22. A Gesture of Kindness

"You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you."
- John Bunyan

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Arthur didn't sleep well that night; there was too much on his mind and he was still too worried about Merlin. He gave up and rose before dawn, managing to dress himself this time, though the action left him fuming.

Clean laundry had been brought back to his room at some point and he noticed that several of the garments seemed to be in even worse repair than they had when he'd worn them last. His selection of formal wear – all in shades of maroon and black, colors he was coming to hate with a passion – was rather extensive, if still worn and threadbare. But his choices for everyday wear were limited – several pairs of trousers, a few bland tunics, two jackets and the leather coat, all in a state of shabbiness that most of the servants back in Camelot wouldn't have been caught dead sporting.

It was just another mark of Alfhild's hypocrisy and cunning madness. At feasts and big events, Arthur was to look the part of honored guest. But during daily life the clothes were meant to show him as poor, lacking in taste, and struggling. Very few people knew that Arthur was a prisoner and that the clothes he was wearing weren't ones he'd selected and brought of his own choice. It was an insult to Arthur while playing right into the king's ruse that Camelot was an impoverished, backward country whose king had sent his son to make a much-needed alliance with a better kingdom where he could be educated and enlightened.

It was just one more thing that rankled in a list that was miles long.

The servant that eventually arrived with breakfast and to straighten his room was neither Merlin nor Linus. His actions were just shy of actual insolence as he slapped a sparse breakfast onto the table and grunted a greeting. Crumbs he hadn't even bothered to brush off his tunic told Arthur where the missing portions of his food had disappeared to, but both parties knew there was nothing Arthur could do about it.

Arthur sat and ate, glaring at the boy as he tugged apathetically at the bedding and scraped a few of the ashes from his grate into a bucket, managing to make an even bigger mess than before.

Princely-anger and prided flared up in Arthur and he stood, pushing the empty tray away. He was tired of inaction, tired of taking all their crap. He might not have one ounce of power or control, but he could at least act like he did. He was still the Crown Prince of Camelot after all.

"Boy," he said firmly, coldly. "You will deliver a message for me," he ordered.

The kid picked up the tray, sneering in his direction.

"Sorry, ain't got time. Things to do an' –"

"It wasn't a request," Arthur said, stepping forward menacingly and grabbing the boy's wrist to hold him in place, squeezing threateningly. "You will deliver a message to the Princess Bodil, informing her that I will call for her before the mid-day meal, do you understand?" He squeezed tighter and the boy gulped and nodded, finally showing some fear.

"You will also find my servant and tell him I request his services this evening – his and no one else's."

The boy nodded again.

"And finally, should I find out you did not follow these orders, I will make sure you regret that choice." The boy blanched, the smug look completely washed from his face. "Understood?" he asked again, pushing the servant away hard enough he barely kept hold of the tray.

"Yes, my lord," he stammered, nodding quickly. Then he gathered up his bucket of ashes and practically fled.

With a sigh, Arthur sagged against the table and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long time since he'd acted like that with a servant and he hadn't enjoyed it.

By the heavens, he missed Merlin.

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Merlin was running late.

He was supposed to have emptied and cleaned all the chamber pots in the lower, east wing before mid-morning but his battered body refused to move with any sort of speed and his hunger and exhaustion had left him light-headed. It didn't help that one of the other servants had stopped him about an hour ago to deliver a message from Arthur, and in retaliation for having to speak directly to the slave, had kicked over his bucket. At least it had been the one that held the water for washing the pots, not the one in which he dumped their contents. Still it took extra time and effort to mop up and refill it, making him even later.

"Yer master wants ya serving him tonight," the boy had spat. "If ya can still walk!" he'd finished with a nasty laugh, kicking over the pail.

Oh, what he wouldn't give to go serve Arthur, he thought as he wearily set the heavy buckets down for just a moment, only to catch his breath. He never would have dreamed that serving the prattish prince of Camelot would loom like a beacon of safety and peace, but it did and he longed for it. If only he could just slip away, off to Arthur's tower and –

"BOY!" the voice Merlin dreaded most suddenly cut through his thoughts even as a meaty fist to his back sent him sprawling. Pain roared back to life like a wildfire and he fell flat on his face, his arms too weak to catch him. "Lazy scum that's worse than the crap it's supposed to be carrying! Think's it can take all day! Apparently, one beating isn't enough for such a stupid, brainless slave like you to remember how to work!"

