Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, his property, his friends or his enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine.
Author's Note: You may recognise this story - it was originally posted back in about 2011 but never finished so I took it down. During this period of social distancing I'm reposting it as it's now finished. There wasn't much more to go, to be honest. Please enjoy a little escapism.)
It hadn't, Merlin muses, been a fair fight. Even with his magic there could have been no other outcome. Somehow, Cenred had clearly known they were coming. Someone, or something, had warned him. Or maybe, Merlin thinks, maybe he and Arthur had been tricked into this journey, this ridiculous attempt to reclaim what Uther claims has always belonged to Camelot.
Merlin wonders if Uther would think it so important now if he could see them. He wonders if Uther's stubbornness would conquer his feelings for his only son. The heir to the throne. Camelot's future king.
The future king who is currently on his knees before Cenred, head bowed, hands chained behind his back, armour hanging heavily on defeated shoulders, blood crusted in his hair. Merlin wants to laugh at the irony of the shackles on his master's wrists when his own limbs are dangling loosely at his side. He could destroy them all with one flick of his eyes, one well placed word, one thought.
But he won't. Not yet. Because this is not Arthur's destiny. Arthur will be King but he's not ready yet.
So Merlin rests on his knees, watching as Cenred advances on the pair of them, cruelty and suppressed violence oozing from every pore.
The King stops mere inches away from Arthur and laughs, reaching out a hand calloused by many battles. He grasps Arthur's hair and pulls hard. The prince's head is brought up and for the first time Merlin gets a good look at Arthur's face. He takes in the bruises on his cheekbones, the scratches and scrapes that pepper his forehead, nose and chin and the gash, the result of the blow that finally did for Arthur, that runs from his left eyebrow to disappear beyond his hairline.
But these wounds, Merlin realises, are superficial. He could mend them with barely a thought. No, what worries Merlin, what causes his heart to skip a beat, is the look in Arthur's eyes. Despair, pain and loss mix together with resignation. Merlin can see that Arthur has lost his fighting spirit and that frightens him more than anything.
Cenred laughs, a cold hollow sound that chills Merlin to the bone, as he tightens his grasp on the prince's hair.
"What did you hope to achieve, boy?" he hisses before turning to his knights, his band of loyal followers. "This child thinks to outwit me," he announces, shaking Arthur's head like a rag doll. "We cannot allow such an insult from Camelot. We ride out at dawn."
The assembly bows to their King as he smiles grimly and dismisses them with a curt nod. Merlin watches them file out, a formidable enemy. The relative stillness of the hall is oppressive now and with a start he realises Cenred still has hold of Arthur.
He takes stock of their situation again. Cenred's not stupid. He still has guards at the doors and surrounding Arthur and himself. Merlin wonders if it's time to put an end to this but he knows by doing so he would be condemning himself. He can't do that. Not yet. Not when Arthur still needs him.
He also realises that Arthur is yet to say a single word. Other than his battle cries in the midst of combat, the young prince has remained speechless. This is so uncharacteristic Merlin wonders briefly if he isn't the only sorcerer in town. But he dismisses the thought as it appears the same notion has struck Cenred.
"Cat got your tongue?" he enquires of his captive.
Arthur doesn't reply, but Merlin sees the hint of a spark return as the prince fixes his stare on the King.
"Maybe not the cat," Cenred ponders. "Maybe something else?" He turns his attention to Merlin. "Is your master dumbstruck by my presence?"
Merlin shakes his head. "I doubt it," he mutters under his breath then realises he wasn't as quiet as he meant to be.
But Cenred clearly doesn't consider Merlin to be a threat and laughs, a deep throaty sound that echoes round the Great Hall. He looks back to Arthur and finally relinquishes his hold on the prince.
Merlin watches as Arthur's head drops, chin resting against his chest. He wonders what the King has planned as he watches him stalk around Arthur. Merlin wonders what Arthur has planned because, in his experience, Arthur never submits to anyone.
Cenred stops circling his prey and drops down till he's eye level with Arthur. He licks his lips pensively and tilts his head to one side.
"You intrigue me, Pendragon," he confesses at length. "Most men would have yielded to me by now. But you…" and he trails off, apparently lost in thought, which bothers Merlin for some reason. He can't quite put his finger on it but Cenred's interest in Arthur seems to have gone beyond the obvious. The look he's giving the Prince of Camelot has no place being there.
