Merlin diced up a bunch of mealy pears to throw into the breakfast gruel and allowed himself to feel almost content. The cart delivering the ore to Engred had returned last night, bringing back fresh supplies. This meant Merlin could finally make something other than vegetable soup again.
He suppressed a smile when he started serving the thick gruel for breakfast and saw people's eyebrows go up appreciatively. Their stomachs would be a little bit fuller than usual and the pears weren't even as tart as Merlin would have expected. It was not the worst day in Hell.
Even Arthur seemed to appreciate Merlin's cooking today. Merlin watched him from afar. Arthur's nose wasn't wrinkled like it had been yesterday and he all but inhaled his gruel. He would soon learn to savour these rare luxuries. Little mercies like a fuller belly or an extra hour of rest could go a long way to make a miserable day more tolerable.
It became clear, though, that Arthur had other thoughts on his mind. When Merlin came over to chat with the Knights, as had become his habit, Arthur was leaning forward, his voice lowered, trying to get information out of Gwaine.
"So, when do they leave for Engred? Every week?"
"When there is enough ore to warrant a trip," Gwaine replied vaguely.
"And half of the handlers leave with the cart to protect the ore, yes?"
"Princess," said Gwaine, "stop asking these kinds of questions. They are dangerous and pointless. There is no escaping Hell. Ask Merlin."
Merlin tensed on the spot. He had almost forgotten that, in some moment of weakness or stupidity, he had told Gwaine about his failed attempts to flee. Arthur's eyes immediately sought out his, searching. As usual, his confident, demanding gaze unnerved Merlin and he quickly focused his attention on Arthur's jawline. His face was swollen, covered in bruises in a variety of shades of yellow, green, purple and blue. In spite of it, he still looked nothing like a slave and every bit the well-off freeman. It was in his poise, his entire attitude.
"You tried?" Arthur asked. He sounded both impressed and surprised.
"Three times," Gwaine told him when he saw that Merlin wasn't going to answer.
"I don't want to talk about this," Merlin tried to ward them off, but Arthur looked very intrigued and sure enough, he wasn't about to let this go.
"What went wrong?" he demanded.
"I got caught, obviously," Merlin hissed. He looked around, suddenly feeling like the Masters might be listening in, though none of them were anywhere near the dining hall. They tended to sleep in as long as they could, knowing the gate was guarded by the night shift and the slaves would be busy eating.
"May I just ask—"
"No!" Merlin snapped. "You may not!"
He turned on the spot and fled into the kitchen. Leave it to this arrogant prat of a man to ruin what could have been a perfectly decent morning filled with warm gruel and pears!
Merlin's skin was crawling and he suddenly felt his breath coming quicker. Escape? There was no escape. He had tried. He had tried so hard, three blasted times. The last time, he had almost made it. Master Ragnor had been livid, and merciless in his orders of punishment. Merlin had the scars to show for it.
The whip. The bloody whip. Literally bloodied with Merlin's blood as he had cowered in the dirt. They hadn't even bothered tying him to the well that last time. He had cried, and vomited, and cried some more, until he had been reduced to nothing but a pitiful, begging mess. Eventually, he had fainted – a mercy.
Before he knew it, Merlin had started shaking. He wrapped his arms around himself in a desperate, irrational attempt to stop himself from trembling.
Air. Merlin needed air. He went out back and sucked in a large gust until the worst of his panic had subsided. He was a good slave. He was an obedient slave. If he kept his head down, no harm would come to him. If he did as he was told, everything would be fine.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out.
Just when his frantic heartbeat finally started to calm, a hand on his shoulder made him jump. He turned to see it was Arthur. Blue eyes, mercilessly boring into his. Arthur could so easily pass for a Master. Merlin's heart immediately picked up speed again.
"You shouldn't be back here," he gasped and shook off Arthur's hand. "You must be due in the mines!"
"We're just leaving. I only came to apologise," Arthur said, managing to sound both firm and uncertain. "You went white as a sheet and I thought—"
"You thought you could get me into trouble!" Suddenly, the darkness was back, creeping up Merlin's neck and taking over his mouth before he could help it. "Sod off, you idiot," he hissed. "Sod off now or I'll cut your rations in half! I'll eat your bread myself!"
"Merlin—"
"I will spit in your food! I will lace it with horse dung! I will let you starve for the rest of your miserable life if you don't get away this second!" Merlin threatened.
Arthur looked stunned by his hostility, but luckily, he left without another word. Merlin didn't know what he would have done if the man had remained stubborn.
Merlin hid his face in his trembling hands and the darkness subsided, leaving him feel tainted. He shouldn't have said those things. He wasn't like that. He wasn't cruel.