Merlin didn't bother to look up or try and protest. He simply lay there in defeated agony and waited for the blows to start, almost certain that this time he was going to die before it was over. The Steward's whip whooshed through the air and gouged first into his left hand. Tears crested his eyes as he heard the evil man ready his next stroke and –

"Stop!" an angry voice suddenly interrupted before the second blow could land. Blearily, Merlin fought through the pain to crack open an eye. Sir Einar stood between him and the Steward, his expression dark and disapproving. "What is going on here?"

"The slave is lazy and slow, taking forever to finish it's chores. I was just providing a bit of motivation," the Steward answered, glaring at the knight.

Sir Einar cast a pointed glance down at Merlin, then looked back at the other man. "You mean to tell me that the boy who is almost dead at your feet is moving slowly?" he asked in a dangerous voice. "Imagine that."

The Steward puffed up with rage and Merlin curled back farther on the floor. "It's deserved! The creature is insolent, daring to look up at its betters even when explicitly ordered not to!"

"I would think he'd have to look up to properly serve his prince, which I remind you the king has ordered he be allowed to do."

The portly man now seemed only a step away from actually exploding as he narrowed his eyes at the knight. Merlin didn't know whether to silently thank Sir Einar or curse him. While it was so very nice to have someone other than Arthur stepping in on his behalf, he knew once the man left the Steward's rage would be murderous and he would be the only one left in its path.

"I run this household and I serve out discipline as I see fit," the Steward hissed dangerously. "You've no right to interfere with any of my workers, Einar."

"And tell me, Steward Braggan, exactly how much work do you get out of a corpse?"

"It's not dead," he spat.

"Yet," the knight pressed, stepping toward the fuming Steward, still making himself a shield between the man and where Merlin lay on the ground. "But I have no doubt if I hadn't stopped you just now, he would be. Do I have to remind you that the king needs this boy alive? I have orders to see to it that he remains that way!"

"It's a filthy slave with vile magic!" the other man spat, spittle flying from his mouth. "It doesn't deserve the food we give it!"

"What food?" Sir Einar asked, glancing up and down Merlin's trembling body once more. "It doesn't appear to me that you've give him any."

The Steward's eyes narrowed with a calculated gleam. "Don't think I don't understand, Einar. Don't think I can't see it. The same hair, same lanky build, same vile…talents." He literally spat out the last word as though it was a curse. "I can see right through you, and I think the king would be most interested to hear about your traitorous desire to coddle the filthy slave. The last person who disappointed him lasted how long again? I think it was a mere two days, wasn't it?" The evil man beamed with smug victory, stepping forward to move past the knight, his whip already raised.

On the floor, Merlin simply closed his eyes and waited for the end to come, but he was instead startled for the second time in the last few minutes by the very familiar ring of a sword leaving its scabbard. He cracked his eyes open to see the enemy knight standing ridged, his face furious as he steadily held the tip of the weapon to the Steward's fleshy neck.

"And how interested do you think the king would be to know that his Steward dines from the royal stores? That he fills his bulbous gullet with venison and soft, white bread? Shares the king's own exotic fruits to tempt his kitchen wench mistress? Perhaps I should suggest he take an inventory of the wine cellar, see exactly how many bottles of the Royal Vintage have gone inexplicably missing in the last few years?"

First the first time, the Steward took a step back, actually looking rather pale. The knight followed him, stepping forward sword still pressed, threatening with both weapon and words.

"How often do you meet with the king, again? Once a month? You do remember that I report to him daily… I wonder if you would even live to make your next report and beguile him with your tales of my supposed coddling, should I decide to let slip your secret."

The Steward said nothing, but everyone in that hall could tell he was beat by the paleness in his face and the slightly mad gleam in his eyes that Merlin knew promised his own death at the first opportunity.

The look wasn't lost on the knight, however. He leaned toward the Steward, weapon still drawn. "This boy might be a slave, but there is absolutely no use in a dead slave, or even one that is only almost dead. So, you will let the lad live – on orders of the king. You will allow him to serve his master Prince Arthur whenever required – again on orders of your king! And you will cease trying to beat the boy to death for any and every fault you can possibly make up – on threat from me. Should I find him in this condition again I will not hesitate to act on my threat, and I can assure you the king will find the plundering of his royal stores a much greater offence than preventing the death of his own property and accusations of acting out of remembrance of the past. Am I understood?"

With gritted teeth, the Steward jerked his head once in something that almost resembled a nod.

