After what could have barely been an hour of picking away at a vein of iron ore, Arthur started to get a new appreciation for why everyone kept calling this place Hell. Mining was the most gruelling exercise Arthur had ever done, and he had endured his fair share of endless drills in the unyielding sun wearing several pounds of metal armour.
By the time Merlin showed up in the mines with their meagre mid-day rations, handing out coarse bread and shrivelled apples to the rest of them, every muscle in Arthur's body hurt and he was drenched in sweat. Merlin offered him one of the many waterskins he had wrapped around his thin body, which Arthur drank from eagerly.
"Don't drink too much, or you'll make yourself sick," Merlin advised quietly.
Arthur had been surprised to find Merlin used an entirely different tone with his fellow slaves. He wasn't nearly as broken as he had appeared when interacting with his handlers. It had not passed Arthur by, however, that Merlin did not meet Arthur's eyes as he did with the other slaves. Whether or not that was a sign of his distrust or something else remained to be seen.
"Don't coddle the princess, Merlin! We've all learned the hard way."
This was Gwaine. He had been assigned to show Arthur and Leon the ropes. He was an enthusiastic fellow and Arthur had started to hate him a little bit. Gwaine had, for some inane reason or the other, decided to call him princess, which was so close to the truth that it set Arthur's teeth on edge. Leon and he had agreed that it would cause nothing but trouble to reveal to anybody who he really was. They were focusing on either getting a message to Camelot or finding a way to escape, though Arthur already knew that might prove to be difficult.
A prickling sensation at his neck distracted Arthur from his thoughts and he turned his head. Not for the first time, he found a dark-skinned, suspicious-looking slave was watching him from afar. Arthur bristled and he narrowed his eyes at him. The slave quickly looked away, though Arthur knew it was only a matter of time until he would find him staring again.
It unnerved him to no end. It didn't help that the slave looked vaguely familiar, though Arthur could not place him, neither could Leon, who had similarly voiced that he felt a sense of familiarity.
Arthur focused on choking down the coarse bread. The food was abysmal, though after going almost two days without anything, Arthur knew not to be picky. He would have liked to pin it on Merlin's cooking skill, but it was clear the boy wasn't to blame and seemed to be trying his best to do right by his fellow slaves while handling the rations.
It was also clear Merlin was special. He was too skinny to be of use in the mines, so it didn't come as too much of a surprise that he had other duties assigned to him. But there was more. The handlers treated him better than most, though of course, Arthur was comparing Merlin's treatment to the lowest of standards. Merlin clearly had earned a considerable amount of trust, as he was allowed to wield knives in the kitchen and walked around without shackles, unlike the rest of them. Instead, he was the only one that wore a metal collar around his neck. It didn't seem to bother him, though the thing looked tight and uncomfortable to Arthur.
Whatever it was about Merlin, Arthur had decided early on that getting on his good side was important. A man like him, with access and certain freedoms, might be an asset in an attempt to escape. Besides, you really shouldn't bite the hand that fed you, even if that fodder turned out to be terrible.
Leon, who was sitting next to him, didn't look any happier with his bread. The sorry sight of him made Arthur's chest go tight. Leon's curls were gone, cropped awkwardly by Merlin's shears, and he was wearing the same scratchy clothes and iron shackles as Arthur. There was little left of the image of proud Camelotian knight and it pained Arthur to see his man reduced like that. Though at least Leon hadn't had the dubious pleasure of a run-in with a fist and was lacking Arthur's bruise. Arthur didn't have a mirror to look at it, of course, but from the way it smarted when he so much as brushed a finger over it, it was undoubtedly impressive.
Arthur should be happy he got away easy at dinner last night. He really needed to swallow his pride and keep his head down, as Merlin had so wisely advised. He couldn't escape if he was dead.
"Come on, princess. Break is over," said Gwaine.
