Merlin was glaring down at the turnips.

There were ten of them, and all of them were half-rotten. How on Earth was Merlin supposed to feed twenty slaves with ten, half-rotten turnips? Black mould clung to parts of the bulbs and there were plenty of wormholes, too.

It was in moments like this that Merlin could feel himself drift into a strange darkness. Thoughts emerged from a deep, primal part of his mind, overtaking him like a wave. He suddenly found himself wishing he could force-feed his Masters each and every one of the mouldy vegetables to teach them a lesson. Perhaps he would have Masters Nollar and Tindar kneel for him, make them beg for more even as they gagged and retched. A twisted sort of satisfaction arose from that particular vision. It startled Merlin and he violently shook his head to dispel the image.

Sometimes, he frightened himself. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He was better than this. He was not a monster.

He smoothed his features into the miserable blankness befitting a slave and started cutting away at the turnips, throwing away as little as he could possibly get away with. He moved on to the shrivelled carrots next, then went to check on the breads baking in the clay oven outside. At least Merlin still had plenty of flour. Some of the sacks had become infested with moths, though. There was just no preserving food properly here, in the crude cupboards that passed for storage in Hell.

He went back to his vegetables. The onions looked fairly good, all things considered. Merlin hoped the next delivery would bring some better product, though really, who was he trying to fool? The good stuff was reserved for the Masters and the slaves got the scraps. He had spent five years in Hell. He knew not to expect anything different.

He finished chopping the vegetables and dumped them all into the thin bone broth simmering on the fire. Merlin wished he had anything else to thicken that soup. People would go to bed hungry tonight. Not that that was unusual.

He checked on the breads again and decided to pull them out. He had baked seventeen small loaves, not having known in the morning that they were expecting three new arrivals. Well, it might very well be that they had lost their appetite anyway, after the warm welcome they had received earlier. Undoubtedly, the Masters had put them to work immediately, to earn themselves some clothes. If Master Nollar had decided to break them in working the latrines…

Well, there was nothing Merlin could do about the lack of bread now. He didn't even have a dead rat to stretch this soup, not that he was keen on serving rodent again. Even slaves weren't desperate enough to enjoy that particular taste.

Soon, the familiar clinking of shackles told Merlin that the first slaves had arrived in the dining hall. The dining hall wasn't a hall by any stretch of the imagination, of course, just a crudely-made shack like the rest of the slave buildings, filled with shabby benches and tables that offered just enough space for two dozen people.

The men were covered in the everlasting dust and grime of working the iron mines. Merlin saw the disappointment in their eyes when he served them thin vegetable soup and bread, but they murmured their thanks anyway and dug in. Merlin had long stopped apologising for the food he served, though he couldn't help but feel bad about seeing them eat and knowing they would starve in spite of it.

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles when the Knights arrived. It was a nickname Merlin had given this particular group of slaves. Gwaine, Elyan, Lancelot and Percival looked like the types to wear a fine cape and ride on horses, if the world was a better place. They had some spirit left, too, an unusual trait in a slave, especially here in Hell.

"Ah," said Gwaine when Merlin served him his food, "you have outdone yourself again, Merlin. What is it this time? Turnip-carrot or carrot-turnip soup?"

"Turnip, carrot and onion," Merlin told him and bowed a little, as if he had accomplished some great feat. Gwaine had that effect on him. He could make Merlin feel human again. He reminded Merlin that he was someone who possessed a sense of humour.

"Wonderful," sighed Gwaine and accepted his bread with a flourish. He had always been the most energetic of the bunch. Merlin had no idea from where he drew his optimism. Eight months in Hell, and Gwaine was still going strong.

Percival and Lancelot were more subdued today. They accepted their food with a grateful look, undoubtedly reining in their disappointment for Merlin's sake. Elyan didn't say anything when Merlin set down his food, either. He seemed distracted, looking over his shoulder. Merlin followed his gaze and realised why. He had spotted their new arrivals. As the other slaves were pouring into the dining hall, the three newbies were hovering just outside the entrance, clearly unsure if they were welcome.

Merlin looked them over. They had earned themselves some faded linen breeches and a tunic each, which still looked fairly clean. Not the latrines, then. Lucky them.

Gwaine had noticed them, too. "Mhm, fresh meat," he said. "Let's see." He bit into his bread as he studied them. "I say ginger breaks first."

"Nobody is going to bet against you on that," said Merlin. "He's clearly the weakest of the bunch."

"What happened to blondie?" asked Percival.

