When I return to Camelot, Arthur thought grimly, I'll have Father outlaw the whip.
Gods, but the beating had hurt. Arthur had been close to passing out. Perhaps, if they had asked him to beg, he would have, after ten lashes or so. And the lashes only kept on hurting, every little movement sending sharp jolts of pain down his back, even when all that was asked of him was to sit on a wobbly stool to peel onions. Or trying to peel them, anyway.
"You have never touched an onion in your life, have you?" said Merlin, who was observing him critically.
"Give me a break," muttered Arthur, "I was whipped."
"Your fingers are perfectly intact," Merlin pointed out. "I'm serious, how can you not know how to peel an onion?"
"I am doing it now, am I not?" snapped Arthur and finally loosened the skin from the bulb. He suppressed a triumphant noise as to not give Merlin any more ammunition.
"Can you cut them, at least?" asked Merlin sceptically.
"I know how to use a knife," Arthur retorted.
Merlin threw him a look that seemed to say he wasn't so sure about that. "You had servants who did this for you, didn't you?" he asked curiously. "People who cooked for you, who brought you your food."
Arthur stilled. He really shouldn't be answering those kinds of questions. "Yes," he admitted nonetheless.
Merlin let out a whistling breath. "That explains so much! Not that I didn't already know you were a spoilt brat and a snob."
Arthur snorted, peeling away at the next onion. He was getting the hang of it now! "What gave me away?"
"Oh, only everything?" said Merlin. He was chopping some carrots next to him at the workbench, but abandoned the task briefly to make a careless, all-encompassing gesture with the knife that had Arthur lean away. "The way you talk, the way you hold yourself, the way you're looking at people…"
"The way I am looking at people," Arthur repeated dubiously. "How, pray tell, am I looking?"
"Like you own them," Merlin blurted, then bit his lip.
"I don't—" said Arthur, feeling affronted.
"Maybe not own them," Merlin amended at once, sounding apologetic, "but like you expect them to follow your lead, to do as you say, to defer to you." He paused, then added in a smaller voice, "It spooked me in the beginning, you know?"
"In the beginning? Have I stopped looking, then?" Arthur asked, still feeling kind of offended. He liked to believe he was better than a bunch of slave owners. Even a king didn't own his people.
Merlin studied him and Arthur sought out his eyes on purpose, staring him down. Merlin managed to hold his gaze for a few seconds, then shied away, ducking his head. "A bit," he said quietly and continued chopping.
Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Arthur focused on his onions for a while, then said, "May I ask you something?"
"Sure," said Merlin, "can't promise I'll answer, though."
"Fair enough," replied Arthur. Again, he paused. Should he really do this? "I was wondering," he continued eventually, "about the magic."
Merlin's knife stilled. "What about it?" His voice had gone carefully neutral. Touchy subject. But then, sorcery wasn't Arthur's favourite topic either.
"It looked… strong," Arthur said hesitantly. "You made the earth shake."
"I moved the rock," Merlin corrected him, like that was any less impressive. "Of course, that will send some vibrations through the ground. It's not like it was an earthquake."
"Still," said Arthur, "pretty impressive."
"Your point?" asked Merlin, though it was clear the topic was not an easy one for him. He was humouring Arthur, for whatever reason, perhaps sensing the same, tentative bond between them that had Arthur admit to his servants and cooks.
"Without the collar, couldn't you have…?" He trailed off.
Merlin's knuckles went white around the handle of his knife. When he finally replied, his voice was barely a whisper, "No. I couldn't."
"But surely—" Arthur dared to push.
"I tried, okay?" Merlin hissed. "I tried. Three times, and three times I failed. Three times, I got punished. I got whipped, much worse than you did." He had started trembling now, the knife rattling against the carrots, making a few pieces roll off the workbench and down onto the ground. "Don't you think I would like to?" he continued and his voice had a dangerous edge to it now, a tone that sent goosebumps up Arthur's arms. "Don't you think I would like to crush their skulls? To have them writhe on the ground before me? To have them call me Master and beg me for their pathetic, worthless lives?"
Arthur quickly moved his hand and wrapped it around Merlin's wrist to still the hand with the knife.
"Easy there," he murmured, like he was dealing with a frightened horse.