Arthur looked up and suppressed a groan. Merlin was gone and all around them, slaves were getting back to work under their handlers' watchful eyes. He grabbed his pickaxe and stood. At least, Nollar and Tindar weren't on duty in the mines. Arthur could see a giant of a man supervising them from a corner in the cave they were working in. Master Derian, Merlin had called him.
"Princess," said Gwaine, and there was an edge to his voice now that made Arthur tense, "you really need to stop staring. It provokes them. Come on, get to work!"
Arthur nodded and started swinging his pickaxe. As he worked away at the vein in front of him, he went back to thinking up an escape plan. He couldn't be sure without getting a better look at the camp, but it seemed to him that the back part of the camp was all mountain and impenetrable rock, whereas the front was made up of palisade. There seemed to be only one entrance and exit, the gate they had been brought through, which was likely to be guarded every hour of the day.
It looked to Arthur that the slaves were definitely in the majority, outnumbering the guards at least two to one. He supposed with the pickaxes, they had a weapon of sorts at their disposal, though the slaves were weakened from being overworked, underfed, and forced to endure poor sleeping conditions on top. An uprising would be a bloody, deadly affair and Arthur doubted the slaves would unite against their captors any time soon.
Arthur had been at this work for not even a full day and soon felt himself grow weary. He had no doubt all this could break a man, and quickly, too. Arthur did not want to think about how long he could last before giving in, before the light in his eyes dimmed as it had for so many of the men surrounding him.
When they were finally allowed to set down their pickaxes for good and started loading the ore into small carts to be pushed outside, Arthur was about ready to fall over and into bed. Or rather, onto the floor, covered in nothing but a piece of cloth barely passing itself off as a blanket.
They trotted towards what Gwaine had called the dining hall. By the time they had arrived and settled down at the table, Arthur actually found himself looking forward to whatever Merlin had thrown together. It was more runny soup and bread. Merlin kept throwing everyone sad glances, clearly aware he was barely filling their stomachs. It seemed being a slave hadn't entirely robbed Merlin of his compassion, which was admirable but likely a disadvantage in this harsh world he lived in.
Arthur had followed Gwaine to the table, which was how he and Leon ended up sitting opposite him at dinner. Arthur grimaced when he tasted the soup, but his stomach was growling and so he ate, just like the rest.
"Don't know if I should be insulted by that face you're making whenever you put the spoon in your mouth." Arthur looked up to see Merlin had come to stand by Gwaine's shoulder and was watching him. His words could almost be interpreted as friendly teasing, but when Arthur tried to meet his eyes, Merlin shied away again, and Arthur frowned.
"It tastes fine," he lied to him.
Merlin let out a little huff that Arthur suspected was as close to a laugh as the slave allowed himself to come. "You're a terrible liar." He paused, then added, "So, Arthur. You one of the Knights?"
Arthur didn't know it was possible to choke on thin soup, but he very nearly did.
"What?" he half-gasped.
"Merlin here has this idea in his head that we," Gwaine gestured at the men sitting close-by, "should be riding around Albion, rescuing damsels in distress." Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, and Gwaine actually flashed him a little grin. Gods, but where did this man find the cheer for that? "I know, my thoughts exactly." He paused, then added, "A nobleman? Me? Think again."
Arthur studied him for a moment. "You know," he said, "you have a certain look about you. Perhaps there's some noble blood in there, down the line."
Gwaine made a disgusted face, then turned towards his companions, pointing them out one by one. "May I introduce the other Knights of Hell? Sir Lancelot, Sir Percival, and Sir Elyan."
Percival raised a hand and Lancelot nodded as their names were called. Elyan turned out to be the man that kept throwing him looks, and Arthur narrowed his eyes again, trying to think where he had heard that name before. He looked at Leon sitting to his right. He had stilled and was staring at Elyan. Perhaps the name had helped him place the man. They would need to find a way to talk after dinner.
"I'm Arthur," Arthur introduced himself. "This is Leon."
