Merlin had never imagined that Hell could get any worse.

But after they had watched Masters Myror, Derian and Nollar return to the camp, bleeding, limping, and leading a single, laming horse past the palisade with neither cart nor fresh supplies in tow, life became truly infernal.

Master Ragnor had lost a massive amount of money, wiping out any spark of mercy the greedy man had ever possessed. Everyone was made to work twice as hard while being stripped of any remaining comfort. Without the new supplies, there was hardly any food left. Soon, Merlin was down to a couple of bags of flour and dearly wished he at least had ten mouldy turnips to make some soup.

But there was one comfort the handlers couldn't take away from them: The comfort of knowing that two slaves had finally managed to escape Hell.

Masters Arthur and Leon were no more and for the first time in weeks, Merlin felt like himself again, snapped out of the daze of horror he had found himself in after Arthur's betrayal.

Because Merlin's first hunch, all those weeks ago, had been correct. It had all been nothing but a ruse, a scheme to leave Hell. And though that knowledge did little to undo the hurt or consequences inflicted by Arthur's and Leon's actions, it nonetheless eased a burden that had had every potential to crush Merlin for good.

"Ingenious," Gwaine had whispered over dinner, the night the beaten Masters had returned to the camp and Master Ragnor had screamed, at the top of his lungs, about liars and betrayal and gold. "Absolutely ingenious!"

"They bid their time," murmured Lancelot. "They were smart about it, really smart."

"Just the gall of them," Percival uttered. "Really, I wish I had thought of making off like that."

It didn't pass Merlin by that Elyan didn't join in their gushing, but he looked thoughtful, likely feeling as strangely pleased and impressed as the rest of them.

It was amazing – and rather twisted, and telling of the lives they lived here perhaps – how willingly the Knights could overlook what Arthur and Leon had done to them. Most other slaves showed a little less open enthusiasm than the Knights, though almost everybody seemed to hold at least a grudging sort of respect for the two slaves who had tricked the Masters into letting them become slave handlers to facilitate their escape.

Merlin wasn't feeling too enthusiastic himself, what with getting hardly five hours of sleep and working himself to death scrubbing floors and chopping wood on an empty stomach. But still, when he lay down at night, his back hurting, his fingers raw and his body trembling with exhaustion and hunger, he closed his eyes and thought of Arthur and Leon, walking free. He bore them no ill will.

They had fooled them all. All the horrible things they had done, they had done them to escape. Merlin could never begrudge Arthur his freedom. There had once been a time when he would have done anything to be free himself. Perhaps, if he let the darkness overtake him, he might have taken a whip to Arthur's back if it meant he could finally walk past that palisade.

But as the days went by and the conditions grew ever worse, the sense of hope Arthur's and Leon's flight had sparked among the slaves of Hell was soon lost to their suffering. They were starving. In the matter of a week, two slaves died, simply keeling over in the mine from sheer exhaustion.

Eventually, over a week had passed when Master Nollar approached Merlin dumping waste buckets into the latrines with jittery hands. Merlin was about ready to faint from hunger. He was down to his last bag of flour and they were all living off parchment-thin flatbreads and herb-flavoured water trying to pass itself off as soup. One more slave was dead.

"Merlin," the Master said, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "Orders directly from Ragnor. You're to work at the mines, starting tomorrow."

Merlin almost slipped and fell to a rather disgusting death. "What?" he gasped.

Master Nollar didn't even bother threatening him about his lack of respect. His next words were punishment enough. "You heard me. We need every hand in the mines. Ragnor wants his losses back. Get yourself a pickaxe in the morning."

Pickaxe. No magic then. Merlin nodded mutely, too shocked to speak. Master Nollar, who had never in his life shown Merlin the slightest bit of kindness or mercy and instead made his life quite literally Hell, actually grimaced. They both knew Merlin wouldn't survive a single day of mining. Master Ragnor seemed to have lost his mind over his greed. Ironically, he was working the rest of his investments to death in the process.

Merlin returned to the kitchen in a daze, recklessly abandoning the rest of his chores. What did it matter anyway? By this time tomorrow, he would have long collapsed in the tunnels below the Mountains of Andor, his last breath filled with iron-laced dust.

