This was not his fault. Of that much, Gwaine was certain. Yes, it had been his idea to go to the pub, but they'd only been drugged and carted off after they left. Merlin was the one to leave first. Now, Gwaine wasn't one to point fingers, but the fact that his friend had stood and stomped out early— without so much as giving Gwaine time to finish his drink— clearly made this Merlin's fault. Not Gwaine's. That was the vital thing to remember.

"This is your fault," Merlin said, pacing past Gwaine's spot on the floor of the pit-like prison for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"I think that's a bit unfair," Gwaine answered as he watched Merlin circle around the other captives. All were watching his and Merlin's exchange with varying expressions of amusement. Gwaine didn't mind; he remembered the distinct lack of entertainment he'd enjoyed as Jarl's guest years ago. Besides the forced death-matches, this was sure to be the only entertainment they'd get for weeks. He was glad to oblige.

"It is," retorted Merlin, coming to a stop and pinning him with an accusing glare. "We went into a tavern. No good ever comes of that."

"Well, that is just the least true thing I've ever heard."

Merlin grabbed his hair with both hands, turning away and groaning in frustration. Gwaine let him. It was good for his friend to work out some of that pent up energy. As for Gwaine, he was saving his strength. If Jarl was still operating like before, he would need it. He closed his eyes for moment, banishing the memories and ignoring the way his gut churned as he considered the near future. Why was it always him? It was as if he walked around with a sign that read 'Will fight for your entertainment to protect friends.'

Well, no point in dwelling on it. He'd do what he had to do to keep himself and Merlin alive and deal with the nightmares later.

He felt Merlin settle beside him, back pressed into the cold wall.

"Sorry."

Gwaine glanced over. The fight had drained out of the warlock. He looked old, tired. That wouldn't do.

"Make it up to me," Gwaine said. Merlin's gaze perked up, curiosity chasing the sullen shadows from his eyes. Much better.

"How?" Merlin asked, with a fair amount of suspicion coloring his voice. Gwaine supposed he deserved that. Running a cautious eye over the other prisoners to ensure none were listening too closely, Gwaine smirked.

"Tell me about a time you saved Her Royal Highness' backside," Gwaine raised an eyebrow. "The whole story. Nothing left out. And remember, this is our liege lord we're talking about, so please, don't leave out a single embarrassing detail."

Gwaine watched with satisfaction as a mischievous smile erased the lingering darkness on his friend's face.

"What do you know about love potions?"

Gwaine grinned as his friend started on a tale about a princess, a vengeful king, and a jester. He let his worries of the future go for a moment. There was no doubt in his mind that he and Merlin would make their way back to Camelot one day, and everything would get back to normal. And, if he could use the intervening time to hear humiliating stories about Arthur, so much the better.

The clash of swords rang through the deserted practice yards as the two men sparred. A casual observer might have thought it was a normal training session for two men of equal skill. Only one who knew them both would see that one knight stayed on the defensive, moving forward with half hearted attacks and never pressing his advantage. The other's form was sloppy, uncoordinated but aggressive. A trained eye would guess that this was a warrior fighting on uneven ground, or with a sword of unfamiliar weight. With every misplaced step and wide arcing swing, the swordsman's frustration visibly grew. At last, a series of swift movements that would usually drive an opponent to their knees threw the man completely off balance, and he fell in a heap.

The other man tentatively offered him a hand, but it was batted away. Embarrassment tinged the young man's features as he clattered unsteadily to his feet.

"Again," he said.

"Sire—" the knight protested.

"I can do this!" The king said vehemently, closing his eyes. "I can do this."

"Arthur," Leon's voice drew nearer. A warm hand fell on his shoulder. "You are still healing. It's alright to give yourself time. No one expects—"

Arthur pulled away from the care and understanding of Leon's voice. He didn't deserve it.

"I need this Leon," he said roughly, grasping Excalibur in cold and clammy hands. Normally, the sword was an extension of his arm. Wielding it felt as natural, right. Now, the wound on his back pulled with every movement. Cold numbness spread from it, stiffening his shoulders and making his legs feel leaden and slow. He'd been injured enough to know how a healing wound should feel. This wasn't normal. It wasn't getting better. The thought that it might never get better…

"My people need protection," he turned away, swallowing against the tightness in his throat and chest. "They need me to be strong enough to defend them. Now, I can't even lift a blade told defend myself. I'm no leader. I'm just… useless—"

Arthur was cut off as a hand reappeared on his shoulder, this time not so gentle. Strong fingers forced him to turn and meet Leon's fierce gaze.

"Never let me hear you say that again," the knight said, stepping in close and giving Arthur a firm shake. "How many knights here have been injured in battle, fighting for you? How many of them can no longer wield a blade? Are they useless?"

Shame slunk down to settle in Arthur's stomach. His face grew hot.