"You two knew each other before coming to Hell?" asked Gwaine curiously.
"We worked together," Leon offered and Arthur had to suppress a wry smile at his adept lie.
Gwaine nodded. He spooned up some soup and bit into his bread. Arthur was almost sure their conversation had run its course when he added, "So, we have a rule that we don't ask about someone's past, but it's sort of a tradition to share the circumstances of your capture, if possible." He took another bite, his loaf almost gone.
It was clear that, perhaps because of Merlin's earlier comment, they were being invited into this particular circle of slaves. Arthur would be stupid to pass up a chance of making allies.
"Well," he started, then stopped, trying to change the story into something that made him sound more like a peasant. "We were poaching in some lord's forests and got caught. We thought the men who got us belonged to him, but they turned out to be Halig's henchmen, so…" He trailed off.
"Poachers, huh?" said Gwaine. If he didn't believe the story, he didn't say anything about it. "All right, my turn. I was at a tavern and a stranger got me drunk. Massively drunk. I didn't mind some free ale at the time, though I suppose it should have made me suspicious. I woke up tied up and on my way to Hell."
"At least you got something out of it," Arthur commented and earned himself a small grin.
Lancelot spoke up next, "Tried to help a girl by the roadside calling for help. When I followed her into the woods, it turned out to be a trap." He sighed. "Arrived in Hell almost a year ago."
"Damsels in distress, like I said! He's a noble knight, our Lancelot," commented Gwaine and bumped his shoulder playfully into Lancelot's. The man only grimaced.
Percival looked grim when he said curtly, "My village was attacked." He didn't need to say anything else.
Elyan was next. The man didn't look up from his soup. "I was wandering the lands and happened to trust the wrong people about a job offer," he said. The story was too vague to draw any conclusions about his identity.
Arthur looked up to where Merlin was still hovering at Gwaine's shoulder. "How about you, Merlin?"
The slave stilled. "Same as Percival," he offered, his voice subdued.
Arthur studied him. "And how long have you been in Hell?"
For the first time in their short acquaintance, Merlin looked him right in the eyes and held his gaze steadily for several seconds. "Five years."
Arthur felt his own eyes go wide and Merlin's flickered away again.
"Five years?" he repeated, perhaps a bit too loudly. They had spoken in low voices and murmurs until then, but now a couple of heads had swivelled in their direction and Merlin had taken a step back. Arthur quickly looked around, but no handlers seemed to hover nearby.
"Sorry," said Arthur, much more quietly. "It's just – five? How old were you when you arrived? You can't have been more than… what, fourteen summers old?"
Merlin's voice was hardly anything more than a whisper when he spoke, "I was twelve."
With that, he left on quick, quiet feet. Arthur saw him pick up a brush and the soup cauldron and leave the dining hall, shoulders hunched and face haunted.
Gwaine threw Arthur a pointed look when their eyes met again. "I know," he murmured, "you'll soon learn Merlin is tougher than he looks."
"Can you imagine?" said Arthur, shaking his head. "Being a child in this place? What did they even want with him at that age? He's as skinny as a twig." Nobody said anything, their heads suddenly bowed low over their bowls again. "What?" Arthur added.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder. "Slave," somebody said. "You're talking too much."
Arthur glanced up to see the giant handler from the cave, Derian. The man was at least two heads taller than Arthur and had a longsword tied to his belt the likes of which Arthur was not sure he had ever seen. It was twice as wide and a lot longer than anything he had ever carried himself.
Arthur hoped he could get away with a vague nod in response, but Derian clearly wanted him to say the words. "I'll be quiet," he added.
Derian growled, "Show some respect, slave."
Respect. He meant saying something Merlin would say, like I'm so terribly sorry, Master. It was the kind of response somebody would give so they could survive five years in this place.
They are only words, Arthur thought. Just tell him what he wants to hear.
But Arthur had grown up in a world where titles were important, where the way one was addressed said everything about your standing in court. People had called him sire and my lord since he was a child. He had no master except, perhaps, for his King.
