When Arthur and Leon didn't show up for breakfast, it immediately set Merlin on edge.
But he was on edge all the time these days, so he supposed it didn't make much of a difference, all things considered.
Masters Nollar and Tindar had not taken kindly to Merlin's interference. The other Masters weren't exactly joining in their fun little game of bullying Merlin, but they certainly weren't helping Merlin out, either. Even Master Ragnor had only taken one look at Merlin's shackled feet and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, nothing more. Not that Merlin had expected anything else. His years of perfect obedience meant little to them if he still couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Merlin spent his hours anticipating the next punishment, the next little cruelty, and soon started cursing himself. Why had he done it? Why had he gone and spoken up for Arthur? Because the man had shown him a little bit of kindness? Because they had talked about Ealdor and magic and knights? Because Arthur hadn't laughed at him for once being a frightened child, or called him a monster? Because Merlin had suddenly got it in his head that he could have something like a friend?
Merlin should have said nothing to Master Myror, nothing at all. All the little comforts, all the little privileges he had worked so hard for in the past years were slowly slipping through his fingers and he could do nothing about it. Had it really been worth it, to spare Arthur one day of the same work that would kill him eventually? No slave lasted more than three or four years here anyway. Really, if Arthur had died of that fever in the mines, it would have been a mercy!
And yet, here Merlin was, shackled, beaten, scared, because he had wanted to help Arthur. Because he had wanted to protect Arthur.
Ironic, when Merlin couldn't even protect himself.
Leon and Arthur weren't at the mines for lunch, and didn't show up at dinner, either. By then, Merlin was limping from Master Nollar's latest punishment and assaulted by visions of Arthur and Leon chained up in some Master's hut to be beaten into complete submission.
Then, a commotion outside drew everyone's attention. Soon, the slaves were all flocking out into the open and towards the centre of the camp. Excited, nervous murmurs finally had Merlin abandon his food, too, and he limped back outside to see what this was all about.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him. For one moment, Merlin was completely sure Master Nollar had hit him so hard around the head in the morning that he was seeing things now.
Arthur and Leon were wielding swords, their feet unshackled. That alone was enough to bring Merlin up short. What was even more bizarre, however, was that they were fighting Masters Tindar and Nollar and nobody seemed to care! On the contrary, the other Masters were there and watching, their arms crossed, looking for all in the world like this was a completely normal occurrence, like they weren't observing two armed slaves having a go at two Masters.
Master Ragnor's behaviour was even more perplexing – he was outright laughing, clapping and cheering them on.
Was this a new, twisted form of punishment? A fight to the death between slaves and Masters? If so, it didn't look too good for the Masters. Merlin knew absolutely nothing about swordfights but to him, it seemed that Arthur and Leon were winning. Arthur especially looked like he was born with a sword attached to his arm, wielding it like it was an extension of himself, mercilessly pommelling a sweating and cursing Master Tindar and dancing gracefully away from the Master's attacks a moment later.
Merlin knew for a fact that Arthur was still healing from the punishment, which made his display all the more impressive. Merlin could see a fresh patch of blood seeping through the fabric at Arthur's back, where the lashes had likely reopened from the movements. It didn't seem to slow him down.
Sure enough, after a few more minutes, both Master Tindar and Master Nollar were on their backs, their swords abandoned in the dirt beside them, Arthur's and Leon's blades at their throat. The slaves were breathing heavily, but it was clear they had bested the Masters.
For one thrilling, terrifying, beautiful moment, Merlin was convinced that Masters Tindar and Nollar would get killed. The darkness really liked that thought.
"That's enough!" called Master Ragnor, but he didn't sound the least bit upset. He was grinning and rubbing his hands together. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Terrific!"
Merlin, like the rest of the slaves, had no idea what in Hell's name was going on. But they found out soon enough, when Master Ragnor stepped up to Arthur and Leon.