He barely slept that night and at dawn, got up feeling half-dead. He scrunched together the last of the flour to make a final round of unleavened breads. Merlin wondered who would be doing the cooking from now on, and if Master Ragnor would finally relent and get them some rations when a few more died today.

Merlin distributed the meagre morning meal to the left-over slaves, most of which looked nowhere capable of doing even another hour's worth of work, then followed the string of slaves out of the hall and up to the mine. They were stopped right around the centre of the camp when Master Tindar came running from the gate he had been manning, shouting frantically for Master Ragnor.

"What is going on, Tindar?" asked Master Myror, who had been leading the slaves up to the tunnel.

"King Bayard has sent an envoy," he said as he ran past. "Apparently, they want to inspect the mine. They're waiting just outside the gate."

Nobody moved, the Masters too busy staring anxiously at the gate to have the slaves move again. Not half a minute later, Master Ragnor hurried through the camp and to the gate. He climbed the platform to look over the palisade. He was too far away and Merlin couldn't hear what was being said to whoever was waiting behind the wall, but eventually, the gate was opened.

Two men in fine clothing rode in on horses, looking cautious. Merlin eyed them from afar, wondering if this bade well for the slaves. As far as Merlin had gathered from half-listening to Master Ragnor's conversations, King Bayard approved of Hell and turned a blind eye to slavery. Would they do something about—

Merlin would never finish that thought. In the next moment, all hell broke loose in Hell.

A flurry of horses burst through the still-opened gate. Armoured men, swords raised, were pouring into the camp. The Masters immediately came running from all corners, their own blades at the ready, shouting and yelling. All around Merlin, slaves took off, diving into the shacks and huts nearby, seeking cover.

But Merlin was frozen to the spot. The chaos surrounding him was suddenly muted, as if somebody had covered his ears with thick cloth, and his eyes zeroed in on one figure standing out amongst the crowd.

This wasn't real. He had to be dreaming.

Because there he was – the knight from his dreams. Tall and fair, wearing a magnificent red cape around broad shoulders covered in shining chainmail, strong arms protected by gleaming vambraces and legs wrapped in sturdy leather breeches. He was riding on a white horse, large and beautiful, faintly reminding Merlin of a unicorn. Merlin couldn't quite make out the knight's features with the morning light catching him from behind, casting odd shadows and blinding glares. Yet Merlin was absolutely certain it had to be a warm and friendly face, ready to bestow a compassionate smile.

Surely, this had to be a vision. Merlin was so hungry he had started hallucinating.

He was dimly aware the Masters soon stopped putting up a fight, outnumbered as they were, but Merlin wasn't looking at them or their other opponents. Merlin kept staring at him.

Gods, even if this was just a dream, he would enjoy it while he could. He would drink in the sight of it. He hadn't had this dream in so long, he had forgotten how wonderful it could make him feel. Merlin deserved a moment of bright, warm hope.

A hand wrapped around his upper arm, pulling and dragging until he fell onto his knees to show he was surrendering. Perhaps he should be lowering his head in this pose, like he always did, but he didn't want to. He wanted to see. He was still staring at the knight, who was now dismounting the white horse elegantly, one fluid motion of graceful limbs, his cape billowing beautifully with the movement.

Suddenly, Merlin was twelve years old again, shivering on the icy barracks floor, his eyes closed and fervently wishing somebody would come for him.

Please, take me with you, Merlin prayed to the knight and suddenly, he felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. Please, just take me away from here.

Then the man turned, moving his face to an angle that had the morning sun catch his features just right, and Merlin was violently snapped back to reality.

It was Arthur. The knight was Arthur.

Merlin felt his eyes grow impossibly wide and he knew he had to be gaping when Arthur handed the reins to one of the men surrounding him, then came to stand in front of his horse and spoke with the ease and confidence of a leader, "Consider this mining operation closed and all slaves freed, effective immediately."

"On whose authority?" This was Master Ragnor, forced onto his knees by two more knights, his head made to bow towards the floor. Clearly, he hadn't had a chance to lay eyes on Arthur yet.