"I didn't mean that," he said, avoiding Leon's eyes. "But this is different. I'm not the same as them, I'm—"

"What, Arthur?" The knight ducked his head, forcing Arthur to meet his eyes. "Better? Invincible?"

"I don't know!" Arthur burst out, throwing his sword to the ground in frustration. He stepped away from Leon and tipped his head toward the sky, pressing the heal of his hands to his burning eyes. "All I know is that this is one thing I could always do. I couldn't always prove myself through cleverness or kindness or diplomacy. When it comes to laws and judgement, I make the wrong choices. I put my trust in the wrong people. But this…"

He sighed, settling on the ground, and drawing the sword to rest at his side. In his periphery, he saw Leon kneel across from him. It was fortunate none of the other knights cared to practice this early in the day, if they could help it. Arthur wouldn't want anyone else to see him this way.

"When I'm in combat, I know what's right. I can see clearly." It was something those closest to him never understood and had fought against time and again. "When I face danger head-on, I know when to show mercy, when to yield, when to give myself up. It's been the one part of my life that I can count on. Without it… who am I?"

Leon was silent for a long moment.

"Sire," he began. "Arthur. I've known you since you were a lad. It's true, you've always been a skilled warrior. I've never seen anything like it. The way you moved with a blade, even as a child, it was a sight to behold. But," Arthur glanced up as Leon's tone hardened. "I remember a time when the power of wielding weapons made you arrogant, not wise. I remember a young man who was anything but merciful in combat, and would never give himself up in a fight."

Arthur winced. He remembered too well.

"There was a time," Leon continued, "When I honestly worried about the future of this kingdom with you as its king. But, you surprised me. You surprised everyone. Over the years, you've become a compassionate and true leader. Your people don't follow you because you're a great warrior, but because you're a great man. Every soul in Camelot trusts you with their lives, not because of your blade, but because of your heart. Even if you never carry a sword again, I would follow you to the gates of Hell. You are my King."

Arthur smiled at Leon, this time accepting the man's hand as he rose. As the knight turned and made his way from the practice fields, the king's smile faltered. Bending, he retrieved his weapon, eye lingering on the face reflected on the blade. Losing his ability to fight was only half the problem. His confidence had been shaken by more than just that. Leon rightly pointed out that, though he had always been a great warrior, he had also been a selfish and vile young man. Right up to the point he met Merlin.

Merlin. For years, his friend had been at his side, believing in him, letting him believe in himself. Now, without that support, he was floundering. Who was he without Merlin?

Thinking about his friend, his dream from a few days before swam through his mind again. But just as before, when he tried to remember the substance of the dream, it slipped away like water through a sieve. His heart told him that he had made a mistake in letting Merlin go, that his friend was somehow in danger. He just had no clue what to do about it. He didn't know where Merlin was, and even if he did, would Merlin want Arthur to come after him? Then again, since when did the idiot know what was best for him? He'd followed Arthur against the king's wishes often enough. Maybe it was time to repay the favor. He just didn't know...

The wound on his back began to ache once more. Sheathing his blade, he decided to visit Gaius. He had been avoiding the physician, and the hard conversation that was likely ahead. Now, it seemed that the old man was the only one who could help him. He set his jaw and started forward.

Merlin jerked from his doze at the sound of a door high above him. He tried to hang onto the dream he'd been having—a face in a sword, guilt and pain and doubt—but they melted away as Gwaine pulled him to his feet. His friend was already on guard, shouldering in front of Merlin as the face of their captor appeared. The Merlin had expected to see Jarl's snarled grin bearing down at them. Instead, a doughy man with disinterested eyes squinted at them, handkerchief pressed to his face as he pointed, speaking softly to the armored man next to him.

A rope ladder dropped to the floor, and four guards descended as two more above stood ready with crossbows. Pushing the prisoners with rough-looking axes, they separated the men into two groups. Merlin's heart quickened when he and Gwaine were forced to separate sides of the cell. Gwaine looked rebellious, fists clenching, but Merlin caught his eye, shaking his head. There would be a time to fight and escape. This wasn't it.

As Merlin's group as directed toward the ladder, the warlock heard a scuffle behind him. He turned in time to see Gwaine tussling with one of the guards, face filled with desperate rage. It seemed the man really couldn't help himself.

Just as Merlin feared that his friend's struggles would be ended by a crossbow bolt, the guard landed a hard blow to his stomach with the butt of his axe. Gwaine fell to his knees, head bowed. It pained him to see his friend hurt, but Merlin hoped it would stop the reckless man from trying anything else. Regretfully, Merlin filed toward the ladder with the rest of the captives. He cast one final look at his friend as he reached the bottom rung. Gwaine's head lifted a fraction, revealing a roguish smile. Merlin barely caught a glint of silver in the man's hands before the stolen dagger disappeared up the man's sleeve. Holding back a grin, Merlin proceeded out of the pit, ready to face whatever came next.