Merlin studied the man Percival had pointed out. Half of his face was covered in a large, fresh bruise. "Oh, he's a troublemaker. Refused to kneel when Master Nollar ordered him to," Merlin told them.

"I like the stubborn ones," said Lancelot.

"We know," said Merlin. "But they all break eventually."

Elyan still didn't say anything. His eyes were narrowed and he seemed to assess the troublemaker carefully. His face had gone tense and guarded.

"Do you know him?" asked Merlin, bowing down to Elyan and lowering his voice.

Elyan startled and finally looked away. He shrugged. "I don't think so," he said dismissively, then started on his soup.

Merlin would have liked to talk some more, but the dining hall was packed now, with many still waiting for their food. Merlin hurried to serve them. By the time he had given out all of the bread safe for his own loaf, the new arrivals had finally dared to enter and sat down at the very edge of the least busy table. Merlin approached them with the last of the soup.

"I'm Merlin," he introduced himself. "I cook. I try my best. Please, no complaints."

The troublemaker looked up at him curiously. In spite of the blossoming bruise and his unevenly cut hair, there was something proud, almost regal about his face. He stared right into Merlin's eyes in a way only a man who had always had complete and utter freedom tended to do. He definitely hadn't been a slave for long, not that Merlin had thought any different after witnessing his reckless disobedience earlier. His unflinching gaze unnerved Merlin and he averted his eyes to look at the near-empty cauldron in his arms.

"I've run out of bread," he informed them as he ladled out the soup into three wooden bowls. "I'll make sure to get you some tomorrow, though."

"You don't work in the mines?" The troublemaker, of course. He asked with the confidence of somebody who was used to getting the answers he wanted, always. A spoiled life, then. A merchant's son, perhaps, or a lord's well-off bastard.

Poor sod, thought Merlin. He would have a hard time adjusting to the realities of slavery with that sort of background.

"No," Merlin said, and nothing more.

"You're not wearing shackles, either," the man added, gesturing at Merlin's feet.

"Correct," Merlin said. He didn't owe this man any explanation. Merlin enjoyed a certain amount of privilege, and it had been hard-earned. He liked to believe nobody among the slaves begrudged him the little freedoms he had so diligently worked for.

The man studied him carefully, then held out his hand. "Arthur."

Merlin stared at the hand until Arthur retrieved it with a frown. "Arthur," Merlin repeated, "here's some free advice: Keep your head down!"

He quickly left the table, just in time to avoid drawing the attention of Masters Tindar and Nollar who had appeared at the entrance. Attention was the last thing any slave wanted. As soon as the Masters had stepped into the dining hall, the room hushed. Almost everyone had the good sense to hide their heads in their soup bowls. Even Gwaine knew better than to provoke them with his cheer.

Arthur, though, was a different story. Merlin, having retreated into the cooking area to nibble away at his own bread, watched him out of the corner of his eyes. Arthur wasn't talking, but he wasn't keeping his head down, either, in spite of the advice Merlin had given him not a full minute ago.

Well, his type needed to learn the hard way. Even the other two newbies had been smart enough to keep their eyes on their food.

Sure enough, the Masters made a beeline for Arthur, who tensed, but still didn't look away. Instead, he stared at them expectantly.

Big mistake.

"You," hissed Master Tindar.

"Yes?" Arthur managed to fill that word with a very particular brand of dismissiveness. He made it sound like, Do we know each other?

Merlin felt his stomach clench in fear, even though he wasn't anywhere near the receiving end of Master Tindar's ire. He found he could no longer eat the bread.

"You will address your betters as Master, slave," growled Master Nollar.

Arthur paused. "I don't think so," he finally said.

Merlin almost let out a gasp. Luckily, he had better control than that. He dared to sneak another look when there was only silence, but hurriedly pulled back when he saw the malicious glint in the Masters' eyes. It did not bode well. Not well at all.

"Get up!" snapped Master Nollar.

"Make me," Arthur replied.

From the noises that followed, they did make him. By the time Merlin had found the courage to risk another glance, Arthur had been wrestled to the floor, Master Nollar's knee pressed into the small of his back. Master Tindar was just about to start kicking him.

"Halt!"

Merlin flinched. He didn't have to look to know Master Myror had arrived. Merlin would recognise his silky, authoritative voice anywhere. He could picture him well without risking a glance, too – tall, dark-skinned, with a full, black beard and pierced ears.

"Tindar, Nollar," Master Myror growled. "What are you doing with our new merchandise?"

"Breaking it in," said Master Nollar. "He's yet to learn his place."

"Then send him to bed without dinner," Master Myror replied, sounding annoyed. "We're low on workers as it is. We can't afford losing this one on his first day."