Arthur wouldn't bend or break. He wasn't going to give them that satisfaction.
Derian looked him over and scowled, his fingers curling painfully into Arthur's shoulder. "Got something else to say?" he prompted.
Arthur only stared at him.
"Come with me!"
Leon threw Arthur an alarmed look, which Arthur tried to meet with an air of reassurance. He could handle himself. Not a moment later, Derian had dragged him from the bench, out of the dining hall and into the open where he pushed Arthur into the dirt, exerting pressure until Arthur had no choice but to sink to his knees or get his shoulder crushed.
"Slave," Derian said. "Beg for mercy!"
Arthur stared up at him defiantly.
"Stupid," said Derian and hit him right on the bruise. In spite of it being a slap rather than a punch, it was agony. Derian's hands were big and strong, and Arthur's face was already tender from last night's assault. His whole face was on fire.
"Beg," Derian repeated.
Perhaps he should.
"Never," Arthur replied stubbornly, bracing himself for the next hit.
They played this game a couple of rounds until Arthur's ears were ringing and his nose was steadily dripping blood onto the dirt below. By the sixth slap, Arthur was seeing stars and swaying dangerously on his knees, threatening to keel over.
"That's enough, Derian."
Arthur glanced up through hazy eyes. It was Ragnor, the head of the camp, who had spoken.
"Okay, boss," Derian gave up easily enough and walked off.
Arthur tried to scramble to his feet, but couldn't. His head was spinning from being repeatedly assaulted and his shackled feet would not cooperate. Arthur thought he might be losing his dinner, little as it had been, any moment now.
Ragnor had stepped closer. He looked down at him with a strange smile. "I know it's hard to adjust to life in Hell," he said, "but you better learn quickly. I don't like to cripple my merchandise if I can avoid it, but next time you act up, it'll be the whip for you. Understood?"
Arthur nodded vaguely.
Ragnor's smile vanished. "I said, is that understood, slave?"
Arthur did not think he had it in him to take a whipping tonight. His head kept spinning and spinning and spinning. Would it be so bad, to say the two little words, to get some peace and quiet? Yes, Master, that was all it took.
But no. This was how they broke you, wasn't it? Coaxing it out of you first until it became the new normal, until it would slip from his tongue quickly and submissively.
"Yes," he slurred, though he knew it wasn't enough.
Ragnor narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything else, he had looked up and got distracted. "Aha! Finally! I thought they'd never make it back." He took off and Arthur was left kneeling in the dirt.
Not a moment later, Leon was by his side, helping him up.
"All right?" Arthur could hear the unspoken sire in his tone.
"Fine," he rasped after he had got to his feet and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
Leon steadied him with a firm hand and ducked his head a little to look Arthur right into the face. His eyes were worried. He considerably lowered his voice and murmured, "Perhaps it's not my place to say this, but I will. You don't have to prove anything. I won't think any less of you for doing the smart thing and submitting to them. You will still have my respect."
Arthur nodded, though he knew he couldn't let go of his pride as easily as Leon would have liked him to. Still, it felt good, hearing those words. Leon's loyalty to the Crown had always been beyond any doubt. Arthur was sure this man would die for him if he had to.
"We need to get out of here," he told Leon firmly.
"There's no escaping Hell." Arthur turned his still woozy head to see Merlin had approached them. Clearly, he had overheard that last comment. "Believe me, many have tried and failed." He frowned at Arthur, then looked around shiftily before adding, "You're bleeding all over the place. Come with me."
Arthur didn't hesitate to follow him, Leon by his side. Merlin could be trusted, this much he was certain of, even after such a short time.
Merlin led them to the back of the dining hall. Out back, there was a crudely made clay oven, a well-worn workbench and a wobbly stool. Merlin pushed Arthur onto the latter, then washed his hands in a water bucket nearby, before he retrieved a linen bag from a cupboard inside. It was the cleanest thing Arthur had seen around this place. It turned out to be a bag of medical supplies.
