Merlin was a sorcerer.

As Arthur hoisted some iron ore from a pile onto a mining cart, all he could think about was Merlin cowering meekly on the floor one second, only to wield powers beyond Arthur's wildest imagination in the next. A lot of things suddenly made a lot more sense, most especially why a twelve-year-old boy had been enslaved and brought to a mining camp in the first place. It also explained why he had tried to escape three times and lived. Ragnor would be stupid to kill a slave wielding this kind of power.

Arthur had never shared his father's irrational fear and hatred of magic, though he was every bit as wary of it. Sorcery could be used for all kinds of evil, wicked purposes and Camelot was better off controlling its use, that much Arthur was certain of. He disagreed with his father's indiscriminate killings, though. Druids, for example, were a peaceful people that did not need to be persecuted as long as they kept mainly to themselves. Arthur also believed some people, especially children, should not be executed and would be better off banished or taught the wrongs of their ways.

The collar seemed to be another option of controlling a sorcerer. Arthur didn't have to be an expert on magic to see what had happened. Without the collar, Merlin had been powerful enough to cause an earthquake, to mould solid rock as if it were soft clay. With the collar on, he was powerless, reduced to crawling at his handlers' feet.

A sick little voice at the back of Arthur's head proposed that it might be a good thing that somebody like Merlin had ended up a slave. Who knew what the man might have done with such mighty powers were he to roam free? Hadn't he threatened Arthur just this morning?

But Arthur quickly felt ashamed of the thought. Nobody deserved to be treated this way, magic or no. He had already seen Merlin be exceedingly submissive with their handlers, but the way he had quite literally been forced to grovel at their feet didn't sit right with Arthur. It made him feel sick to his stomach, to see a human being reduced like this. It was hard justifying the idea that Merlin was an evil sorcerer when he was quite clearly a victim of unspeakable abuse. Merlin was so browbeaten by five years of slavery, these handlers could free his powers and he didn't even attack them. The boy was scared, probably more than Arthur had to be of Merlin's magic.

Arthur found he was too exhausted from working to ponder this for much longer. As long as Merlin wore the collar, Arthur had nothing to fear from him, anyway, and so all of this was moot. At the end of the day, Merlin was a slave like the rest of them.

It truly had been a day of revelations so far. Elyan had approached them just before Merlin's impressive display. Leon had turned out to be right – Elyan was Guinevere's older brother. He had recognised Arthur instantly, though he had been suspicious at first. Suspicion had soon turned into hope, though, that Arthur might be missed at Camelot and rescued from the camp. Arthur had told Elyan it wasn't likely he would be found, but that he would do everything in his power to free Elyan should somebody come for him after all. Elyan had agreed to keep Arthur's secret in return.

Arthur would be lying if he said it didn't make him uncomfortable that somebody other than Leon knew his identity. If Elyan tried, he could surely come up with a way to use the information to his advantage. But he had been eager to hear news of Gwen, and seemed honest enough when Arthur had sworn him to secrecy. Perhaps the man still held some loyalty to his Prince, no matter what ill fate had befallen him.

When they were finally walking back to the dining hall, Arthur was exhausted. His arms were aching so much he wondered if he could actually lift a spoon of soup to his mouth. The smell, at least, promised something other than thin broth and Arthur was as pleased as everyone else to see that Merlin was serving a hearty stew that evening, rich with peas, beans and thick chunks of fresh, sweet carrots. The bread was as coarse as ever, but dunking it into the stew helped immensely. If only Merlin had some salt, this could almost pass as a decent starter at a feast!

Arthur sighed inaudibly. He really shouldn't be thinking of feasts. If anything, he should be thinking about escape.

He would need some more time to gather information. He needed to get a good look at those palisades to see how tall they were. He had to check how many handlers guarded the gate at night and how serious they took their duty. It would also be preferable to watch, at least one time, how the gate was opened and see how exactly the carts bringing the ore to Engred were guarded.

