A/n: Hey guys! Sorry it took me so long to get this up! Everything's been a bit of an unexpected shitshow. In theory, school (the major source of present unhappiness) should be over (for good) in December, unless of course I have a mental breakdown over my thesis, which is a definite possibility at this point. Then I mostly just have to worry about grown-up things, like finding a real job and moving. So if I'm not posting again by January, feel free to shoot me a message (you can do that regardless, if you'd like).

Complaining aside, I would like to thank everyone who subscribed and favorited as well as my lovely reviewers mersan123, DwaejiTokki, AWholeFleetOfShips, Aaronna, CaughtInTheRa1n, Corey YoungBlood, and toe walker for being just wonderful. Seriously these last couple months have been rough, and I always have all these nice comments to look back on. Thanks guys! You're the best!

Disclaimer: [insert boring disclaimer that hasn't changed for FOUR CHAPTERS here]


A Criminal's Burial

Chapter 5

Sun beating against the back of his neck and arms, Merlin awoke with a guttural groan that ravaged his parched throat. As he licked his lips, he felt his tongue stick to the blood-crusted splits and peel away a scab, leaving a trace of coppery wetness, which paled in comparison to the prospect of water. Water, surely he could find some now. Now that he was outside and unbound. Somehow.

Still too weary to move, Merlin rolled his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath, only to have his first taste of the death that clouded around him, thickening the air and lining his lungs. Panicking, he feebly pushed himself upward as he gagged, the scabs on his wrists stretching and snapping, blood now greasing his palms. Merlin cried out, body trembling, hands clenching the ground beneath him.

Only you couldn't grab the ground like this, in large fistfuls of cloth and flesh.

Merlin's eyes shot open and stared straight into the unseeing, foggy eyes of a man who had been dead no more than a few days. His throat had been slashed, blood caking his clothing and flaking off in dry chunks from the fatal would. He reeled and threw himself back, falling onto another body, hand slipping and tearing at the putrefied flesh.

Reflexively shaking off the slime as his mind caught up with what exactly was smeared up to his elbow, he looked back in horror. Dozens of bodies were heaped on top of one another in this deep pit. Merlin immediately felt claustrophobic, the air choking him as he drew in too much but never enough. As his eyes shot to the edges of the pit, the steep gouges in the Earth extended upwards and closed around him, trapping him.

His breath quickened as his eyes darted across the bodies. Men and women were in various stages of decay, smatterings of blood and bruises and filth populating across pale, marbled skin, which was stretched and bloated, distorting and obfuscating their original features. They stared back at him, eyes unseeing but telling. There had been no plague, no sickness; these people had been tortured, murdered.

Murdered by Lord Staunton's men, the same men who had done this to him, the same men who were on their way to Camelot with Arthur in tow. The same men who would kill him given their first chance.

Eyes widening, Merlin scrambled, not knowing just how much time he had lost already. This was not part of the plan. He had planned on escaping the dungeons the good old fashioned way, not by faking his death and hoping his body was not immediately cremated or buried in the woods or something. Had it gotten so bad that the guards—possibly even Lewis himself—thought he was actually dead?

He shook his head, dislodging the question from his mind. It was of no present importance. He just had to get out; he just had to protect Arthur. Taking a moment to inspect the walls of the pit, Merlin figured that if he made it to the edge and stood to his full height, he could possibly pull himself over the edge.

Crawling, Merlin apologized to each corpse as he crossed them, trying to ensure that every hand and knee fall landed somewhere that would be neither disrespectful to the deceased nor unfortunately messy for him. As he continued, the skin on his back seemed to split at the seams, sending meandering streams of blood downward to the lower parts of his anatomy. Determined, Merlin pressed onward despite the growing ache in his left hand, which had been ground into the stone floor an eternity ago. After a moment of inspection, he saw a base purple layer beneath the encasing grime. Not swollen, probably only bruised. Good.

Finally reaching one of the walls, Merlin half sat on one man's torso and another woman's hip for a moment and regained his breath. He closed his eyes, clutching his shredded pant legs with trembling hands. He was just so tired. A break, that was all he needed. Leaning his head against the graved walls, Merlin felt a fuzzy pang in his sinking brow where Lewis had proven stone is stronger than skulls. He rolled his face against the discomfort, only to awaken the angrier sore that was his cheekbone. Now alert, Merlin recoiled. This is not the lot he had carved out for himself; this is not where he would die.

Throwing himself to a stand, he sunk against the wall, dizzy. He slotted his feet in the wedges where there was nothing but ground beneath him, and slowly the world stopped spinning. It was now or never.

