Arthur felt disgusting. He had never felt this dirty, this foul in all of his life.
He had always had power over people, that wasn't the issue. He knew how to use his natural authority, how to make people fall in line and follow his lead. He had been trained from birth to wield that kind of power.
But that brand of leadership wasn't suitable for Hell. That wasn't what the other handlers were looking for while they assessed Leon and him. If Arthur wanted to appear trustworthy, if he wanted Ragnor to one day open the doors of Hell, hand Arthur and Leon a horse and send them on their way to protect that cart of iron ore for King Bayard, he would have to wield a completely different kind of authority.
The kind of authority that wasn't authority at all, but an exercise in torture and terror.
When he had made the plan, when he had discussed it with Leon, Arthur knew what he was getting into. He knew he would have to push Gwaine to the ground, kick Percival in the shins, shove Lancelot into a wall and slap Elyan around the ears. Arthur had known from the start that he needed to do all that because it was a necessary evil, a sacrifice he had to make to escape this place. He had known that there was no other way.
They couldn't have told any of them about the plan. They needed to be convincing. They couldn't risk anybody retaining even the slightest shred of doubt that Arthur and Leon were anything other than the most enthusiastic and sadistic slave handlers Hell had ever seen.
Surprisingly, Arthur found he could deal with a lot of the things he needed to do. He could deal with the pushing, kicking, shoving, and slapping. It wasn't like he had never been cruel in his life, that he had never ill-treated a servant because of a bad mood or bullied a squire out of frustration over a lost fight.
Of course, he felt dreadful about it. It was a constant weight on his conscience, a dark stain on his knightly honour, an endless source of shame, but he could deal with it. At the end of the day, he fell asleep in his well-heated hut, knowing that it was what needed to be done.
He even thought that one day, way down the line, he might forgive himself for these acts, too.
But he didn't think he could ever forgive himself for what he had done to Merlin. Because Arthur was fairly sure that, with just a few sentences, with nothing but words, he had broken him.
Ironically, Arthur had wanted to spare him. Merlin – wonderfully, stupidly brave Merlin, standing up to somebody that had betrayed him – had been Arthur's first test. He wished the slave hadn't been, he wished Merlin would have followed his own advice and kept his head down, but fate had spoken.
Merlin had already been so bruised and bloodied that day, Arthur had known he couldn't find it in him to add another layer of pain on top. He couldn't beat somebody up who had tenderly taken care of him, knowing there was nobody who would take care of Merlin in return. He couldn't lay a finger on a man who had selflessly returned his mother's ring and sacrificed so much to see Arthur safe.
So, he had gone a different route, hoping that words might not cut as deep as a sword. He had spoken harshly, threatened cruelly, to put on a show for a hawk-eyed, highly suspicious Nollar.
Lords, but Arthur was ashamed.
Because Merlin had become a ghost. These days, he was never anything but pale and quiet, a fleeting shadow scurrying through Hell. His eyes were glued to the floor at all times. He froze whenever his name was called. When the handlers addressed him directly, his answering voice was nothing but a faint whisper, a litany of Yes, Master, No, Master, Of course, Master.
Merlin had always been painfully submissive with the Masters. Arthur had managed to make it worse.
Even more painful was watching Merlin interact with other slaves. Merlin had always spoken freely to them, had watched them eat fruit-laced gruel and smiled a faint smile, had joked with the Knights. All of that was gone now, replaced by silence and trembling hands. His new caution made sense, of course. Merlin had just watched a slave become a Master, had experienced the worst kind of betrayal. Merlin would be foolish to trust anyone ever again.
That little spark of his personality he had retained for so long seemed to be gone now. Arthur dearly hoped it hadn't been extinguished forever, only locked deep, deep within Merlin where the handlers could never reach it.
The only good thing that had come out of Arthur's terrible mistake was that Merlin was so exceedingly obedient and so desperately eager to please, there was no reason for Arthur or anybody else to even glare at him. Even Nollar and Tindar had laid off him again. Arthur was glad. He didn't think he could find it in him to punish Merlin, even if he was pressed, and that might blow their cover.
As far as the plan was concerned, things were going well. Even Nollar and Tindar, the most suspicious of the bunch, had started to warm up to them. Ragnor and Myror kept watching them carefully, but they seemed to like what they saw.
But by the gods, sometimes Arthur wanted to break something. Or hide under his blanket and weep.
Worse, he knew Leon felt it, too. Leon, whom Arthur had made an accomplice in this scheme, whom he had forced into the role of slave handler as well, who grit his teeth and acted the tyrant, just like Arthur did.
Arthur couldn't bear the thought that it could all be for nothing, that their plan could fail, so he didn't allow himself to ponder that possibility. Instead, Arthur waited, and watched, and tormented the slaves.
Gwaine rebelled the worst. Arthur knew he considered Merlin a good friend and it was clear he blamed Arthur for losing him. Arthur hadn't yet needed to whip him, but there had been a couple of rather close calls.
Elyan had started watching him again, but if he had an inkling Arthur might not be enjoying himself in his new role as slave handler, he certainly didn't let on. Likely, he had simply lost faith in his Prince. Could Arthur blame him?