"We must teach him a lesson!" insisted Master Tindar.

"Go ahead! But it will be you who explains to Ragnor why his latest purchase is out of service before he has ever even set foot in the mine. He paid good money for that slave and he wants a return on his investment."

"Fine," growled Master Tindar.

More noise that Merlin interpreted as Arthur being let go, then, "Merlin! Come here!"

Merlin cringed, but immediately jumped to his feet, abandoning his meal. He hurried over and bowed low, easily slipping into the voice of deference he had perfected over the years, "Yes, Master Myror?"

"Show the new recruit to his quarters. He won't be eating dinner tonight."

"Yes, Master, right away."

Without looking up, Merlin made a gesture in Arthur's direction and left the dining hall. Footfalls told him Arthur, at last, was doing as he had been told and was following Merlin. He didn't look back and hurried through the camp instead until he arrived at the slave barracks. He walked through the thin curtain that was the door. Finally, he dared to lift his head again, just in time to see Arthur step inside and catch his horrified expression.

"Your humble abode," Merlin announced, not feeling too terribly kind after having been dragged into this.

He supposed the barracks had to come as something of a shock to anybody who wasn't already a slave in Hell. They were two adjacent, windowless, bare-bones huts with a dirt floor, filled with nothing but a stack of thin, stained blankets. There weren't enough of them for everyone, Merlin knew. He was glad he didn't sleep in here anymore, but was allowed to curl up in front of the warm embers of the hearth in the kitchen.

"Take your pick," said Merlin. "But I'd recommend the back of the room. Otherwise, people will trip all over you when they need to take a piss."

"Lovely," deadpanned Arthur.

It almost made Merlin snort, which was unusual. He didn't tend to let his guard down with the newbies, as he didn't know whether or not they could be trusted. One did not survive Hell for as long as he had by being careless.

"I meant what I said earlier," he found himself saying. "You need to keep your head down. Working the mines is hard enough without a broken bone or even just an empty stomach."

Arthur let out a sigh. "Yes, I realise that."

Gods, but he sounded posh. Definitely some sort of disgraced nobleman. Poor, poor sod, Merlin thought again. How on Earth had this man ended up in Hell?

"Then why didn't you?" asked Merlin. Again, he was surprised at himself. He really should be leaving, before the Masters caught him chatting up the troublemaker.

"Habit, I suppose," said Arthur. "I'm not good at following orders."

Merlin exhaled sharply. "Yes, well, that they will teach you quickly, believe me."

Finally, he turned and made to leave.

"Merlin!"

Merlin stopped, then turned back. Arthur was looking at him again, right into his eyes. There was something about him, something naturally authoritative and proud that reminded Merlin of the Masters. He averted his eyes and ended up staring at Arthur's throat rather than his face.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Where exactly are we? What is this place called? I need to know."

Merlin couldn't hold back a tired smile. "Didn't you listen to Master Tindar this morning? We're in Hell."

With that he left, quickly returning to his cold soup and bread in the kitchen. He was surprised to find nobody had nicked it from him in his absence. He wouldn't have blamed them if they had.

When everyone had left the dining hall, Merlin scrubbed down the tables, cleaned the bowls, then went out on his usual night routine. He made his way up to the Masters' huts, quietly slipping in and out to collect dishes and waste. Whatever the Masters had cooked up for dinner, it smelled delicious. There were days when Merlin found himself licking their bowls, but he wasn't that desperate today. He went to wash their dishes at the well, returned them, then made his way back to Master Ragnor's hut for the evening.

He was Merlin's true owner. Surprisingly, Master Ragnor was not the worst of the bunch, in spite of him running Hell. Merlin had the feeling that out of all the slaves he had ever owned, Merlin was the one Master Ragnor hated the least. Where Merlin was concerned, he doled out the least punishment. In the five years since he had bought Merlin off Halig's wagon, Merlin had only been at the receiving end of the worst of his anger three times. It had been his three attempts to escape, back when he was still young and naïve enough to try.

"Merlin, I was wondering where you had gone off to," said Master Ragnor as Merlin entered. He was relaxing in a chair by the hearth.

Merlin cringed. He hadn't realised he had been working slow. "I'm ever so sorry, Master Ragnor," he said and bowed as low as he could, ignoring the ever-present pain in his back at the contortion. "I know I should never keep you waiting."

"Not to worry," Master Ragnor said calmly and Merlin dared to relax. "Serve me some wine!"

"Yes, Master."

Merlin walked up to a sideboard to retrieve a bottle and goblet, then poured the wine with a steady hand. He knelt by Master Ragnor's armchair without being told to and humbly presented him with the wine. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the Master smile down at him.

