A/n: Hello all! Between here an Ao3, I'm thrilled with the response. Thanks for reading and following and reviewing and the like. Though not everything will be clear at this point, I hope you will be able to make more sense of it. AWholeFleetOfShips, I am also a huge fan of Merlin!whump (don't worry there will be plenty). And yup, DwaejiTokki, you guessed it. Dungeon!

This is one of those chapters that *probably* isn't for the faint of heart. It's not my worst, but lords, it's not terribly nice. Again, if you cannot handle captivity/torture/violence, I recommend you leave now. Maybe go look at my ridiculous Merthur fluff instead.

Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, and I am certainly not profiting off this endeavor. All mistakes are my own.


A Criminal's Burial

Chapter 2

Merlin awoke with a sharp kick to the side that left him breathless as he struggled in his chains. If his ribs weren't broken before, they certainly were now. "Hey, traitor, care to guess who woke up yesterday?" his tormentor asked with a delighted grin.

The sorcerer answered with a gasp.

The man rolled his eyes and continued with a teasing tone, "No, no, no, it's not—" He imitated Merlin's raged breaths. "—It's your pal, the king! King Arthur! Up and with the world of the living. He seemed a bit upset when I told him that you yourself were no longer residing there." He smiled, drew a small knife he kept at his side, and crouched down to see his captive's eyes. "I don't know what upset him the most," he continued, running a finger down the body of the blade, "Let's see...Was it when I told him you betrayed him?" Merlin's eyes widened as he worked on evening his breaths. "No, I don't think it was then. He seemed to think that it must have been his fault when he killed you."

"No," Merlin panted, trying to pull at the chains that bound him to the dungeon floor.

"Oh but yes," Lewis cried as he crushed Merlin's hand with his foot, relishing his prey's faint pained puff. "That little 'fact' really seemed to do him in. You know, you really should have seen his face when I described you for him. It just kind of crumpled like this." He put on his biggest frown, wrinkled his brow, and used both of his hands to mock wipe at his eyes. "Boo hoo," he sneered. "You know, when I left, he was just about to cry. Asked me to leave and everything. Now that, that I did not expect."

"No," Merlin protested, "Arthur would never...Not over me." He strained weakly, choking back a sob as he ground one of his ribs into the uneven stones beneath him.

Lewis swished his mouth back and forth and toyed with the knife in his hand. "Well...I suppose it partially could have been how exhausted he must have been—that fall on that noggin of his couldn't have been too nice—but I promise you I am not lying. There's no point. I would have been just as pleased to tell you that he was satisfied with a job well done. Or that he didn't react at all. No matter his response, it's still quite enjoyable, I swear. Only this option makes this"—he cut Merlin's bloody neckerchief from his neck—"Far, far more enjoyable."

"What are you going to do with him?" Merlin asked, trying to maintain what little composure he had left as he met his captor's eyes.

Smirking, Lewis continued, "Well first, I'm going to give this"—he waved Merlin's neckerchief—"to your little kingy. A little souvenir of sorts. I'm sure he will be positively devastated. Then we're going to send him back home to Camelot, and unbeknownst to him, he'll have left his precious manservant starving in our dungeon."

"And bleeding. You certainly can't forget the bleeding," Merlin retorted with a strained voice and feigned cheer. It almost made his miscellany of injuries hurt less. Almost.

Lewis looked stunned for a moment before he busted into a full-bellied laugh. "You know, I can see why he likes you. Always apt to crack a joke. I really wonder how long that will last..." he trailed off, completely enamored with the curvature of his knife. Tearing his eyes away and adhering them instead to his captive, he resumed, "But I suppose I shall give you a break for now, since you and your master have done nothing but entertain me today," he pulled a vial from his pocket, crouched to Merlin's level, and waved it in his face. "Now, are you going to be good today?"

Merlin's eyes widened as he struggled against his chains, effectively reopening the wounds on his mangled wrists. Clenching his jaw, the sorcerer lowered his forehead to the dungeon floor, shielding himself from his tormentor. Anything to delay the potion that Gaius's apprentice was sure was poison.

Without so much as a taunt, Lewis yanked Merlin's head by his hair and smashed it into the ground below with one swift motion. Reeling with empty stomached nausea, the boy felt his features slacken for a moment as pain radiated from the left side of his face. That moment lasted just long enough for Lewis to grab his jaw and force it open.

One eye now blinded by blood, Merlin blearily stared at his captor, seeing nothing but vague shapes and the cruel red twist of the man's smile, entirely missing the elation present upon the conception of a new idea.