Merlin retrieved what looked like a vial of salve. "I try to ration this as much as I can," he said, "but you've got a cut right by your eye that looks nasty. If it becomes infected, you might lose the eye, and I don't want that to happen to you. It's a death sentence, in a place like this."
He sounded like he was justifying the use of the salve to himself rather than to Arthur, who had no qualms about receiving care. He let Merlin dab a wet piece of cloth at his face and fix him up with the salve. His fingers were gentle. He had a good bedside manner. In another life, perhaps he would have made for a decent physician.
"Try to keep it clean as best as you can," he said and carefully stashed away his supplies. "How is your head?"
"Hurts," Arthur said. At least the world had stopped spinning.
"I'm going to say this one last time," Merlin told him. His voice was filled with a strange mix of authority and pleading. "You must keep your head down. This is not a place for pride. I don't know what your former life was like, though it's clear it was one of privilege. You need to forget about that life, as soon as possible. It's the only way."
"Is that how you survived five years of this?" asked Arthur. "By keeping your head down?"
Merlin let out a strange, choked noise. "No," he said. "No, I had to do much more than that."
He didn't elaborate, but Arthur thought he knew what he meant. In the two days he had been here, Arthur had seen enough of how Merlin behaved himself around the handlers. Ever quiet, ever submissive, twisting his skinny body into the lowest of bows, keeping his eyes firmly on the floor, always careful to address everyone as Master. The picture of an obedient slave. It must have cost him dearly to perfect the image, though Merlin had somehow managed to retain at least some semblance of his true personality, judging by their current conversation.
Arthur realised in that moment that Merlin had no reason to be kind to Arthur. The slave should be focusing on keeping himself safe, yet he had gone out of his way to offer treatment and advice.
"Thank you," said Arthur. "I reckon it could spell trouble for you if you're seen helping me."
"Yes." Merlin sounded taken aback at Arthur's perceptiveness. "And not just me, you know? Anybody in vicinity to you. We all suffer when the Masters are unhappy."
He sounded so upset and frightened by that thought that Arthur felt the need to apologise.
"I'm sorry," he told him, and Merlin gifted him with a small smile and another rare look right in the eyes.
"You'll get the hang of it, Arthur," he promised, then sent him off to the barracks.
As they walked back, Arthur thought to ask Leon about Elyan.
"I'm not completely sure," whispered Leon. "You know Gwen? Guinevere, I mean?"
"Morgana's maidservant?" Of course, Arthur did. He talked to Guinevere more than he knew he should, given that he was a prince. The memory of her soft face and pretty smile brought a warm tingle to his chest. Gods, but he missed Camelot.
"Her mother worked in my family's household, though they left for the citadel when Gwen was still quite young," Leon murmured. "I remember that she had an older brother, called Elyan."
"Guinevere's brother?" Arthur's head still wasn't feeling so good, but now that Leon had said it, he knew it to be true. Their looks were similar, and from the way Elyan kept staring at Arthur, he had likely recognised his Prince. Arthur had always made a point of entering the lower town. He liked to seem at least a bit more approachable than his father. Elyan would have seen him walk past his father's forge plenty of times.
"He hasn't said anything," Leon replied. "Perhaps he's uncertain whether you really are who he thinks you to be."
"Or bidding his time," Arthur suggested. "He might want something from us, when the time is right."
"What would we have to offer?" Leon asked sceptically. But they had reached the barracks and fell quiet. A handler was keeping watch at the entrance and Arthur really didn't want to be slapped around again.
Of course, all the blankets and best spots had been taken when they entered the shack. They lay down on the draughty floor by the door and settled in for another terrible night.
When he was sure nobody was looking, Arthur reached into his trouser pocket where he had stored his mother's ring, stroking it until he finally fell into a fitful sleep.