"I must say, Arthur, I thought you and your friend were trying to fool me, but if I had known you could fight like that, you never would have done a day's worth of mining in your life!" He offered them his arm for a shake. "Welcome to Hell!" It was said good-naturedly, warmly, as if he were greeting a couple of old friends, a couple of equals.
Arthur took the arm and grinned fetchingly, "Thank you, Ragnor. We'll be sure to prove ourselves in the coming weeks."
Merlin felt the blood drain from his face. Struck dumb with disbelief, he watched Arthur and Leon shake the arms of everyone else as well, though Masters Tindar and Nollar refused, looking hostile.
"Come on, don't be a sore loser, Tindar," exclaimed Arthur at once, in a casual, confident tone that, for some reason, made Merlin want to throw up on the spot. "I'll teach you how to properly hold onto a sword, if you like!"
Master Myror laughed and slapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder, as if he had just told a terribly amusing joke. "Oh, I think I might come to quite like you, Arthur!" he chuckled.
"What in the name of the bloody gods is happening?" said Gwaine, who was standing next to Merlin, his trademark cheer replaced by apprehension.
"Don't you see?" replied Merlin bitterly and turned away. He was swaying on his feet as another wave of nausea hit him. "We've got ourselves some new Masters!"
"I don't believe this," said Lancelot.
But Merlin was right. By the next morning, Arthur and Leon showed up freshly washed and shaven, wearing proper, warm clothes. With the sharpened swords tied to their hips, they looked like they had never been anything other than slave handlers.
When Merlin had just finished serving breakfast, the both of them, accompanied by a pinch-faced Master Nollar, entered the dining hall – and not to have their first meal of the day.
For a fleeting, hopeful moment, Merlin looked at Arthur and Leon and thought that it might all just be an elaborate ruse, an ingenious bid to escape the mines. He searched their faces for any signs that they might lift their sword any minute now, strike Master Nollar down and free them all.
How utterly, completely foolish of him!
"You've got one minute to finish your food! Hurry up, the iron won't extract itself, slaves!" Arthur called out. His voice was something else entirely. He wasn't shouting, he wasn't barking. His tone was calm and confident, filled with the expectation that everything he said was the law and the law would be followed to the letter – or else. None of the other Masters had ever used a voice like that, but it was highly effective. It made Merlin want to drop everything on the spot and follow Arthur's command, to lower his eyes and make sure that he would never, ever displease him.
All around him, people bowed low over their bowls, shovelling the last of their gruel into their mouths.
Merlin didn't lower his eyes, though. Instead, he looked his knees and, on a whim that could only be explained by the fact he was still in a lot of pain from the Masters' punishments and likely not thinking straight, continued staring right into Arthur's face.
Master Nollar noticed, of course, and gestured at him. The little wave of his hand was almost enough to make Merlin look away. "Like I thought," Master Nollar said, twisting his mouth into a strange smirk. "They're testing you already. Go on then, Arthur." He said the name in the same tone he would have said slave.
Arthur grimaced. If Merlin was still delusional, he might have thought the man looked regretful. Then, Arthur's face hardened. He strode over and immediately crowded Merlin against the nearest wall.
"Merlin," he said quietly, dangerously. "Anything you want to say to me?"
Part of Merlin's brain, the part that had been a slave for five years, the part that knew he had already lost enough in these past days and should count himself lucky he was still alive, told Merlin to bow low and beg Arthur's forgiveness.
But there was another part, a louder part, that was hurting. There was a festering wound of betrayal inside his chest, breaking ever further apart at seeing Arthur act and speak this way. Not a few days ago, Arthur had helped him with his chores, joking and teasing. Now, Arthur was threatening him.
"Oh, I've got a lot of things I would like to say to you," Merlin spat, surprised how loud and deep he could speak, how well and thoroughly disgusted his own voice could sound.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. It was enough to send hot, dangerous sparks down Merlin's back and make his knees buckle. But he didn't give in. Instead, he stared Arthur down, the way he had seen Arthur do with the Masters when he had arrived here. He would not be cowed!