Extending his arms upward, Merlin breathed a sigh of relief for the sheer fact that he easily could. He was just tall enough for his fingers to gain purchase on the ledge. Bracing himself for failure, he pulled and kicked off the ground, scrambling to find footholds. As his arms bore his full weight, his broken ribs reminded him of their condition as his joints screamed against their treatment. Black pain dotted his vision as he was suspended in airlessness. Panic setting in, Merlin's world swam and he feared he would drown before he ever reached the shore. With a final bout of ungraceful clambering, Merlin pulled himself up and fell to a heap, gasping for air.

Curling his arm around his left side, Merlin's body shook with the tears it would have shed had he had the hydration to produce them. He whispered spell after desperate spell to keep his ribs in place, to keep them from slipping, to keep him breathing. Anything. Eventually his words blurred into nonsense, and he sank into the dirt, unable to maintain the stream of consciousness.


By the time Merlin awoke, the sun had long ventured beyond the horizon. Groggily, he rolled himself onto his back and stared at the sky, catching a glimpse of the half moon and constellation fragments above the copse of trees surrounding him. As he considered rising, he focused on the moon, lamenting that tonight half must be cast in darkness. Traveling would be hard enough already.

All the tree trunks were silhouetted by an ethereal blue glow while dark shadows obscured corporeality and engulfed the parse patches of wispy, shifting light. A brisk autumn breeze brushed through the trees, rattling their leaves, carrying with it a low hum. Shivering, Merlin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise while gooseflesh rippled across his skin. Dread tightened his throat.

Petrified, Merlin slowly turned his gaze to the mass grave, watching as a pale yellow light grew as it haltingly weaved its way through the trees. The low hum, which had continued without the breeze, evolved into a haunting whistle. Merlin tensed, recognizing the tune. A funeral hymn.

Shaking, Merlin ungracefully twisted, agitating his wounds as he flung himself to his knees. Doubled over, fingers clutching fistfuls of earth, he watched as the light grew closer, the hymn grew louder. The terrified servant stumbled to a stand, arms widely flailing to regain some stability. Without a second thought, Merlin thrust himself into the opposing thicket of trees, each clambering footfall crunching the leaves behind him.

Peeking from behind the safety of the tree, Merlin held his breath as the light approached. A strange creature, composed of six limbs and two heads, emerged, light dangling ominously ahead of it, alighting a scrap of thick, brown hide. The sorcerer had expected an angry spirit, a faerie, a will o' the wisp even. All his research over the years and he had no idea what this creature could be.

The whistling stopped as the creature slumped. Merlin froze, heart thudding violently. He worried that it had somehow caught his scent, that it knew there was fresh game to be hunted.

"Fucking hell, Geoff! Hold yer own damn side! And stop it with the bloody whistling. It's creepy enough out here with the damn animals rustling 'round without yer bloody whistling!" a voice boomed, and Merlin visibly startled at the sound. If it was a human, they might notice a body missing. If they found him, he could be sent where he started.

"'I'm Jeremy and I think it's creepy,'" 'Geoff' mocked with a high pitched voice, slacking his hold on the corpse they kept between them. Mindful of dead leaves and twigs, Merlin sought shelter behind another tree further away.

"It's not funny, dammit!"—Jeremy hefted the body back up—"It's bad enough I drew the short straw three times in a row!" Though his legs ached with disuse, Merlin sneaked behind another tree.

Geoff laughed heartily. "Idiot, they're all short straws!" he roared. Picking up his slack, he approached the pit with a backwards gait.

"But if they're all short straws, how does..." he began, lining himself up with the edge of the grave with his back to Merlin, who stole further away.

"That's why we make you go first!" Geoff cried. As he attempted to throw his side into the pit with the others, Jeremy dropped his own on the ground instead, where only part of the body dangled precariously off the edge of the pit without enough weight to sink it.

As Geoff began yelling strains of "what'd ya do that for?", Jeremy shouted about how he was stuck on this crappy duty because he always had to pick first. Using the noise as his shield, Merlin ran deeper into the forest, where only echoes of the body being kicked into the grave followed him.


Shouts and kicks now a distant nightmare, Merlin came crashing to the ground, adrenaline sapped by the timbering root, which had caught his ankle. His bare forearms skid across the splintered forest floor before Merlin landed hard on his chest, all the air vacating his lungs.

Stunned for a few moments, Merlin let the worst of the new and rejuvenated pain wash over him. His arms, which were merely skinned, stung, while his ankle throbbed in response to a new bruise. Lungs aching as he carefully drew in air, he slowly turned to lay on his back, where he could see the juts of his ribs spasm along with his breaths.