Agonizing seconds passed with Lewis's hands clamped like a vice around his jaw before the man extracted a two handkerchiefs from his pocket. He gave one an appraising look before stuffing it in the sorcerer's mouth. In a practiced motion, he uncorked the vial single-handedly and poured it over the stuff gag.

Merlin, with the ends of his strength, tried to force the gag out with his tongue alone, but wound up tasting unmistakable marriage of the foul potion and whatever filthy occupation the kerchief previously maintained. The more he struggled, the more of the potion he inadvertently consumed, and before he knew it, his lips and tongue numbed, all feeling redirected towards searing burn as the poison slid down his throat and into his stomach.

Merlin heard a chuckle in addition to the ringing of his left ear. As Lewis released his jaw, the sorcerer fell dead weight onto his captor. He hadn't realized the other man was the only one keeping him somewhat upright. Head lulling like a newborn babe's, another round of nausea hit Merlin as Lewis jerked him back again. Without brevity, the familiar gut-wrenching, sorcerer-doubling pain returned. Only this time, it left Merlin without the solace of smacking his deadened, dehydrated lips together.

As the servant curled into himself in a weak attempt to compress the pain, Lewis wrapped the second handkerchief around Merlin's face to secure the initial gag. He tied it with a satisfied hum, amused by how it seemed to both flatten and flare the boy's ridiculous ears.

Gently lowering the servant to the dungeon floor on his right side, Lewis gave him a reassuring, gentle pat on his abused back. "Try not to suffocate," he encouraged with gaiety belying his statement. "I'll be back soon," he said, waving Merlin's original bloody neckerchief in farewell, "But first I just must go see the hounds. And your little kingy. Can't forget that." Without another word, the man turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon, slamming and locking the cell door behind him.

Merlin groaned as he sunk fully into the uneven floor beneath him. Though he could feel his one eye swelling over and his stomach warring to retain its nearly nonexistent contents, he wiggled his hands underneath his burning gut, trying to physically hold himself together. He had to stay awake, and he most certainly could not vomit. Clenching his jaw, Merlin took as deep of breaths as he dared with his injuries battling for the most hurt.

He still could not move his mouth with any degree of dexterity, and he gave up that effort in fear of pushing the cloth back into his throat. Accepting his filth-flavored fate, Merlin turned his foggy thoughts to Arthur, who he prayed was doing as well as Lewis claimed. Most of this week had been a drugged daze, and today had been the first where Lewis had even allowed him to exist without the poison's influence for more than an hour. In that hour, he'd mostly fallen back asleep, waking with regret tinging the cemented ache in his stomach. Even if he were alert enough to focus his magic, the sorcerer knew he couldn't go far; he couldn't save himself, let alone find Arthur.

Helplessness consuming him, Merlin did all he could to stop himself from crying. The last thing he needed was a stuffy nose to quite literally kill him. Taking a few measured breaths, he focused on Arthur again. Plain Arthur. Biggest prat ever Arthur. Horrible morning riser Arthur. Can't dress himself Arthur. Aims poorly only when throwing objects at his servant Arthur. Stupid, stupid Arthur.

Merlin moaned beneath his gag, mourning the absence of the other man. He needed to know if Arthur was even still alive; he needed it more than his hard-won air. He needed to know if everything was still worth it.

Starting to slip, Merlin clenched his jaw as tightly as he could manage, hoping it would be enough to save him were he to black out. For a brief moment, his magic strained and surged. As the sorcerer closed his eyes, he saw an image of Arthur behind his lids. Sleeping, eyes red-rimmed, but otherwise okay Arthur.

With a hopeful final thought, he allowed himself to drift off.


After a short game of tug o' war with his lord's hunting hounds and some lunch, Lewis cleaned himself up before heading to the prince's chambers. A new potion was swaddled in Merlin's neckerchief in his pocket, and he continued to hum merrily down the corridor.

Now at the door, the man took a moment to compose himself, settling on the usual demure face of an overworked healer. Figuring that the king may now actually be conscious, he rapped twice on the door to announce his presence. With no response, Lewis slipped into the room with a servant's caution.

The king was turned on his side, but indeed conscious. Expression blank, He stared at a fixed point in space on the floor where Excalibur lay.

Resisting his trademark smile, Lewis carefully approached the bed. "Your Majesty," he carefully prodded, making sure to induce the proper amount of concern. When the king failed to acknowledge him, Lewis continued, "I know you are upset about your servant—"

Arthur snapped his attention to the healer, mouthing incoherent objections born on his breath, dead on his lips.

"—But I must insist I check you over properly this time," Lewis finished, grabbing his medicine bag.