Gods, but Merlin should try and keep his distance from Arthur from now on. He had already let him get too close, like the Knights. Eventually, they all died anyway. There was no point in making friends in Hell, he knew that. Five years had taught him better than that. Should have taught him better than that.
But Arthur was getting under his skin, with his confidence and his stupid, stupid pride. There was something about him, something that reminded Merlin of foolish dreams he had once harboured in the past.
When Merlin had still been more child than man, curled up in the slave barracks and chasing sleep, he had so dearly wished for a knight in shining armour to come to his rescue. Sometimes, he even dreamt about it, visions of a man in chainmail and cape, rescuing them all.
Arthur had that air about him: He didn't back down; he fought for what he thought was right. He fit in well with the Knights. Perhaps Merlin had been wrong about him being a merchant's son or a nobleman's bastard. Perhaps his unsettling confidence meant he had been a soldier in his earlier life, or a guard, somebody capable of defending himself and others, steadfast, who wouldn't back down and was willing to make a stand.
Merlin shook his head, dispelling the traitorous thoughts. There were no knights here, or guards, or soldiers. There were only slaves, and he was one of them.
Merlin was good slave. A well-behaving slave. A slave who didn't want any trouble. A slave who kept his head down.
Merlin let out a long exhale, then turned to go about his day. He scrubbed down the tables, got the bread for lunch going in the oven, washed the dishes at the well, then went up to the Masters' huts. There, he emptied the waste buckets, cleaned all of the Masters' spare boots, did his special chores at Master Ragnor's hut. After a quick detour to feed the horses, he hurried back to the dining hall to get lunch ready for the slaves.
Finally, weighed down by a dozen filled waterskins wrapped around his body and hauling a basket of food, he entered into the dimly-lit mines. He had to walk further and further these days as the shallow veins of ore had long been stripped and the slaves had to dig ever deeper to make Master Ragnor some profit. Not for the first time, Merlin wondered when the Master might have to move the camp to a different area.
By the time Merlin had made it to the cave the slaves were currently working in, he was covered in sweat. But there was no time to rest, not yet. More than a dozen heads went up at the sight of him, hungry eyes settling on his basket. Quickly, he distributed the food and water, feeling his cheeks go hot when Arthur approached him only hesitantly for his share.
Gods, but Merlin felt ashamed of himself. He dearly regretted his earlier threats. He would never withhold food from anyone. It was cruel and inhumane. Merlin didn't want to be that kind of person. There was enough of that in Hell as it was. He picked out one of the bigger loaves and nicer apples and offered them to Arthur.
"Sorry," he murmured quickly.
"Don't worry about it. And thank you," Arthur replied as he took them from Merlin's hands.
Merlin nodded jerkily. He really shouldn't hold it against Arthur that he still had hope, that he wanted to flee. It was only natural. Every slave thought of escape.
"Merlin!" Master Derian had approached, towering above him. The Master always had to bend over a little in the mines, tall as he was.
Merlin ducked his head submissively, trying to ignore an irrational voice that told him he would be punished for just having thought the word escape. "Yes, Master Derian?" he croaked.
"Myror will be here soon. We have need of your skills."
Merlin tensed even further, but nodded. It had been a while. It was only to be expected. "Of course, Master Derian. I'll wait here."
He sat down in a corner, far away from the other slaves, pulling his legs against his chest. Every once in a while, a slave walked over to place an empty waterskin in the basket and Merlin nodded at their murmurs of thanks. Arthur wasn't among them.
Despite having sworn to himself that he would keep his distance, he sought out Arthur's blond hair amongst the group, then frowned. He and Leon were talking to Elyan, their heads close together. Arthur and Leon looked tense. Merlin didn't know how to interpret Elyan's expression. Worried? Surprised? Whatever it was they were talking about, though, seemed to keep them quite busy until Elyan got up, nodding sharply, before stalking over to settle down with Lancelot and Percival.
What on Earth was going on? Merlin dearly hoped Arthur wasn't putting any ideas of escape into Elyan's head. If so, he really was a most dangerous troublemaker. Elyan had been in Hell long enough to know better, over a year now. He knew that if one slave tried to flee, everyone else suffered the consequences, too. Harsher rules, quicker punishment, reduced rations…
"Merlin."
Merlin flinched, chancing the briefest of looks upwards before scrambling to his feet. Master Myror had arrived, holding an all too familiar key in his hands. Merlin tended to forget he was wearing the collar these days, having gotten used to its weight long ago, but now that he saw the key, the skin of his neck had started tingling with anticipation.
"I'm ready, Master Myror."
Myror ordered all others slaves over into the far corner, then told Merlin to follow him to the other side of the cave. Master Derian followed them. He had unsheathed his blade.