"By order of the King of Mercia himself, to be carried out by my person," Arthur informed him.

"And who are you?" asked Master Ragnor, still struggling against his captors.

Arthur smiled. "Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot."

Whatever else was said afterwards, Merlin couldn't remember. Likely, there was some screaming and raging from Master Ragnor, some shouts of disbelief from the other Masters or slaves, but Merlin had no recollection of that. His mind was filled with nothing but Arthur's impossible words, repeating over and over and over again: Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot.

Arthur was a prince. Arthur was a bloody prince!

At some point, Merlin started shaking. At first, he was sure it was because he was about to start laughing at the thought that Arthur, who couldn't peel an onion if his life depended on it and whom Merlin had sent off to empty waste buckets, was a prince! But he wasn't laughing. If anything, his body was sending him strong signals that he was about to lose it completely.

Merlin was saved from his strange fit of madness when somebody knelt down in front of him and abruptly blocked Arthur from his sight. The man was frowning at him. It took Merlin a moment to realise the man was talking to him, too.

"… all right? Merlin, come on, talk to me!"

Merlin took in the sight of him: shiny armour, red cape and curls just growing back in. Another knight.

"Leon," Merlin managed at last.

Leon's frown smoothed and he smiled. "Yes. Come on, up you get, Merlin. There's no need for you to keep kneeling in the dirt with this lot."

"Leon," Merlin repeated, letting himself get pulled to his feet. "Leon, is Arthur really a prince?"

"Yes," said Leon, somehow dead serious and somewhat amused at the same time. "He's the Prince of Camelot."

"And you?" asked Merlin incredulously. "What are you, a lord?"

Leon let out a small chuckle. "No, not a lord. That would be my father. I'm Sir Leon – at your service."

"Sir Leon," Merlin stressed, and didn't know where the boldness emerged from that had him add, "I like that much better than Master."

Leon stilled. "Yes. Me, too."

"Well, Sir Leon," said Merlin, still riding a strange wave of confidence, "I hope your people brought us some food, because I'm quite literally starving."

The next hour was a blur of activity. The knights of Camelot had indeed brought food. With the help of Leon, Merlin had bread, cheese, dried meat and fruit brought to the dining hall.

"We have to keep them from gorging themselves," Merlin cautioned, all the while only just restraining himself from doing exactly that. Gods, when was the last time he had tasted cheese? "They will get sick if they eat too much now."

Soon, all the slaves had gathered in the hall, munching away on a reasonable portion of food, some of them already freed of their shackles, talking in low, disbelieving voices about what had just happened. Merlin kept himself busy walking around, checking on everything and everybody, until Gwaine's arm shot out and he pulled Merlin down onto the bench to sit with the Knights.

"Take it easy, Merlin," he said. "Don't wear yourself out."

"Can you believe it?" Merlin asked them at once as he made a grab for another piece of bread, white and fluffy and heavenly. "He's a prince! I once made a joke like that, and he didn't even blink!"

"Elyan knew," said Percival, sounding miffed.

Merlin rounded on Elyan. "You knew he was a prince? You could have said something!"

Elyan shook his head. "I promised him not to reveal his identity."

"And I thank you for that, Elyan. You are a man of your word." The whole table hushed, the quiet soon spreading to the rest of the room. Arthur, Prince Arthur, had just entered the dining hall and was now, from the sound of it, standing just behind Merlin. Merlin promptly shied away, hunching on the bench.

It was Elyan who broke the silence. "Sire," he said, inclining his head respectfully. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too." Arthur paused. "All of you." He cleared his throat. "I wanted to say—" He cleared his throat again. "I came to apologise. For the way I treated you, for what Leon and I—"

"Princess," Gwaine interrupted him and Merlin tensed at his gall, using the old nickname so casually. "Don't you bloody apologise to us for a few slaps! You came back for us. You're freeing us from Hell. I'm about ten seconds away from kissing your royal feet!"

"Oh, well," said Arthur, sounding awkward and embarrassed and wonderfully unlike either Master Arthur or Prince Arthur, "please don't do that."