"Good. Now, do you not have a household to run?" the knight asked, a dismissal so clear the other man couldn't even argue, but was instead forced to turn and stomp off, quivering with rage.

Stunned, Merlin just lay there, watching him go, until Sir Einar sheathed his sword and turned around, stepping over to crouch down next to his trembling form.

"This is not keeping your head down, lad," he said with a sad sigh, before reaching out and slowly, kindly helping Merlin to his feet. "I knew the Steward to be a cruel man and you to be a stubborn lad, but I did think you'd manage to last more than a week," he chided gently.

Merlin looked away, down to his dirt crusted toes, his mind too confused to think straight. On the one hand, this man was the one who had captured him – enslaved him and ordered the crippling collar placed round his neck. He had kidnapped his master and friend, brought them to this horrible kingdom… But, this man had also saved his life – twice now – and despite everything had never once spoken to him with disgust and malice. Merlin had no idea what to make of it and no way to actually ask any of the questions bombarding his mind. He couldn't even utter a simple thank you.

Instead, he attempted a suitably subservient bow, so unsteady on his feet he almost toppled right back over, and then, still not looking up from his feet, limped painfully back to his buckets and tried to heft them again.

Calloused hands stopped him. "Leave them, lad. Someone else will finish this chore. You will come with me."

What could he do but follow – wobbly and in agony? He was just a slave after all.

Wondering what chores the knight would have him do but figuring they had to be better than anything the Steward would fill his day with, he followed Sir Einar through several hallways he hadn't yet traveled then out into a bitterly cold courtyard. The snow burned like fire on Merlin's bare feet and he instinctively glanced up, hoping that where he was being taken wasn't far.

Then he saw the building the knight was striding toward – just ahead – and no amount of freezing feet could keep him from instinctively pulling back, his right hand unconsciously moving over to protectively cover the still healing burn on his left arm.

No, no, no! Please no! he wailed in his head as Sir Einar continued to make for the blacksmith shop. Not again! Please not again! And suddenly he could smell the smoke, mixed with the scent of his own burning flesh, and the cold against his feet became fire and his head was whirling and the flames were climbing and his skin was peeling away and…

"Lad!"

Sir Einar's voice cut through his terrified panic and he realized the knight was standing before him, a hand under his arm helping support his weight since his legs had decided it was time to collapse, and had obviously been trying to get his attention for some time.

"Come," he urged gently, and tugged him forward while still holding him up. "Not much farther."

At the end of his ability to tolerate fear and pain and humiliation, Merlin let himself be moved. He had nothing left to fight with – not for himself, not even for Arthur – and so simply gave in. Whatever torture the knight was bringing him to, he simply went along.

But Einar didn't take him through the main entrance and into the shop where the smoke billowed and the sound of the hammer on the anvil clanged. Instead, he guided him around to the back where a simple wooden door stood.

He knocked sharply on the aged wood. It took several moments, but eventually the big, scarred blacksmith pulled the door open. He took one look at the two of them, and though his face registered shock, he quickly ushered them inside.

"My lord," he said, bowing slightly and tugging off his sooty apron. "What brings you to my home, if I may ask?"

The word home finally pierced the daze surrounding Merlin, and he chanced a glance up as Sir Einar eased him to a crumpled heap on the floor next to a small but crackling hearth. The room was little – almost tiny – but instead of menacing tools and hot, angry metal the boy saw it held a bed in one corner, a table and stools, two trunks, and a chair.

Sir Einar had not brought him back to the shop to be branded once more, but for some unfathomable reason had brought him to the blacksmith's home instead.

Perhaps he was to be put to work with the smithy after all and Sir Einar needed to discuss it?

"He's injured – quite sorely – and in need of a physician, but given his status as a slave and precarious position I cannot take him to the castle healer. If word reached the king that the same man who treats the royal family had touched a 'filthy slave…'" He trailed off but his grim expression left no doubt what he implied. "I am not unaware," he continued, gazing squarely at the man whose face was marred by such frightening scars, "that you possess a small understanding of herbs and wounds and that though you don't advertise it, a servant or two has been known to slink off to you for help when Steward Braggan has been particularly brutal in his punishments."

The blacksmith looked down at Merlin, his eyes full of pity, before he nodded. "It's true, my lord," the smith replied, bowing again. "And of course, I'll do what I can for the lad."

Merlin was barely aware of the conversation going on around him by that point. He was reeling from what Sir Einar had said.