His vision blurred as his eyelids sunk, and he fought the urge to sleep again. He had to at least get traveling; he had to at least be on his way to Camelot. As he looked around, Merlin realized that he was not completely sure how exactly he was supposed to get back home. All direction towards Staunton's lands had muddled in his mind.

Too tired to panic now, Merlin glanced up through the tree branches, where he could barely make out the constellation Cepheus. Eyes widening, he realized if he traveled north to meet it, he would be able to get back to Camelot (or at least to an area he could recognize). He had always thought it funny the king's constellation passed through Camelot at its highest point throughout the course of the night.

As he tried to sit up again, he determined that there was absolutely no chance he was walking back to Camelot. The dragonlord briefly considered calling Kilgharrah, but the trees were far too thick. He would have to find a clearing somewhere first.

Rolling his head to the left, Merlin saw faint lights a short distance away. The town, perhaps? Maybe he could at least pilfer some basic supplies before heading out again.

He forced himself upward in disjointed jerks, using the tree that had felled him as a support. Already worn out, Merlin took a moment to just breathe before he tested out his ankle, which just seemed sore albeit functional. Relinquishing hold on the tree, he took a cautious step towards the town. Though he was certain he had remastered the art of standing without pitching over, walking was a whole new dilemma. His legs, which had been mostly unemployed for more than a week, quavered under the process of working without the adrenaline boost.

Starving, achy, and increasingly dizzy, Merlin managed to bring himself closer and closer to the town, careful to avoid any potential notice. As he exited the main forest, he stole along a building to pause and scope his surroundings. A whinny filled the air, and Merlin immediately knew his next course of action.


Inside the stable, Merlin only found a few horses, none of which he could recognize. Arthur must be on his way home already then. Sighing, he made his way to a horse that seemed relatively mild-mannered, and gave her a few strokes along the neck. Grabbing a bridle and the associated tack from nearby hooks, Merlin slowly got the horse saddled up, using his magic for the heavier saddle and the difficult-to-reach buckles and straps.

As he led the horse out of the stable, he caught sight of a cloak hanging across a stool. Making a short detour, he snatched it up, only to uncover a waterskin and couple carrots, which were likely forgotten treats. Unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Merlin draped the dirty thing over his shoulder and tied it with a string near the neckline. He uncorked the skin and took a swig of the contents, face immediately souring. That was decidedly not water.

Stashing it away in one of the pockets inside the cloak, Merlin took a bite of one of the carrots and it practically melted in his mouth. He finished it a bit sooner than he probably should have, but he was glad to have something in his stomach. After offering the end of the carrot to the horse, who was giving him quite the stink eye for eating her treat, he stored the other carrot in the cloak and took a peek outside to ensure that no one was nearby.

Satisfied, he led the horse outside and into the forest. Merlin stopped and stared at the creature, wondering how he was even supposed to mount. Awkwardly, he grappled his way up and somehow managed to swing his other leg over the side of the horse despite the pain in his torso. He leaned to the sides and secured his legs with extra straps to guarantee that he would not fall off.

Looking up at the sky, Merlin oriented the horse in the correct direction and urged her forward. With a whispered spell, he hoped he communicated to the horse that she should just hold true to that direction. Though his ribs throbbed and his back was a mottled mess, Merlin leaned forward on the horse's neck, hand pressing against his ribs to be certain they wouldn't shift. Whatever he had done in the string of desperate spells to keep them in place was effective.

Though every rocking step hurt, Merlin remembered to cast a spell to hide the horse's last steps, so the avid hunter would not be able to locate him and his stolen horse. At least until he got to Camelot, anyhow. He just had to make it back home.

Exhausted, Merlin felt himself sink onto the horse, eyelids dropping. Now that he was on his way home, he allowed himself to slip into sleep.


Body tilting forward, Merlin awoke with a jolt, panic alighting his entire body to move, to get away. He struggled, only to realize with bubbling terror that his legs were bound. Eyes darting around to survey his surroundings, he stopped, remembering that he had escaped, that he was on his way home. In fact, he could recognize a few nearby rock features in the broad daylight. If all went according to plan, he could be in Camelot by nightfall.

Still a bit jumpy, Merlin tried to quell his racing heart with a few deep breaths as he pat his horse, who was drinking water from a stream. Unable to resist the sound of the rushing water, he unstrapped himself from the horse and eased his way down. Falling to his knees, Merlin crawled over to the stream and washed his hands with the cold water before cupping them together and taking a long drink.