Three awful weeks later, Ragnor called Arthur and Leon to his hut and invited them to join him at the table.
Arthur was glad retaining a neutral, diplomatic expression had been mercilessly drilled into him by his tutors. This meant he could keep a straight face when he saw Merlin kneeling by Ragnor's chair, serving him a goblet of wine like he was offering sacrifice to a god. The sight was sickening. Arthur thought he might never be able to have anybody kneel to him and not think of Merlin.
"Wine?" Ragnor asked.
"Gladly," lied Arthur. At least, Merlin only bowed lowly to him when he served it.
"I wanted to say, I'm impressed," said Ragnor after taking a sip. "I have to admit, as fun as it was to see you move up in the world, I had my doubts. But you're good at this. You know how to handle this lot better than anyone else. We've actually increased output for the first time in two years, and that's after losing four working hands!"
"Thank you," said Leon, like that was a compliment worth receiving.
"You have yet to work off your debt, of course," Ragnor continued. "That much gold – well, I want a return on my investment, you understand."
"Of course," Arthur told him. "As long as we're fed and warm."
"But I didn't call you here for a performance review," said Ragnor and chuckled. "The bandits are at it again, and I need some good fighters protecting that ore. So, I've decided you're going to Engred, with Myror and the others. You leave at dawn tomorrow."
He studied their reaction carefully over his goblet of wine. Arthur tried his very best not to give anything away.
"We'll be ready," he said with a firm nod.
"You said you knew how to ride a horse?"
"Well enough," Leon confirmed.
"Good. And don't you worry. The others will be looking out for you." The others will be watching you, was his meaning. The warning was given good-naturedly, but there was glint in his eyes that told Arthur that the others were under strict orders not to let either Arthur or Leon out of their sight.
Ragnor might be lucky, too. Just because they were leaving the camp didn't mean Leon and he could escape. Neither Arthur nor Leon knew what guarding the ore was like. Perhaps the other handlers would be keeping them too close. Perhaps there would be no opportunity to flee. This was another test of loyalty, and they needed to be careful. It might take a few trips to Engred before the others would start to lower their guard.
If Arthur and Leon took that risk, if they tried to make their escape, they would have to be one hundred percent sure it would work. They only had one shot at this, and they needed to get it right.
At dawn, Arthur was back in the saddle of a horse. The mare was well-trained, but a bit too small for Arthur and a tad underfed. Leon's gelding looked little better, too old for this kind of work. They were not the kinds of animals that would last long in a chase. Myror's steed was big and muscular in contrast, as was Nollar's. Derian and some other handlers would be walking along or riding on the cart, crossbows slung around their backs. Ready to shoot at bandits – or Arthur's fleeing back.
It was a day's ride to Engred. When they took a break at noon, Arthur knew they would not be making their escape today.
The others were watching them constantly, more so than their surroundings. Whatever trust Arthur and Leon had worked up in Hell, they had none of it out here. Myror, usually quite friendly with Arthur, kept throwing him suspicious glances and somebody always rode right by their side, herding them towards the cart.
They made it into Engred by nightfall, unloading the ore at the royal forge at the edge of the city. Arthur looked at some of the people passing by. If somebody were to recognise him – a diplomatic envoy from Camelot, perhaps – they would be saved.
But it was unlikely that Uther had sent men to Mercia. From his father's perspective, Arthur had been missing for well over a month with no sign of him, especially if neither Sir Kay, Sir Lionel or the beater had survived that ambush. They likely considered him dead by now.
They stayed at a run-down inn for the night. Leon and Arthur were split up into two rooms, clearly another precaution to stop them from making a run for it.
By dawn, they had packed the supplies they had bought at the market on the empty cart and were riding out of Engred, ready to return to Hell. It was a depressing thought. Arthur tried to comfort himself with the fact that they had at least proven themselves, and might be sent on another trip soon.
They were making their way up a steep, rocky path through some sparse woods, the Mountains of Andor looming close, when Arthur thought he could see movement beyond the bushes by the road.
He sought out Myror's eyes and jerked his head at the trees.
"What is it?" said Myror, too loudly. Of course, these slave handlers weren't tacticians, like knights.
"Somebody's watching," Arthur said.
A moment later, an arrow had struck one of the horses pulling the cart. It roared in pain and made to break out, almost upending the cart in the process.
"Bandits!" shouted Derian and went for his blade. Not a second later, a dozen wild-looking, bearded men came running from the woods, screaming bloody murder.
This was their chance!
"Leon!" Arthur called out over the chaos. The knight was at the other end of their convoy, but immediately sought out Arthur's eyes. They had an understanding – now or never!
Arthur and he unsheathed their swords and went to attack the bandits nearby. But they weren't fighting to protect the cart or Ragnor's profit. They were fighting their way out of Hell.
Arthur took out two men as he made his way around the cart and towards Leon. He struck down another when he had almost reached him, only just managing to keep the man from cutting the mare and making their escape impossible. When he had finally lined up with Leon, they were at the far end of the fight, an empty stretch of road behind them.
They didn't hesitate. They turned around the horses and spurred them on with all the urgency they could, given the state of the rocky road.