The tension in the hall eased, murmurs starting back up, words of thanks floating towards Arthur, who soon went around the tables, clearly still set on apologising to each and every one of them. It gave Merlin another chance to look at him from afar, to watch him clap his strong hand on thin shoulders as he made his rounds.

However, when it seemed like Arthur was about to return to their side of the dining hall, Merlin bolted straight to the kitchen. There was no way he was talking to a prince. No way in, dare he say it? No way in Hell!

Of course, Arthur found him. It wasn't like Merlin was hiding, sitting out back by the clay oven, resting on the wobbly stool, nibbling away at another piece of cheese even though he knew he was likely to throw it up later. Still, he tensed and ducked his head when he recognised the man out of the corner of his eye.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice was familiar, the tone less so: guarded, hesitant.

Merlin looked at the ground. "Sire," he murmured, mimicking Elyan. He suddenly felt terribly self-conscious and inadequate in his faded tunic and dirty linen trousers, a slave talking to a prince.

"Just Arthur," the Prince said.

Merlin let out a choked noise, a sorry excuse for a laugh. "You can't be serious," he said.

"You called me Arthur before," was the surprised response.

"I had to call you Master Arthur for a lot longer than that," muttered Merlin, then slapped his hand over his mouth. He hunched over, nearly slipping off the stool.

"True." Arthur didn't sound offended. The clinking of armour and rustling of clothes told Merlin he was moving. It took him a moment to realise Arthur had sat down on the ground, in the dirt, placing himself much lower than Merlin still perched on the stool. Merlin was pretty sure a prince shouldn't be sitting on the ground like that. "Will you look at me?" Arthur asked. "Please?"

Merlin bit his lip. He chanced a side-way glance. Arthur was staring at him intently.

"Merlin," he said, "I'm so sorry."

Merlin snatched his eyes away. "You heard Gwaine," he murmured. "There's no need to apologise."

"Of course there is," Arthur objected. "The things I said to you— You confided— I was taking advantage of—" He stopped and made a frustrated noise. "Gods, Merlin, I don't even know how to say it." He sounded lost.

Merlin found it in him to turn his head, though he wasn't quite meeting Arthur's eyes. Too intimidating, looking a prince in the eye. Back to that, are we? he mused. At least he knew now where that feeling of deference had come from. It was warranted. He was speaking to royalty.

"You're fine," he murmured. "Don't fret. The moment I heard you two had run off I knew you had been playing a role."

"Playing it rather convincingly," Arthur argued. "At what point does pretend end and become the actual thing? Especially with the other person in the dark?" He paused, exhaling heavily. "I hurt you," he added, very quietly.

Merlin's eyes had filled with tears before he could even think about fighting them down. Maybe it was the words, maybe just the tone, but Arthur was right, "Yes. You did."

"I'm sorry."

This time, Merlin didn't tell him it was unnecessary. He felt the tears roll down his cheeks and he brought up his hand, palming quickly at his face. Who was he to have a break-down in the presence of a prince? After a moment, Arthur placed a careful hand on Merlin's back. The tears came freely after that.

Finally, Merlin sniffed, "Thanks for coming to get us."

"I was too slow," said Arthur, suddenly balling a fist. "People died. I would have come back the next day, but my father and Bayard… The peace treaty was hard-earned… As Crown Prince, I couldn't risk it, but maybe I should have…"

Merlin had only half an idea what all of that meant, but the meaning didn't matter as much as the intent. "You came. That's the important bit." He hesitated, rubbing his cheeks again. "On a white horse," he added, more shily than he had wanted to.

"Nice touch?" asked Arthur, now sounding amused and confident. "She's Llamrei. You should meet her."

Merlin smiled wistfully down at his knees. "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"No, Merlin. It's quite real."

They sat quietly for a while, the familiar sounds of a busy dining hall sounding out from behind, though Merlin didn't think the voices had ever rung out quite so strongly, let alone so joyfully.

"Would you like me to get those off?" asked Arthur eventually, waving at Merlin's feet. "Leon's got the key."

Merlin ducked his head. "Only the shackles, sire?" He fingered at his neck.