Because really, there were only three options for escape: Climbing the palisade or gate at night, making a run for it when the gate was already open or hitching a ride with the ore when it left the camp.

The fourth option would be inciting a rebellion, but Arthur knew that wasn't going to happen. If a powerful sorcerer didn't dare fight back, starving men with a pickaxe wouldn't either.

"Somebody's brooding," said Gwaine from across the table.

Arthur shrugged and ate his stew.

"Focus on the small joys in life, princess, that's my advice to you," Gwaine continued. "Merlin's feeding us something other than broth. It's not freezing outside. The Masters haven't whipped anyone. Life is not entirely horrible!"

"Your optimism is astounding," Arthur told him drily.

For some reason, Gwaine's face fell at that. "Little else to do but stay positive, is there?"

Nobody talked for the rest of the night after that, each of their faces lined with exhaustion.

For the next couple of days, Arthur focused on gathering intelligence and keeping his head down. He managed not to attract anymore unwanted attention to himself, which was a well-needed reprieve. He also noticed Merlin was avoiding him, which was – actually, Arthur didn't know what to think of it. Merlin still came over to chat up Gwaine and the others. But he hardly looked at Arthur, though it hadn't passed Arthur by that his bowl had always been just a tad fuller, his bread just a bit bigger than the others. Merlin clearly felt he had to prove something after making those threats.

After a full week of mining, interrogating Gwaine and inconspicuously watching the going-ons in the camp, two things became quite clear: One, there was no way to escape Hell, not without significant help from outside sources or a massive amount of sheer luck. Two, Arthur was slowly but surely starting to bend.

He still hadn't called anybody Master. It turned out that most slaves didn't really need to talk to the handlers if they did as they were told and kept their eyes to themselves. But that was just it: Arthur was avoiding the handler's eyes, he was hushing with everyone else when they passed by, and once or twice, he even found himself shying away from them if they came near him. Seven days. Seven bloody days, and a prince was reduced to this! It was frightening, to say the least.

Of course, the quiet didn't last. For one, Arthur had no interest in assimilating himself and accepting his fate, and that fact alone didn't bode well for him. Furthermore, trouble and danger usually had a way of finding him, one way or another.

At least, when everything went to hell, it wasn't entirely Arthur's fault. It started with Leon.

Leon had been looking sickly for two days. The hard labour and terrible living conditions were getting to him and had, perhaps, lowered his defences against the kind of sicknesses a healthy man his age usually shrugged off. So it came as no surprise to Arthur that Leon would draw the attention of the likes of Nollar and Tindar. What did come as a surprise – though it likely shouldn't have – was the sheer cruelty.

"Get a move on!" Tindar snarled at Leon.

Leon, who was loading worthless rubble onto a cart to be discarded in an abandoned mineshaft, bowed his head and tried to work faster. It was very clear to Arthur, who was standing right next to him, doing the same work, that Leon was actually trying.

But it was the end of the day and Leon was pale and trembling, clearly in need of rest, and so after hardly a minute, he was back to moving slowly and sluggishly.

Tindar was not having it. "I said," he barked, "get a move on, slave!"

Then he kicked at Leon's calf. Leon, who was unbalanced by clutching a rather heavy-looking rock, tripped and fell onto his knees, the rock tumbling a few paces away from him.

"Get up!" snarled Tindar at once. "Get that! Move!"

Leon shakily got to his feet, shuffled forward and bent over to get the abandoned rock.

"Faster!" said Tindar and kicked him again.

Leon stumbled forward, his shackles catching on the rock and he fell to his hands and knees next to it, gasping.

"Unbelievable!" said Tindar, stepped up to the cowering form and kicked Leon squarely into his stomach.

Leon curled into himself with a whimper of pain that went straight to Arthur's heart. A knight of Camelot should not be making that noise. Arthur's man should not be reduced to whimpering on the ground by the likes of Tindar.

Before he could even think about it, the words had left his mouth, loud and authoritative, spoken with the cadence of confidence he had perfected over the past years, "That's enough!"