Water hydrating his cracked lips and soothing his dry throat, he waited for his stomach to settle before taking another deep drink. Satisfied for the moment, Merlin pulled off his cloak and peeled away what he could of his clothing. Though the water was cold and the day brisk, Merlin gingerly rinsed his face, bare feet, and what he could reach on his back. He took the skin of alcohol from his cloak and rubbed some on his temple. Hissing, he waited for the stinging to replace itself with the coolness of the evaporating alcohol before applying some to the wounds on his back. He cringed, but was otherwise grateful for the disinfectant.

A chill coursing through him, Merlin shuddered and replaced his clothing, curling into the cloak. He cast a quick spell for warmth before he washed out the waterskin and refilled it. Taking one last drink, he tucked his frozen hands into his cloak and turned his attention to his horse, who had taken to munching on some of the nearby grass.

Mounting her, he secured himself once more and willed the horse forward. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the remaining carrot, eating part of it before handing the rest off to his horse. Still exhausted, Merlin allowed himself to sink back onto the creature's neck. Within minutes, he fell back asleep.


The next time Merlin awoke, his horse had stopped at the edge of the treeline. He could see the walls of the citadel in the moonlight, and he took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he had to do next. Unstrapping his legs from the saddle, Merlin slid off, landing a bit unsteadily on his legs. He held onto the horse for a moment to regain his balance before slapping the horse away for someone to find in the morning.

Flipping up the hood of his cloak, Merlin carefully made his way through the clearing, taking steps that were slow enough to neither alert the guards nor aggravate his injuries. When he was finally close enough to touch the castle walls, he crept down them until he was just far enough from the two posted guards to stay out of view.

Rustling the wind nearby, he watched as the guards both perked to attention and called out a warning before going to investigate. Though one hung back, he was still far enough away for Merlin to sneak behind him and into the citadel. Looking back to ensure he was not seen, the warlock kept to the shadows as he made his way though the courtyard.

Successfully making it to the entrance he typically used when going to Arthur's chambers, he eased his way though the door and started up the stairs. Though every step was another ache awakened and he had to cling to the wall for support, he ascended the final flight, panting at the top. Ribs throbbing with each hitched inhale, his hand shot to them.

Without much thought, he traversed the corridors he had walked a thousand times over the course of the years, and before he knew it, he arrived in front of Arthur's door and paused a moment, hand lingering on the handle. With a deep breath, Merlin opened the door the king's chambers as quietly as he could manage and slid inside the room. He slowly closed the door behind him, taking the opportunity to lower his hood and survey the familiar surroundings. Though the entrance to the room was relatively dark, there was light glowing from the back chamber, where Arthur slept. Chances were he was still awake.

Merlin froze in place, a tremor coursing its way through his body. Part of him had thought he would never see the inside of these chambers ever again, and here he was, about to tell Arthur a relatively honest account of what had happened to him over the last week and a half; he was about to tell Arthur the truth. Well, not the truth, but a truth. With his heart seemingly determined to wrench itself from his chest, Merlin began to shake more violently, his knees giving way beneath him. He couldn't tell the truth; the truth made it real. Sinking to the floor entirely, the sorcerer released a shuttering breath he wasn't aware he was holding and felt himself deflate, curling into himself, careful to cradle his ribs. When he thought about composing himself and facing Arthur just a room away, Merlin's chest tightened, breath hitching. He couldn't do this. He just couldn't.

Completely lost in his own rapid breathing, Merlin did not notice a figure slink into the room with a dagger in hand. "Show yourself!" a familiar voice commanded, and Merlin startled.

Merlin looked up, eyes shining with fright, and saw the one person he had come here to see, the one person who could possibly make everything right. "Arthur," he breathed as he reached out for his king, fingers splayed, arm shaking.

Arthur took a step back and stopped, staring slack-jawed at the puddle of dirty fabric on his floor. It only took a moment for Arthur to recognize those eyes, hidden behind a mask of filth, bruises, and blood. Dropping the dagger, he carefully approached the hyperventilating figure, who was still straining for his aid. "Merlin," Arthur exhaled, relief washing over his face.

End of Chapter 5


A/n: That's all folks! And since it will probably take me a while to update, I figured I might as well tell you the structure of next chapter! You'll get to see Arthur returning to Camelot, and how everyone reacts to Arthur coming alone. Then, by the end, you'll get to see a little bit more of this whole reunion (this was actually the first part I wrote to this story).

Anyway, I really appreciate how patient and understanding everyone has been. And goodness the support for this story between here and ao3 still astounds me. Even though it might take a while, if you enjoy this story, please continue to support me through reviews, follows, favorites, the like. Chances are when I'm bogged down with school and work and pretending I'm a grown-up, I'll look back to this for a good pick me up.

Thanks guys!

~gecko