Merlin immediately snapped out of it. His shoulders hunched forward and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Sorry," he whispered, suddenly sounding young and meek and scared. "Sorry. I'm so sorry."
"You're fine," Arthur tried to soothe him, still feeling rather unsettled. He didn't let go of the hand, not yet.
"I'm not, though," said Merlin, shaking his head. "This happens sometimes. I go—I go dark. I turn cruel." He turned his head towards Arthur and his eyes were wet and haunted. "Like that time I threatened you, with the food? I get these ideas… I want to hurt them. I want to hurt the Masters. I want to make them suffer. I want them to ache and to scream and to beg…" He shuddered, then whispered, "It's a good thing they've got me collared, Arthur. I'm a monster."
"You're not a monster," replied Arthur immediately and squeezed the wrist he was still holding. This, he was absolutely certain of. "You've suffered at their hands. Tremendously. It's only natural to want revenge. Don't you think I'd like to run a sword through Tindar right now? It's the same thing, with the sorcery."
As Arthur uttered the words, he found himself surprised by them. Yet, he felt that he had spoken the truth. Magic was not what corrupted Merlin. It was the slave owners' cruelty that tempted Merlin, as it tempted Arthur and likely any of the other slaves, with dark thoughts of revenge. Magic had little to do with it, it was merely the tool at Merlin's disposal.
"I don't want to be that kind of person," Merlin said, almost pleadingly. "I want to be… I don't know. Kind, I think. Compassionate."
"You are," said Arthur, because it was true. Merlin had shown that side of him many times in the short time Arthur had known him. Carefully, he let go of Merlin's wrist. "Look at you, patiently putting up with my terrible onion peeling skills."
Arthur was pleased when that drew a chuckle out of Merlin, however weak it was. "Yes, truly abysmal," he said. He sniffed, then added teasingly, "Seriously, what were you before, a prince?"
Arthur almost grimaced. He knew Merlin was joking, but still—highly dangerous territory. "Please," he said, aiming for a playful tone. "Don't you think they would have rescued a prince by now?"
Merlin nodded. "True," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "But I can't be too far off. A lord's bastard, would be my best guess. Serving as a soldier, perhaps? As a royal guard?"
This had Arthur smile. Merlin and his knights. A curious obsession. "What makes you think that?"
"Just… something about you," Merlin said. Arthur was intrigued to see he now looked embarrassed.
"What?" he prodded, curiosity peaked. "Come on, now, do tell, Merlin! Share your infinite wisdom. You've got me all fathomed out, don't you?"
Merlin muttered something that sounded an awful lot like prat, but he said out loud, "When I first came here, I kept having the same dream. That someday, a man in armour would come and free us all. Blond, like you, with a cape and a sword. He would ride in here on his white horse, and rescue me." He laughed, small and self-depreciatively. "I know it sounds completely stupid."
"No," said Arthur, "it sounds like a dream a child would have. A frightened child."
Merlin nodded. "I was that," he said quietly.
They didn't talk much after that, though Arthur couldn't get the vision out of his head: Merlin, much younger, much smaller but no less skinny, sleeping on the dirt floor of the barracks, wishing for a knight to come and get him away from all the suffering. A noble man, rescuing the unfortunate and innocent, keeping people from harm – it was exactly the kind of ideal Arthur held up for the knights of Camelot to follow. In that moment, he dearly wished he could be that knight for Merlin.
He didn't know what it was about Merlin that made him feel so fiercely protective all of a sudden. Was it because he had returned his mother's ring so selflessly? Because he had tended to Arthur's wounds, given up his bed? Whatever it was, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps in a different life, they might have been something like friends.
Together, they managed a passable dinner for the slaves. Merlin let the cauldron simmer on the fire, then told Arthur to prepare the tables, tasking him with setting out the bowls and spoons whereas he went out back to chop some wood for the fire. It was clear Merlin was sparing him. On any other day, it would go against Arthur's pride to do light work and send somebody like Merlin to do the heavy lifting, but his back was positively killing him and he was grateful for the lighter load.
He helped ladle out the stew that night, earning himself some teasing from the Knights. Even Leon, clearly relieved at seeing him up and walking, dared to raise a cheeky eyebrow at him as he watched his Prince serve him his dinner.