"We need a new tunnel, branching off here," said Master Myror, pointing at a wall. "Do you think you can do it without destabilising the cavern?"
Merlin studied the rock. "May I have a closer look, Master?"
Master Myror motioned at him to go ahead. Merlin approached the wall, brushed his hand over the stone, knocked against some of it, then looked up to study the ceiling. "I think I can do it, Master," he finally said. He had done this often enough now to know what to look for and everything seemed to be in order, if he got the angle right.
"On your knees, then, Merlin."
Merlin obeyed. The stone dug harshly into his knees, but he was used to pain. Master Derian's hand settled on his neck, but he didn't need to exert any pressure. Merlin went down willingly enough until his forehead rested against the stone below and he was cowering at his Master's feet. It didn't bother him any more like it used to. Grovelling was just part of being a slave.
"No funny business," Master Derian growled.
"Of course not, Master," Merlin said, his lips just an inch from the rock below.
He stilled against the ground when he sensed Master Myror approach. He felt the pressure of the collar against the back of his neck when the key was pushed into the hole. A click, and the collar sprung open.
Merlin was flooded with magic. Hot, sparkling magic, screaming at him to release it at once, clawing at his skin, looking for a way out. Merlin started trembling against the floor, fighting the urge to lash out, strangely grateful that Master Derian was keeping him firmly pressed down. The touch grounded him, reminded him of his place. Magic meant power, but Merlin held no power here.
"You'll be a good slave, won't you, Merlin?" asked Master Myror. His voice was steel, as if he knew what kinds of traitorous thoughts Merlin's magic was planting just now, visions of Masters thrown into walls and Merlin running past a burning palisade.
"Yes, Master, I'll be good," Merlin pleaded against the ground. He was a good slave. Good slaves didn't use magic on their Masters. Good slaves did as they were told. Good slaves didn't get whipped.
"Get up!"
"Yes, Master."
As soon as Master Derian allowed it, he scrambled to his feet. Immediately, the weight of a sword settled against his back. The Master would run him right through if he made one wrong move.
"May I start, Master Myror?" Merlin asked shakily. His eyes had teared up and he realised he was afraid. Afraid of what he might do, now that his magic was free and raced up and down his body, raw and untamed.
"You may." The Master's voice was intense. Again, Merlin had the feeling he knew what kinds of thoughts were plaguing Merlin. "You know the rules, Merlin. Do as you are told and you have nothing to fear."
His words helped. Merlin took a shaky breath. "Yes, Master."
Merlin closed his eyes and raised a trembling hand towards the wall. Immediately, Master Derian's sword pushed more firmly against his back, poking painfully into his ribs. Then, Merlin released his magic. A rumbling went through the mine, making the ground shake. A few loose stones tumbled off the walls and dust rained down on them.
"Careful, Merlin," warned Master Myror.
Merlin was too focused to reply. He pushed his powers into the wall and the rock gave. Slowly but surely, a tunnel was formed. The magic forced back the rock, moulded it for stability, pulverised it to make space. He stopped only when Master Myror's hand settled against his right arm.
Merlin pulled back the magic. It didn't want to be drawn back in. It screamed at Merlin again, telling him to do more, to use it to its fullest extent, to let it push outwards, to let it blast away at everything and everyone around him. But he didn't. Instead, Merlin let himself be pushed harshly to the ground again, his forehead hitting the rock with such force that he saw stars.
The collar clicked into place and the magic went instantly quiet. Gone, snuffed out, like it had never been there.
Merlin trembled against the floor and remained prostrate even after Master Derian released him, suddenly feeling irrationally scared he would be punished for something he had been ordered to do. He had used magic! A good slave didn't do that!
"Up you get, Merlin," Master Myror said eventually.
"Yes, Master."
When he stood, the Master settled his hand on his shoulder again.
"Well done, Merlin," he told him, almost kindly. Undoubtedly, he was relieved Merlin hadn't tried to kill him again, like he had those three other times. Those times when he had tried to escape.
But Merlin didn't do that anymore. He was a good slave now.
"Here. For your troubles." Merlin glanced at the Master's hand. He was holding out a piece of dried meat. A treat, like Merlin was a well-behaved dog. Merlin snatched it from the Master's hand.
"Thank you, Master," he said.
Some part of him that still clung to a tiny spark of dignity told him he was being pathetic. The rest of him was singing with joy as he imagined the heavenly, salty, savoury taste on his tongue. When was the last time he had decent meat? He would savour this tonight, when everyone was asleep. He carefully slipped the strip of meat into his pocket, then went to pick up his basket of empty waterskins.
He turned to leave, but not before throwing another look at the slaves across the cavern, belatedly feeling an urge to make sure they hadn't been hit by a stray rock.
He ended up looking right into Arthur's stunned face.