"Slave," Arthur said, his voice now made of steel, "beg for mercy!"
Oh, and Merlin wanted to. All he wanted to do was slip to his knees and plead forgiveness. It had become almost instinctual, this reaction.
But Merlin wouldn't give in today. He had given up everything for Arthur. Merlin had lost too much because of him. He had sacrificed his little slice of comfort in Hell for the health and safety of the very man who now stood before him, acting like he was something better than Merlin, like he owned Merlin.
Merlin would not back down.
"No," he refused and daringly crossed his arms.
A flash of movement and Arthur's right hand had wrapped painfully around the back of Merlin's neck, taking hold of his collar. Merlin choked.
Without another word, Arthur dragged Merlin away from the wall and into the centre of the dining hall, then threw him forcefully to the ground. It knocked the remaining wind right out of Merlin and it took him several moments to gulp in some air and sort through the tangle of shackles and feet to get his knees under him.
Arthur stepped closer and Merlin curled in on himself on instinct. He expected to be kicked, to be punched or to be slapped. Arthur did nothing of the sort. Instead, he went down onto one knee next to Merlin, curled his hand painfully into Merlin's hair and pulled, forcing him to stare up at the ceiling. This way, he had direct access to Merlin's ear. From the corner of his eyes, Merlin watched Arthur lean all the way in, his breath hot and dangerous against Merlin's skin.
A moment of complete silence followed as everyone collectively held their breath. Then, Arthur started to speak. He sounded every bit a Master.
"You think you can defy me like this? You think you have it in you to fight me, Merlin? Then you're a fool. You forgot that I know your deepest, darkest secret. I know how afraid you are of the whip." He paused, letting his words sink in. Merlin started to tremble. "If you don't behave, Merlin, I will tie you to that well down there and I will whip you. I will whip you until you scream, and I will whip you some more. Lash after lash after lash, raining down on your back, until you can't think straight." He lowered his voice. "Then, I will try my very best to patch you up. I will have you heal up nicely, just so I can whip you again." His tone shifted once more, his voice now turning devastatingly alluring. "Eventually, I will make you beg for more lashes. In fact, when I am finished with you, Merlin, you will be craving the whip. You will be grovelling at my feet, kissing my boots, begging me to whip you again. Because I control you. I own you. Is that understood, slave?"
At this point, tears were flowing freely down Merlin's cheeks and he was trembling all over, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as the terrible visions were filling his mind and clouding his thoughts.
Not the whip. Please, please not the whip. Anything but that again.
Merlin nodded frantically, as far as Arthur's punishing grip allowed it, but Arthur's hand only curled more harshly into his scalp.
"Say it," Arthur ordered. "Say the words! Tell me that I own you!"
"You own me," gasped Merlin.
More pain as Arthur's nails dug mercilessly into Merlin's skin, likely drawing blood.
"Try again," he commanded.
"You own me," Merlin choked out, "Master Arthur."
"Louder!" he growled. "I want everyone in here to hear it!"
"You own me, Master Arthur," Merlin repeated, pleading to whatever deity that might hear him that it was loud enough, that he wouldn't be whipped for failing.
Abruptly, he was let go. "And don't you forget it!" Master Arthur stood and called out, "Don't any of you forget it!"
Merlin fell forward until he was cowering on the floor on his hands and knees, his body shaking violently, tears rolling down his cheeks. Please, he thought, not the whip!
"Lords above," exclaimed Master Nollar from somewhere behind him. "You're a bloody natural!"
It would take Merlin a long time to scramble to his feet. By then, the Masters were gone and all the slaves had left for the mines. It was only Merlin and his list of never-ending chores.
Chores he did to perfection that day, lest Master Arthur found out that he didn't.
He would be a good slave for Master Arthur.
Because good slaves didn't get whipped.