Not quite trusting himself to speak, Arthur merely nodded his consent.

With a weak smile, Lewis set to work, applying ointments on the king's many bruises and stray cuts. Now, a week later, none of the king's injuries required proper dressings, not even the head wound. Several silent minutes past with Lewis's skilled ministrations.

Content with his work, Lewis pulled back with a sigh. "I believe that is everything, Sire. If you would please take the potion this time—No, don't worry, I see the last one. I will send a maid in to take care of it—I assure you you'll feel much better. You still haven't fully recovered from the poison, and it should help you sleep." He offered the vial, and Arthur took it, guiltily eyeballing the shattered remnants of the other.

"How long?" Arthur began, voice unsteady.

Lewis quirked a brow. "How long what, Sire?"

Arthur shook his head. "How long will it be until I can return to Camelot?" he asked, eyes focused behind Lewis to some point past his right shoulder. Ah, yes, the window.

Lewis gave the kind a once-over. "Well, I wouldn't imagine more than a few days, Your Majesty. We are prepared to send you home with a full convoy," he explained, fruitlessly studying the king's face.

"Good, good,"—he glanced again at the window—"Tell me...Did they have a chance to find...anything?" Arthur wondered, licking his dry lips.

Before the healer answered, he saw flickers of unease swim across the young king's face. "Ah, yes, Sire. We found this"—he procured the neckerchief—"In the forest. There was little else, Sire. Just a few bits here and there. And even then, we can't be sure. It seems as if the animals got him."

One hand firmly clenching the bed sheets, Arthur held out the other. "May I?" he implored, gesturing to the bloody garment in Lewis's hands. His brows furrowed together as he squinted at it from this distance.

Lewis clung onto it for a moment longer than necessary, admiring his own stroke of genius. "Right, here you are, Your Majesty." The healer placed the neckerchief in the king's reluctant hands.

Arthur's hands clutched at the fabric the second it touched his palm. He inspected it closer, turning it in his hands, feeling all the mud and blood that stiffened it, all the shreds that weakened it. There were a few places where the original red shone through, and Arthur felt himself drawn to those places, stroking them as if they were the last shreds of purity in existence. "Animals," he breathed, tracing the obvious tears in the thin fabric with his eyes. "So there's nothing else left?" Arthur asked more the neckerchief than the healer.

"No, Sire, not that we could confirm," Lewis answered neutrally. This way the king wouldn't expect a body.

"Right, because the animals," Arthur repeated, running his fingers along a particularly dark patch of congealed blood. He took another moment to examine the neckerchief before mumbling, "You are dismissed."

Lewis, prompt to act a proper servant, bowed low and said, "Yes, Your Majesty." He excused himself, pleased by the king's response.

Arthur, who barely noticed the healer's absence, continued to turn the neckerchief over in his hands. In disbelief, he worried the fabric until his palms sweat so profusely that some of the garment's grime rubbed on his hands.

The second he noticed, Arthur dropped the fabric in his lap and stared at the thin coating of Merlin's blood across the pads of his fingers, transfixed by the sight. His mouth fell in sheer horror, and he flung the neckerchief away from him. As the cloth fluttered to the floor beside his bed, the king grappled for Lewis's potion.

His hands now trembling, Arthur struggled to pop the cork. Forcing himself to look at the vial in his stained hands, he managed to open it. Hands shuttering so violently that he could barely lift it to his mouth without spilling its entirety, Arthur quickly sucked it down, disregarding the taste and the spillage across his lap.

Dropping into bed, the king's attention fell back to the jetsam neckerchief that lay beside the shattered vial, its dried green contents, and Excalibur not far past. As he felt his eyelids drooping, he startled, remembering the maid who was to come by. In his last waking moments, Arthur gingerly scooped up the neckerchief and tucked it under the opposing pillow for its own safety.

Maybe he couldn't protect Merlin from himself. Or the animals. But he would be damned if he couldn't protect the poor man from a pesky maid.

He would be damned if he had nothing to bring back at all.


End of Chapter 2


A/n: That's it for today folks! Dun dun dun!

And while I was a bit surprised by this (in the past, people jump at slash), most of you voted in favor of a friendship fic! I can definitely do that. It might border between friendship and pre-slash because Merthur is so freaking strong it physically hurts me in literally any form.

As always, make sure to review and continue to be wonderful readers you have been! (seriously reviews are writer food—the FDA has ruled it 9.5x more nutritious than my poor college student diet.—The more reviews I get, the more I stare at them. The more I stare at them, the more I think I ought not let you down and pump out this chapters as fast as I can with my stupid cracking little fingers.) 'Till next time!

~gecko