Arthur thought he could hear distinct shouts behind them over the roars of fighting, their names perhaps, but it was too late. They were off, fleeing down the hill until a stretch of dried meadow was lying to the West and the horses were on surer footing. This was the way to Camelot, and freedom.
They had the horses gallop as long as they could without risking them go lame, then slowed down to a trot that made Arthur nervous. It couldn't be helped, given the state of the horses, but Myror and the others might very well survive that bandit raid and come after them. The bandits hadn't been very skilled and Derian alone was a force to be reckoned with, half-giant that he was.
They rode on in silence for an hour or two, both too winded to speak.
"Sire," Leon finally spoke up. "Look."
Arthur followed Leon's outstretched arm and saw what he meant. In the very distance, on the top of a hill, perhaps another hour's worth of riding at their current pace, stood a ruin. An abandoned tower, marking the border between Mercia and Camelot. They were close.
By the time they had passed into Camelot, the sun was making its way steadily towards the horizon and their horses were way past their limit.
They found refuge in a village nearby. Arthur didn't reveal his identity, too close to Mercia for his own comfort, and nobody recognised him here, either, with his hair still rather short and his clothes those of a vagabond. But Leon had nicked a few coins from Hell and they were able to buy themselves a night in a farmer's stables, resting with the horses and a few cows.
"Tomorrow, we'll be home," said Arthur, lying on a bed of dry straw.
"Yes, my lord," agreed Leon. A pause, then he added cautiously, "Will we be going back for the others?"
Arthur turned to look at him. "Of course, we will."
They made it to Camelot at the very end of the next day, dusk just settling in. They lost Arthur's mare to exhaustion somewhere in the Darkling Woods and had to put her down. Leon walked his gelding in a useless display of solidarity after Arthur had refused his offer to switch.
When they walked up to the city gates, already closed for the night, the guard almost didn't recognise Arthur. "It's past curfew!" the man snapped as they approached. "Your business can wait until tomorrow. No exceptions!"
"You would have your Prince sleep outside for the night?" asked Arthur, not unkindly. He knew what they looked like.
Still, his voice seemed to be enough to spark the guard's recognition. The man first seemed to go pale, but then quickly recovered and look at him with awe. "Sire!" he exclaimed. "You're alive!"
"It would seem so," Arthur said with a tired sort of humour. "Will you make an exception for me and Sir Leon, and open the gate?"
"Of—Of course, sire," the man stammered, then shouted. "Open the gate! It's the Prince! Prince Arthur has returned!"
By the time they were walking into the main square of the citadel, Uther was waiting on the main staircase and Morgana was hanging out of her window, already wearing her nightclothes, calling Arthur's name. He waved up at her, sent some tired smiles at the servants and guards hurrying closer as Leon and he passed the courtyard, then approached his father.
Uther immediately grabbed Arthur's shoulders. He looked beyond relieved. It wasn't often that Uther got emotional, but his eyes definitely had a sheen in them when he curled his fingers into Arthur's tired muscles.
"I thought I lost you," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he took in the state of Arthur, eyes catching on short hair, thinned cheeks and rough clothes. "What happened to you?"
"Slavers," said Arthur and saw his father's face fall. "Can we talk, Father?"
After hearing Arthur's story, both of them nursing Camelot's finest wine in the King's chambers, Uther was nothing if not sympathetic to Arthur's cause.
"You shall have your revenge, Arthur," he agreed, "but I can't send you into Mercia without contacting Bayard first."
"I'm eager to leave," urged Arthur. He didn't want to know what Hell would be like for Merlin and the others once Ragnor realised he had been betrayed. "I could go unmarked, not as the Prince."
"Impossible! If they catch you attacking one of Mercia's iron reserves and find out your identity, that's as good as declaration of war." He paused, his eyes intense. "Believe me, my son, I understand. I want that scum beheaded as much as you do. Nobody lays a finger on the Crown Prince of Camelot and lives." Uther balled his right hand into a tight fist. "But I won't risk war again. You know how difficult the negotiations were between Bayard and I. This whole… incident is troublesome enough. Bayard will be hard-pressed to allow us to take out those who wronged us, if only to save face. I will get him to agree, don't you worry about it."
But it took a week for letters to be sent and messengers to return. By then, Arthur was itching to take up his sword and about ready to ride back into Mercia on his own, diplomacy be damned. It didn't feel right, attending a welcoming feast and being waited on by servants, knowing there were people out there in desperate need of help. Arthur couldn't help looking at the boy serving him his wine and think of Merlin.
Arthur didn't tell Guinevere about Elyan, unwilling to give her false hope, though he accepted her comforting embrace when he told her of what had happened to him. Perhaps that meant showing more vulnerability than a prince should in front of a servant. But if Hell had taught him anything, it was cherishing what he had and accepting that Guinevere was much more than Morgana's maid.
When they were finally able to leave – fifteen knights, armed to the teeth and ready to avenge their Prince – ten days had passed and Arthur dearly hoped they wouldn't be too late.
He made sure to ride out of Camelot on Llamrei that day. She was a white horse.