The man had brought him there as a kindness, to receive some help and care, not to do more work! For the first time since he'd arrived at the castle, he felt hope flutter back to life in his chest, though it was accompanied by so many burning questions.

The knight nodded in thanks to the blacksmith, then crouched beside Merlin once more, and though his expression was a careful mask, his eyes were kind.

"I cannot completely stop the steward and his sadistic cruelty," he told him softly. "It's a sad fact of life for any who are unfortunate enough to serve in this castle, but I believe I have spared you another beating such as this one, at least for a while. Still, you really must, whenever possible, keep your head down and stay out of his path."

He went to stand, ready to leave and continue his day, but something snapped in Merlin, the raging questions too much for him to bear, and he recklessly reached out and grabbed the older man's arm, halting him.

"What – " the knight started to say in surprise but Merlin was already crawling on his knees closer to the fire and the layer of ashes that stretched out beyond it.

WHY? he wrote, turning pleading eyes on the man, begging for answers. WHY HELP?

Sir Einar looked at him with unmasked shock, before allowing a different emotion to fall across his features – sorrow. In the background the blacksmith – Merlin suddenly remember that his name was Juno – was moving around his small home, quietly gathering his supplies.

"I…had a son once, a long time ago," the knight finally replied, and for the first time his voice sounded hesitant. "You bear a passing resemblance to him, lad," he finished. "And he also possessed some of your same…talents."

Einar had had a son, with magic? That thought opened up too many other questions and Merlin knew he would never be able to ask them all, so he slammed the mental door shut, focusing instead on what he had to know.

Why now? Not before? he wrote, then pointed a trembling finger at his collar to make sure the man understood.

Sir Einar sighed and stretched to his feet, his face once again masked and the mantle of duty back on his shoulders. He looked at Merlin for a very long time, as if decided whether or not to even answer. At long last, he spoke.

"This kingdom needs your prince," he said carefully. "And I believe your prince has need of you. I had very strict orders to either kill or take as slaves any who were accompanying the young prince. While I had only observed you for mere moments before I had to make a decision, I saw how the two of you interacted, and I also believed I saw in you a stubbornness of will. I made the choice that, no matter the circumstances, you would want to live. Was I wrong?"

Merlin thought about everything he had endured in the three weeks since they had been taken from Camelot – all the pain and humiliation and fear – and yet he couldn't deny that what the knight said was true. Despite it all, he did want to live. He gave a tiny shake of his head.

"Remember, lad," the man said, "slavery is a condition that might eventually be changed. Death, however, is very permanent."

Merlin ducked his head, waiting to hear the man leave, but he stayed where he was.

"You're educated," the knight said, the surprise back in his voice. "Did your master teach you?"

Merlin scoffed, almost giving a rare smile at the thought of Arthur having enough patience to teach anything that didn't involve whacking others with dangerous objects, and shook his head again.

Mother, he wrote in the ash instead. Arthur's servant, also physician's apprentice.

"Hmmm," the knight muttered, looking thoughtful. "Can you read and write more than just the common tongue?"

The boy couldn't help wondering why the man would want to know, but he wasn't exactly in a position to ask or resist, so he just answered the best he could.

Latin, some Greek. He hesitated, but then realized that the collar was glaring proof that the two men in the room already knew his huge secret, so he added, old tongue, to the list.

Sir Einar said nothing more, just retreated to the door with a nod to Juno and a maddeningly unreadable expression still gracing his face. Merlin stared after him, hating once more how everything in his life now – even the ability to ask questions – was out of his control.

"Up you get, boy," Juno suddenly said, pulling Merlin to his feet as though he weighed nothing more than a feather. "Over to the table…now sit…no there on the stool. There's a good lad."

Still numb with shock and the ever-present pain, Merlin offered no resistance as the big, weathered man urged his tunic up and over his head. He gave a low, shocked whistle followed by a muted curse.

"Braggan and his whip are enemy to all who work in the castle, but I've never seen anything… Poor lad."

For the next half hour, Merlin gritted his teeth while the big blacksmith worked away at his wounds, eventually even forcing him to lie down on his own bed so he could get at the injuries hidden away beneath Merlin's trousers. His hands were huge and calloused, but also surprisingly gentle and skilled. At one point the boy even tried to ask a written question, but Juno shook his head.

"Can't read, lad. Sorry."

Merlin tried again with gestures later, once he was sitting wearily back on the low stool, his hurts soothed slightly by salves and bandages. Some of the medicines had a tiny, extra tingle that pulled at power that was currently locked deep within the warlock and he couldn't hide his surprise. That time, the big man seemed to read the question on his face.

