outside, but the castle had grown around it and swallowed it up, creating a medium-sized, indoor training area that was currently filled with Tharennor's knights and soldiers who were engrossed in exercises.

The prince stepped forward to obtain a better view, but suddenly found his path blocked by an armed guard for the first time that day.

"You are not to be here, young prince," the man said forcefully.

He started to protest, to argue that no one had cared about anywhere else he'd roamed, when another voice called from across the room.

"Henrick, let the lad through."

Sir Einar was striding toward him, wiping sweat from his graying hair and beard with one hand while a practice sword hung loosely in his other.

Arthur glared pointedly at the guard, who reluctantly stepped back and let him pass.

"Your Highness," the enemy knight said, giving a small bow as the prince met him at the side of the arena. Arthur started a little; the greeting had sounded neither mocking nor terrified, which were the only two options he had come to expect in this horrid kingdom. "What brings you here?"

Boredom, his inner voice groused, but he did manage to bite the remark back. "I was looking for my servant," he finally said, left with no other excuse.

Something flashed behind Einar's eyes, but it was gone before Arthur could get a read on it. When the knight spoke, he was as collected as usual. "You are welcome to join us, should you wish to keep abreast of your own training."

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, something along the lines of "thank the gods, yes, I was about to go spare!" but the words caught in his throat as his mind suddenly whirled to life.

He was a captive in enemy hands. These men might be fellow warriors, but they were not his friends. He had fought some of these men in battle – wounded several, killed a few of their brothers-in-arms. He couldn't trust them, nor could he give himself away. Men who trained together learned each other's technique and style, revealed and shared their secrets. Arthur couldn't afford that, as it was almost certain he would face these men in battle again someday.

Still, he did desperately need a way to keep up his strength and his skills, and he really was going to die of boredom long before he found a way to get himself and Merlin out of the wretched country… It was a question with no good answer and he didn't know what to do.

"I thank you, Sir Einar," he finally said carefully, nodding slightly to be courteous. "Your offer is most gracious, but I shall have to ponder for a while before I can accept or decline."

The look of increased respect the old knight gave him was unexpected. "Of course," he answered, playing along with the polite farce of a dance as he bowed. "In the meantime, feel free to remain and watch as long as you like." He bowed again, then returned to his men.

Arthur wandered to the side of the arena, watching the exercises and trying to push the deep longing to join in – to once more hold a sword securely in his hand – aside. He'd been raised to play politics, to know how to say the right things and act the right way, always keeping his true self and thoughts locked back behind a coy and calculating smile. He was learning that here in Tharennor, it was a game he had to play every waking moment just to survive, and it was wearing him thin. He could do it – and would – for as long as it took to secure freedom for Merlin and himself, but oh how he hated it, longed for the chance to drop the façade and be simply Arthur again.

And he missed the one person who never let him lose himself in the politics and pretenses.

He really, really missed Merlin.

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Merlin finished scrubbing the last stone in the corner, his raw fingers barely able to grip the small brush as he raised a trembling arm and let it fall into the pail of dirty water with a plop. That small sound seemed to deflate him, and his exhausted, agonized body collapsed, the sheer stubborn will that had kept him moving through the hours of tortured anguish deserting him as his cheek sank to press against the still-wet flagstone and his eyes closed.

He hurt.

So badly.

Both physically and emotionally, worse than he ever had at any other time in his life. The wounds he'd suffered during his punishment, the long torturous night in the stocks after, and the following day of back-breaking labor had left him trembling and broken.

He couldn't do this. Couldn't survive this kind of constant agony, plus the cold and the hunger and the humiliation.

He couldn't do it; he just wasn't strong enough.

Tears leaked from his closed eyes as he lay there on the floor of the dark and abandoned kitchens, unable to hold back his fear and suffering any longer.

Why? he couldn't help whimpering in his mind. Why was he having to endure this? He'd tried to be a good person, but somehow he must have angered the gods because otherwise, he just couldn't understand why?

He lay there for a long time and just cried, the cold of the stones leaching into him through the rags he was forced to call clothes even as the wounds from his lashing that had been reopened during the day continued to bleed sluggishly.

He wanted to live. He really did. He didn't want to die as a slave, broken and powerless and bleeding. Arthur needed him, there were people who loved him and would want him to live, to try to come home, but he just wasn't sure he could do it. They'd taken everything he had, thrown it away, and then come back for more.

He had nothing left.

Opening his eyes, his scabbed fingers crept up to his neck, grasped the collar that left him caged, gripped it with sudden anger.

How could something so small, so…utterly stupid, trap him so completely? Enraged, he pummeled it with magic – pure, unfiltered, instinctual magic. The kind that flowed through him and needed no words or spells, the kind he'd been manipulating and controlling since his cradle. He drew deep within and just shoved.

The metal flared hot, burning his neck and causing him to jerk his poor fingers away, the collar momentarily ringing with power…

And then it was gone, leaving Merlin even more drained than before, and with the sudden, horrific realization that – just like in the forest the first night he'd tried to break the wretched thing – he had somehow, in his rage and desperation to escape, greatly reinforced the very thing that kept him prisoner.

His hands fell limp in defeat – all energy exhausted. He couldn't escape the collar – it was beyond his knowledge and power. And at that moment, he didn't even have the strength to lift his head let alone crawl off to his cold nest of rags for sleep. Besides, morning would come soon enough and then they would just kick him awake to start it all over again.

He was caged and beat and powerless.

Please help us! he prayed to the gods, knowing as he did that they were probably laughing at his pitiful existence, but there was no one else left to turn to. Please! he begged even as his eyes closed against tears once more and he just lay there, letting sleep – or maybe unconsciousness – claim him. Please…I can't do this…

Author's Note: I'm back! Hopefully to stay! Now to see if anyone remembers this poor little fic.