"Always so eager to please," he commented as he took the wine.

"I live to serve, Master," said Merlin.

Master Ragnor seemed to hesitate at that and Merlin wondered if he had overdone it this time. But a moment later, the Master's smile had widened and he lifted his goblet. Merlin remained on his knees, waiting for more orders.

None were forthcoming. Merlin didn't mind resting by his Master's side. His hut was always well-heated, the floor bedecked with carpet. There were worse things in life than a bit of grovelling, when said grovelling could be done with some comfort.

"Stoke the fire," the Master ordered after a few minutes.

"Yes, Master." Merlin would have liked a few more moments to wind down, but he had learned not to be greedy. He busied himself at the hearth, stacking some wood and stoking the flames, then made sure to bring in some new logs from the pile outside so the Master could feed the fire at night if need be.

He glanced around to see if there were any more chores to do. He saw a pair of breeches over a chair that seemed to be in need of mending. Without being told, he approached, took them up and went to find thread and needle in a chest nearby. He knelt on the floor and started stitching.

"Keeping busy," Master Ragnar commented. Merlin didn't know what to say to that, so he vaguely bobbed his head to communicate he was listening. "How do you like the new recruits, Merlin?" the Master added.

Recruits, Merlin thought grimly. As if Arthur and the others had arrived of their own free will. "I know it's not my place to have an opinion, Master," he said hesitantly, sensing a trap.

"Of course not," was the amused response. "But it's your Master asking and you've got a pair of eyes, don't you? Humour me with your observations."

Merlin racked his brain for an answer that had enough substance to please his Master without getting anybody into trouble. He settled on, "They are unaccustomed to this life, but they will learn their place, Master." It wasn't like Arthur's little displays of disobedience would be news to him, after all.

"That they will," the Master agreed.

Merlin finished mending the breeches and returned them to the chair. Just as he was about to humbly ask to be excused, Master Myror entered the hut. Without being prompted to, Merlin went to pour another goblet of wine and presented it to Master Myror with a low bow, then removed himself to the wall of the hut where he stood, as quietly and as unobtrusively as he could. He wouldn't interrupt now, though he dearly would have liked to lay down after another long day.

"Ragnor," Master Myror said. "Bad news."

"I wish you'd come with good news just once," Master Ragnor quipped.

Master Myror's voice didn't reflect the humour. "I just got word. Even more bandit sightings on the road to Engred."

Master Ragnor let out a huff. "And Bayard is as passive as ever. The King wants his iron, but does nothing to protect the roads it travels on!"

"We need more men," said Master Myror. "We lost two in the last three months and the roads aren't getting any less dangerous."

"It's not like there's an abundance of trained fighters waiting to move to Hell," Master Ragnor pointed out.

"Allow me to try and recruit some, then, next time we're delivering the ore to Engred."

"Allow me," repeated Master Ragnor. "By that you mean, Hand me some gold!"

For the first time this evening, he sounded genuinely annoyed and Merlin tensed. It was never good to be a slave in the proximity of an angered Master. He should have mended those breeches tomorrow and excused himself earlier, but it was too late now.

"You said it yourself, Ragnor. Men aren't exactly lining up to live in the mountains and bully some slaves. We need an incentive, and the best incentive is gold."

"We can do with what we have."

"Your greed will be the end of this operation, Ragnor, mark my words!"

Master Ragnor stood abruptly. Merlin tensed. Where coin was concerned, the Master was touchy. It was why he reacted most poorly if one of his investments tried to flee the camp.

"Out!" he snapped. "Out, now!"

"I'm just telling you as it is," said Master Myror, though he did get up and leave the hut.

Merlin very carefully kept his body perfectly still as he listened to Master Ragnor's ragged breathing.

"More wine!" the Master finally barked.

Merlin was by his side a few seconds later, kneeling and pouring, suppressing a tremble in his hand. It would be a disaster were he to spill a single drop now, when the Master was already upset. Master Ragnor was not the violent type, but he had no scruples ordering the likes of Masters Tindar and Nollar to get out the whip. Merlin did not, under any circumstances, want to get whipped, ever again.

Luckily, the Master calmed quickly and dismissed Merlin a few minutes later, though Merlin only relaxed when he had curled up in front of the glimmering embers in the kitchen. He was lying on his make-shift bed, made of an empty grain bag filled with whatever soft material he had got his hands on over the years. He wrapped himself in his thin blanket and closed his eyes, sleep already dragging him under.

It had been a long, long day in Hell.