The next day, his back felt the tiniest bit better, but Arthur had developed a fever. Merlin kept frowning at his flushed cheeks. It was clear he would have liked Arthur to lie down and rest, but the handlers kept checking on them at odd intervals, making sure Arthur wasn't lazing about. Merlin sounded apologetic when he sent Arthur off to empty the handler's waste buckets to appease them. It was a work that gave Arthur a whole new appreciation for his manservant emptying his chamber pot.
He got through the day, albeit in a dazed fog, and before long was curled up on the mattress in the kitchen again, listening to Merlin tell him about Ealdor, the village he had lived in before becoming a slave. He had always known Merlin to be a peasant, but it turned out he really was a complete nobody, just another country boy. A bastard, too, he had admitted freely, with no shame. And why would he be embarrassed by that, slave that he was?
A country boy that had been born with a lot of magic, though. Arthur had never heard of it, a person being born a sorcerer, but Merlin had no reason to make them up, those tales of a baby making cutlery float and driving his mother insane.
It made Arthur wonder, about magic. If people were born with it… If he weren't feeling so hazy, he might have pondered the thought.
Arthur dared to open up in return, keeping his tales vague enough as to not give away his identity, proud that he could draw a laugh or two from Merlin telling him about the escapades of his own childhood.
The next morning, he was still feeling feverish and weak. He was helping Merlin prepare the breakfast gruel when Nollar entered the kitchen from the back, startling Merlin into nearly dropping the cauldron of food. He bowed hurriedly, and Arthur forced himself to at least lower his eyes and head into the barest resemblance of respect. He didn't want to get Merlin into trouble, who had been nothing but kind and patient with him.
"You," Nollar hissed, pointing at Arthur. "It's back to the mines for you, today."
Next to Arthur, Merlin stiffened. "But… Master Nollar," he breathed.
Nollar immediately rounded on Merlin, "Got something to say, Merlin?"
Merlin bowed lower, trembling, but braved Nollar's ire, "Please, Master Ragnor said—"
"Are you telling me what to do now, slave?" growled Nollar dangerously. "Are you forgetting your place?"
Merlin's voice turned frantic. "No, Master, of course not, I'm sorry, I'd never—"
"Shut up, slave," snapped Nollar, then turned back to Arthur. "I expect to see you at the mine after breakfast. Is that understood?" He glared at him, a hand on the hilt of his sword, clearly daring him to be any less than completely obedient.
For Merlin's sake, who had sounded about ready to pass out with fear but had spoken up for Arthur so bravely, Arthur decided he would swallow his pride, just once. "Yes, Master," he ground out and Nollar positively gloated.
As soon as Nollar was out of earshot, Merlin's head snapped up. "You can't go back there," he said, sounding deeply worried, "you've got a bad fever. Look at you, you're shivering. The work might actually kill you!"
"I don't think I have much of a choice," Arthur told him, not that he disagreed with Merlin. He was not up to swinging a pickaxe just yet. But neither might he survive another fifteen lashes, raining down on barely healing skin.
He settled down for breakfast with Gwaine and the others, accepting their commiserating looks when he told them he would be joining them again, then ate his gruel in stoic silence, ignoring the way his fingers curled weakly around the spoon. He would need to find the strength. Quietly, he followed the Knights and other slaves up to the mine, feeling Leon's worried eyes on him and trying to ignore the woozy feeling in his head as he dragged his leaden feet towards the tunnel.
To his surprise, he saw Myror waiting at the entrance, Merlin hovering at his side.
"Halt," said he. "Nollar! What is this one doing up here?" He gestured at Arthur, who stopped and stepped out of the line of slaves to let the others pass him by.
"It's back to the mine for him," said Nollar, arms crossed.
"I don't think so," Myror replied. "Ragnor wanted three full days of rest, and Merlin says the slave's got a fever."
"Oh," Nollar said dangerously. "Merlin says, does he?"
Myror shrugged. "We don't want him to keel over an die," he said. "Let him go."
Nollar complied, but threw Merlin the kind of hostile, spiteful glance Arthur had only ever seen him direct at the other slaves, Arthur in particular. This wasn't good.
"You shouldn't have done that," said Arthur, when they were back in the kitchen, kneading breads.