The mine went quiet: pickaxes caught mid-air, feet halting, carts stopping. Tindar slowly turned on his heels.

"What," he hissed, "did you just say?"

Well, Arthur thought with a sense of recklessness, might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Calmly, he placed the rock he was holding onto the cart, then straightened on the spot, raised his chin and looked Tindar directly into the eye.

"I said, that's enough," he repeated. "You can see he is working, that he's trying to comply. You're being unnecessarily cruel."

"Oh, cruel, am I?" said Tindar with a nasty smile. "I'll show you cruel, slave!"

He walked up to Arthur and tried to grab him. Arthur was ready for him. He ducked, then just managed to kick Tindar's legs in spite of his shackles, making the handler stumble, not unlike he had done to Leon.

Arthur knew he should probably stop there, should probably submit to the inevitable punishment waiting for him down the line and not make it worse by beating Tindar up. But one week of slavery had done its part, and Arthur was suddenly filled with a wave of pent-up aggression trying to finds its release.

Before Tindar had a chance to balance and regain his stride, Arthur launched himself at him with a roar. He wrestled the man onto the ground, flipped him onto his back and straddled his hips. Arthur raised a fist. He got in three good punches before Derian grabbed him from behind and pulled him off Tindar with the strength of a half-giant.

Arthur tried to get at him, too, though he was flailing in his punishing grip rather than aiming at this point. He let out another roar of anger, then he was slammed into the wall of the mine and the air was knocked right out of him as unyielding, protruding rocks buried themselves deeply into his stomach.

He could hear the sound of a blade being unsheathed and then, a sword was pressed against the back of his neck.

"Don't move," growled Derian.

"Derian! Leave him for me!" This was Tindar. His voice sounded strange, clogged. Arthur dearly hoped that meant he had broken the bastard's nose. He grinned into the rock wall, feeling a probably misplaced sense of victory, given the fact he was one finger's width away from getting his head cut off and hardly able to breathe.

"Back off, Tindar," Derian said. "It's the whip for him, and you know it. Ragnor won't stand for you running him through."

"Let me have him!" Tindar insisted, sounding furious.

"No," said Derian. "I said, back off!"

There was a brief silence which Arthur had no hopes interpreting, but it seemed whatever looks the men exchanged had Tindar see reason after all.

"Fine," he growled, "but I'll be wielding the whip." Then, louder, "Everyone! Work is over! Time for some evening entertainment!"

A moment later, the sword was removed from Arthur's neck. He was dragged backwards and away from the wall, allowing him to gulp in some air, then Arthur was pushed towards the tunnel leading back up into the camp. Arthur's arms were twisted behind his back, his wrists held firmly by Derian. It wasn't a short walk up to the surface, which meant Arthur had almost twenty minutes of dreading what was to come: the whip. He had done it now. He would be punished, cruelly. He had seen a whipping or two in Camelot, and it was brutal.

Outside, Arthur was still mercilessly shoved forward, tripping and stumbling over his shackled feet, all the way to the centre of the camp and towards the well. Its walls had been formed out of rubble from the mine, framed by two thick timber beams supporting the crossbar that had a water bucket tied to it. Derian got handed some rope from somewhere and then, Arthur was pushed against the wood and tied face front to the beam. His body straightened and stretched as his arms were raised up high and tied there. The ropes wrapped around his wrists, biting into the skin and hindering the blood flow. Too tight.

Arthur turned his head to the side. All around them, the other slaves had gathered in a half-circle. He couldn't see Leon, but Gwaine was there, and Elyan, looking grim. Arthur had half a mind to send them a cocky grin, but there really was no humour in this situation. Arthur would get whipped. Depending on how much leeway the handlers had, depending on how experienced they were, Arthur might survive, his back a bloodied mess, or he might die.

Arthur strained his ears, trying to get an idea of what was going on behind him, then stilled when somebody stepped close to him.

Tindar's face appeared right next to him, his cheek almost brushing Arthur's when he spoke, "I'm going to make you scream."

And he made good on that promise.