"Take them away," the King suddenly decrees, rising smartly to his feet. "Make sure our guests are well looked after," and then he's gone leaving Merlin and Arthur at the mercy of his guards.
The dungeons in Escetia are as squalid as any Merlin has ever encountered. Although, he muses silently, he's not seen a great many in his life. He sits on a sparse pile of straw that's seen better days, trying to ignore the dampness seeping through his clothes.
Arthur has spent the last hour slumped in the corner furthest from the cell door, face turned away so Merlin can't see his features. Merlin's not too worried – yet. There had been a brief conversation when they had first been flung unceremoniously to the floor of the cell. Arthur had cursed the guards, cursed Cenred, cursed the ill wind that had brought them here and then, when the guards had laughed and moved out of earshot, he had cursed his father, cursed Merlin and, finally, cursed himself.
Merlin knows Arthur's moods well enough not to take offence or to be worried by them. He looks across at the Prince and is relieved to see the bowed head and slumped shoulders are the result of a bone-deep weariness now. The earlier despair has been exorcised. Probably, Merlin thinks, expelled on one or other of Arthur's colourful tirades.
He shuffles forwards, watching his prince the whole time, gauging his reaction to Merlin's approach. When he shows no acknowledgement of his manservant's approach, Merlin reaches out a tentative hand but halts before making physical contact, unsure of what to do next.
Arthur lets out a gentle snort and raises his head, eyes making contact with Merlin and the warlock feels a shiver bolt down his spine. Arthur's face, once so blank and unreadable is suddenly an open book. He means to fight his way out of this even though he knows it means certain death. In any other situation Merlin would be cheered to see this look but here and now he thinks it can only lead to trouble.
"What's the matter, Merlin?" Arthur asks. "You look as if you've got a mouth full of sour milk."
It's a typical Arthur comment but Merlin is left cold by it. There's none of the usual gentle humour about it, no warmth or evidence of familiarity. Merlin wonders what sort of response he's expected to give, if any.
Arthur grunts and turns away.
"What are you thinking?" he ventures, not missing the tightening of the prince's shoulders. "Because whatever it is," he continues, "it's a bad idea."
"And you know that how?" Arthur retorts. "It must be all those years of strategy and combat training you've had. Oh, wait," he slaps his forehead in a false and exaggerated gesture, "that's me!"
Merlin sighs. This isn't going to be easy.
"Tell me about your plan then," Merlin prompts. "You do have a plan, don't you?" He's fairly sure Arthur doesn't and he hopes he can make the other man see sense before he does something reckless.
"What do you think, Merlin?" Arthur snaps.
Any other time Merlin would have a hundred flippant replies at his fingertips but one look at Arthur and Merlin knows, just knows, this isn't the time for them. This is the time for blunt truthfulness. Arthur might make him pay for his words one day but as long as there is a 'one day', he can live with that.
"I don't think you do," the warlock confesses. "I think you're tired, hungry and hurt. I think you're a little bit scared and you're not used to having to save yourself."
"Merlin…" Arthur growls, but Merlin is in mid flow now and words alone aren't going to stop him.
"All your strategy and combat training aren't going to help us now. You're not thinking straight and you're going to do something stupid and get us both killed." Merlin pauses for breath, vaguely noting how Arthur looks slightly shell shocked. "Go on then," he mutters. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me your grand escape plan."
"It's simple," Arthur replies. "I'm a knight, you're my manservant, sworn to serve me until one of us is dead. We're going to fight our way out of this."
Merlin feels a bubble of something rising up in his gut. For one terrifying moment he thinks he's lost control of his magic. He thinks any second now Arthur will find himself transformed into the ass he quite clearly is.
Then a laugh escapes his lips and he's not sure who is more shocked by it – the prince or the warlock. His hand flies to his mouth to prevent any further betrayal but it doesn't do any good. He's powerless to stop the laughter. Even the darkening of Arthur's visage isn't enough to stop him.
"I'm glad you find this so amusing," Arthur comments dryly as he pushes himself upright, using the wall for support.
Merlin makes a supreme effort to control himself, concluding that he's simply teetering on the edge of hysteria. The sight of Arthur propped against the harsh rock of the cell wall helps to sober him up.
"Do you honestly think that's going to work?" he asks quietly, all mirth gone.
Arthur sighs, eyes darting around their cell. "Of course it will, Merlin," he replies, but Merlin can see beyond the bravado, can see the cracks in the façade. He's so busy studying his master that he almost misses the whispered, "It has to."