"Only the—? Of course not," replied Arthur, almost sounding affronted. "I'll make Myror tell me where to find the other key."

Merlin licked his lips and drew up his shoulders. "You're not afraid?"

"No!" There was a surprising vehemence in that syllable.

"I am," Merlin admitted. What would keep the darkness from creeping in? What would stop him from using his powers for evil? Was he ready to have those kinds of forces at this beck and call? He shuddered, trying to make himself small on the wobbly stool.

"You'll be fine," Arthur murmured soothingly. "But if you're afraid, I can leave it locked and simply give you the key, or I could keep it for you, until you decide you are ready. The choice is yours."

Merlin shivered. Choices. When was the last time he had those?

"I don't know what to do," he said. He rubbed a tired hand over his face. "Lords, I don't even know where to go. There's nothing out there for me."

"Oh, that one's easily solved. You can come with me, to Camelot."

For the first time that day, Merlin looked Arthur squarely in the eye. It was easier to accomplish when you were gaping rather unattractively. "To Camelot?" he repeated dumbly.

Arthur stared right back at him. "Yes."

"You're inviting a sorcerer to Camelot?" Merlin asked incredulously.

"No," Arthur replied, dead serious. "I'm inviting somebody whom I owe a debt to, and who happens to have some magic."

Merlin pursed his lips. "I'd get killed if anyone found out. I told you, Ealdor is not far off the border. I know all about the Purge."

"There is that," admitted Arthur. "But then, you're rather good at keeping your head down, aren't you?"

Merlin shook his head. "Arthur, I can't…"

"Look," Arthur said. "Your secret is safe with me for as long as you're there, but if you decide it's too much, I'll understand, and I'll make other arrangements. There are always the druids, or Caerleon or Tir-Mor, both of which I know are not unkind to magic. I just—" He hesitated. "Let me take care of you for a while? Like you did for me?"

Merlin swallowed. Oh, so tempting, that last thought. "Can I think about it?"

"Of course," Arthur said. "We're making camp for today, to sort everything out. There's no rush."

He stood, brushed an encouraging hand over Merlin's shoulder and was gone.

That night, curled up in the kitchen for a final round of sleep in Hell, Merlin had the old dream again. Only this time, it wasn't just that. It was real, tangible. A knight, a prince had come and he had freed them all.

By morning, Merlin had made his decision. He even dared to speak to Arthur first, approaching him as he was saddling his horse. Merlin carefully stroked Llamrei's neck. Taking care of the horses had always been one of the less terrible chores in Hell and the mare seemed to be the curious sort.

Behind the group of gathering knights and freed slaves, the Masters were lined up, now the ones shackled and tied with ropes. Master Ragnor looked pale, Master Nollar like he might have been roughened up overnight. The darkness tickled Merlin. It was quite enjoying the view. Did they whip slave handlers in Camelot? Had some of them cried for mercy at Arthur's feet?

"What will happen to them?" Merlin asked, quickly chasing the thoughts away.

"Beheading, most likely," Arthur replied matter-of-factly. "They'll stand trial in Camelot. Part of the deal with Bayard." He studied Merlin for a moment, and Merlin tried his best to meet his gaze. "So? Are you coming?" Arthur sounded casual in a way Merlin thought might be exaggerated.

"Yes," he said. "I'm coming."

Arthur smiled.

"I'm keeping the collar on," he added hurriedly. "You keep the key. Just… for a while? If that's all right. Probably better, with the ban on magic and all…"

"Of course." Arthur looked at him thoughtfully, then reached in his saddle bag and pulled out a piece of red fabric. "Here. For your neck, if you want it."

Merlin unfolded the fabric, triangle-shaped. A scarf. Probably the nicest piece of cloth he had ever touched. He inclined his head and carefully wrapped it around his neck, covering the collar. The action seemed rather poignant. A problem out of sight – for now.

"Thank you, sire."

Arthur nodded. "You ready to leave?"

Merlin looked at the palisade, only a few paces away. The gates were wide open, showing the land beyond, land Merlin hadn't set a foot on in five years. Freedom, at last.

"Not really," he replied. "But I'll go anyway."