Clearly, Merlin had gone to Myror behind Nollar's back, begging him to spare Arthur for another day. How Arthur deserved such kindness and loyalty from Merlin, he didn't know. Really, he hadn't done a thing for the man, except get him into trouble and create more work for him. It was Merlin who kept on giving and giving. Merlin, who thought himself a monster when he was nothing but kind and decent.
"You are in no state to return to the mine," Merlin insisted, but he was frighteningly pale and jittery for the rest of the morning. He knew he had tempted fate.
By dinner, it was clear he would be paying dearly for helping Arthur out. Merlin was ladling out stew when Nollar and Tindar entered the dining hall. Everyone hushed, but both handlers made a beeline for Merlin, eyes filled with nothing but malice. It was only the fact that Arthur knew it would only make matters worse for Merlin that he didn't get up and challenge them at once.
"Merlin," Nollar snapped and the slave tensed on the spot.
"Yes, Master?" Merlin said weakly.
"Why haven't you scrubbed my floors yet?"
"I'm sorry, Master Nollar," replied Merlin, his voice going high-pitched. "I will do it right away, once I've finished—"
"No," Nollar growled and curled a hand into Merlin's skinny arm. "I want it done now! Heel, boy!"
Merlin trembled. He set down the cauldron where he stood, nodded jerkily and followed the handlers out of the hall. Everyone stared after them, anticipating the worst.
When Merlin didn't come back, Arthur tried to take over his chores as best as he could.
It was late at night when Merlin finally returned to the kitchen, and his face and arms were covered in fresh cuts and bruises. He didn't talk, and it was all Arthur could do not to take up a kitchen knife, walk to Nollar's and Tindar's huts, and stab them in their sleep.
Instead, he steered Merlin's trembling, maltreated body towards the mattress, covered him in his thin little blanket and sat down on the floor beside him, feeling compelled to tell him useless little lies like, Everything is going to be fine.
The fever was gone the following day and Arthur returned to the mine, thinking but one determined thought: He needed to get out of here.
That night, at dinner, Merlin was wearing shackles. Everyone was staring at him, shocked by the sorry sight of him, beaten up and frightened and no better off than the rest of them. Everybody liked Merlin and nobody had begrudged him the little comforts he had earned for himself, that much was clear from the pitying looks and murmurs of commiseration.
"What happened?" asked Gwaine, clearly unable to keep the horror from his voice, but Merlin only shook his head. It was clear he had recently been crying and Arthur felt like throwing up, knowing Merlin had lost his privileges for speaking up for Arthur.
When Merlin had shuffled away, Arthur told the others what had happened, bracing himself for their anger. The Knights weren't upset, though.
"He's a good lad, Merlin," said Gwaine instead, his eyes sad.
"Five years a slave," murmured Lancelot, "and still so caring."
"It'll be what breaks him," Percival sighed.
Nobody spoke after that, though Elyan was back to throwing Arthur quiet looks, as if he knew Arthur was feeling guilty and wanted to tell him this wasn't his fault.
Arthur watched Merlin get bullied and pushed around for two more days, caught somewhere between rage and helplessness. He wasn't used to the latter. Arthur Pendragon had never felt so powerless in his life.
"The Masters are on edge," said Lancelot that night, throwing Merlin another pitying look. The slave had come to hover beside them, though he still wasn't speaking much. He was sporting a split lip and a swollen wrist.
"They keep talking about bandits," Percival offered. "Seems to be a big problem."
This had Merlin finally speak up, if so quietly he could hardly be heard over the sounds of people eating, "There's a lot of bandit activity on the road to Engred. They are trying to recruit new Masters to protect the ore, but can't find anybody willing to do it for the pay they are offering."
Arthur stilled. A spark, the hint of a thought, lit up in his mind, slowly growing into an idea. A horrible idea, perhaps, but an idea nonetheless. He sought out Leon's eyes, silently informing him they needed to talk.
That night at the barracks, he whispered his plan into Leon's ear. Leon baulked at first, but eventually gave in. Arthur was still his Prince, whipping scars or no, and he would follow his lead, no matter what.
The next day, Arthur and Leon left the barracks, but didn't walk to the dining hall.
They went and approached Ragnor's hut.