"My father was the blacksmith," he said, wrapping a strip of fresh linen around the ugly brand on Merlin's arm. He'd left it for last and the guilt was plain to see on his face, though he made no comment about the wound or its cause. "My mother was the healer, and she insisted I learn both trades. Her potions were known throughout the land as extra special…" He smiled at Merlin, though it pulled his scars into something more of a grimace. He patted the bandage carefully, then stood back, grimly surveying his work.

"Eat," he ordered abruptly, placing a tin plate with what Merlin suspected was his own dinner in front of the boy. "I've got to go bank the forge," he explained, then disappeared through an interior door.

Three weeks earlier, Merlin would have protested taking another man's dinner, but that boy was long gone. The instant the other man had left, he tore into the bread and cheese, his hunger so strong and all-consuming that he hardly bothered to chew as he inhaled the food. It was only after he'd shoved three huge mouthfuls down his throat that he was able to remember his physician's training and slow down before he made himself sick. Even then, there was only the smallest nibble of cheese left when Juno returned. The big man nodded, albeit sadly, and set a mug of cold, clear water on the table, urging him to drink with a jerk of his head.

"Another storm's commin'," Juno said, sitting on the other stool so he faced Merlin. "Be here sometime in the night."

Merlin shivered involuntarily and reached for his grungy tunic, pulling it on with great difficulty. He needed to be going…needed to get back to work. There were still so many chores to do before he could go serve Arthur that evening and then collapse in his heap of rags. He glanced down at himself, grateful most of the bandages were hidden by this clothing – if he could keep this punishment from Arthur, he would. His friend didn't need to shoulder the burden of any more guilt.

"Hold up a second, lad," the blacksmith said when he tried to rise, pushing him back down. The man then reached out and grasp his right foot and started slathering it with something slimy. "Axel grease," he said in response to Merlin's disgusted expression. "Helps with chapped, split skin, especially in the winter."

He finished coating the boy's whole foot, then took yet another roll of bandages and began winding it round and round. "It's as least some protection," he muttered darkly as he worked the bandages to cover the entire foot, tied off the knot, then quickly repeated the whole process for the left foot.

Merlin stood, testing them out, and found to his relief that the bindings did help. He smiled, his only way to say thank you.

"My door is always open if you need it, lad," the big man said. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

The servant started to nod, but suddenly froze as a horribly glorious thought just occurred to him.

Juno was a blacksmith.

Juno had a little bit of magic, or at least an understanding of it – Merlin was almost sure of it.

Juno could remove the collar! Set him, and by extension Arthur, free!

Eyes wide, Merlin lurched forward, grabbing one of the blacksmith's hands frantically and jerking it up to his neck, pressing against the collar.

Please! he thought desperately as he let got of the other and tugged at the horrible ring himself. Please take it off! Please, oh please! He begged with his eyes, tugging on the collar again before pointing toward the door Merlin now knew led to the forge.

"Oh, lad," Juno sighed, sorrow filling his whole body as he sank back down onto one of his stools. "I can't."

In desperation, Merlin fell to his knees, still begging with his whole body. Please!

"No, you misunderstand. I can't take it off, not because I won't, but because I do not know how. Sorcerer thrall rings are resistant to my fire or hammer or tongs."

Merlin crumpled to the ground, the sudden rush of elated hope followed by utter devastation too much for his injured body. Hands reached down and once more helped him to his feet.

"I'm sorry," the man said sincerely. "I would remove it if I could. I promise."

Feeling limp and all used up, Merlin nodded.

The big man squeezed his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, then nudged him toward the door. "Come back when you need me again," he said, and Merlin sighed, acknowledging he'd said when and not if.

Still, all afternoon as he slaved away, scrubbing walls and carrying buckets of ash, Merlin couldn't feel anything but grateful for the two men. He only passed the Steward once, and while his glance was murderous, he offered no blows. The other servants weren't that kind, but with his wounds tended to – he could already feel that there really was something just a little special about Juno's ointment – and food in his belly, it was bearable. For the first time since the night of the feast, Merlin started believing that he might just be able to survive, at least for a little while longer.

Author's Note: Oh my goodness! I love you guys! You have blown me away with your comments and love and support! Seriously, it is beyond my wildest dreams! THANK YOU! You can never know how much your support means! Your response to this story coming back is a huge reason I'm back so soon with the next chapter! THANKS!