Gaius tried to keep his mind on the wound before him, but his thoughts strayed. When Arthur had woken, he had been tired and drained. It was clearly not the time to press him with questions. But, as he recovered his strength, he remained strangely quiet, pensive, and distant. He had left Gaius' chambers with no more than a soft word of thanks. As much as the physician wished to give Arthur time to process and heal, the young king was the only one with answers as to what had happened in Amata. Under normal circumstances, Gaius could count on Merlin to pester his master until he got to the truth of things. But Merlin wasn't here, and that was precisely the problem.

Gaius sighed, redressing the wound.

"Well?" Arthur said sharply. Most people would read only impatience in his tone. Gaius knew him well enough to hear the fear pulsing beneath.

"There's only so much I can say, Sire," Gaius said, keeping his tone detached. "You were stabbed with a blade of unknown power. Besides the obscure text Sir Leon and I found, I have no knowledge of what the long-term effects might be." He paused, turning away and casually wiping his hands. "It might help, of course, if I knew more about the circumstances surrounding your injury…"

He heard Arthur sigh and sit up. Glancing surreptitiously at his ruler, Gaius took in the stark shadows on the young man's face. He stared ahead with unseeing eyes, lost in though or memory.

"Just when I think I've got things right," Arthur said quietly, almost to himself, "It all falls to pieces again." The young king scrubbed at his face, and Gaius felt a surge of fondness at the familiar gesture. Arthur was still a boy in so many ways…

"Arthur," Gaius moved to sit in front of the young man, catching his eyes and allowing the warmth to come through to his voice, "Whatever happened, you can tell me."

As the king met his gaze, Gaius was struck by the sheer force of the uncertainty, the fear, and the shame he saw there. Arthur took a deep breath, emotions uncaged and unguarded. He began his story.

Gwaine paced. He didn't try to hide his worry; every man left in the cell around him felt the same, though for different reasons. Gwaine's mind wasn't dwelling on the possibility of unpleasantness in his own future, but in Merlin's present. True, the man holding them wasn't Jarl, and apparently didn't have his predecessor's taste for bloodsport. Even so, he was an unknown, and he had taken all the most vulnerable looking captives and left the stronger ones here. That made Gwaine uneasy. Even the comforting weight of his stolen dagger did little to calm his mind. After what seemed like an age, the door above opened. One of the armored guards from earlier appeared, ladder in hand.

"You lot," he shouted, bald head glinting. "Will come up one at a time. You will go down the hall to the washing room. You will get yourselves clean and ready for market. After that, you will be fed and let outdoors." The man paused, glaring. His eyes lingered on Gwaine. "You men are strong. I know it, you know it, my master knows it. He wants you to stay that way. It makes you valuable, you could have a good life ahead. But, should you resist, you'll get thrown into a cell with no food until your strength is gone. You'll end up in a mine, behind a plow, at the docks, and work the same drudge every day for the rest of your puny lives. Make things easy on yourself—don't try and fight this one. I didn't."

The ladder fell. For a moment, no one moved. Then Gwaine shrugged and stepped forward. Men filed behind him as he climbed. He did as he had been told, following the hall to the bathing room and cleaning himself. He was careful to keep his dagger concealed in his shirt as he washed the grime of the dungeon from his arms, neck and back. After a moment of consideration, he slipped the weapon into his boots. It'd be harder to get to in a hurry, but it was better concealed.

Soon, he found himself standing in a small, fenced-in yard with a cup of water and loaf of fresh, seeded bread in his hand. He blinked up at the sun, getting his bearings.

"Gwaine!"

He turned at the sound of his name to see Merlin waving at him from the outside of the pen. For a moment, Gwaine's heart jumped at the thought that his friend was free. But no. He could see that Merlin was just in a separate enclosure to the right of Gwaine's with some of the men he'd been grouped with before. Still others were in a yard to his left.

"Merlin," Gwaine said, clasping the other man's thin shoulder through the bars, "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Merlin said, taking a large bite of an apple. Gwaine looked at his plain bread, now feeling a bit cheated. "It seems this slaver, Tiernay, took over after Jarl. He's a bit more… pragmatic. Seems to think of us in terms of profit—we're worth more if we're fed, exercised and reasonably happy."

"Less likely to run or fight too," Gwaine nodded, looking around. The tense, fearful atmosphere of the cell had vanished. Men were at ease, eating and chatting on the grass.

"Smart," Merlin conceded. "Seems we've been categorized. Over there," he nodded to the left yard, "You've got unskilled laborers."

Gwaine nodded. These raillike men were the ones bound for mines and dockyards, probably to be sold by the bunch to merchants and lords. Each seemed to have a bowl of simple gruel.

"I, of course,"Gwaine cut in, smiling. "Am in with the warriors."

"The muscle," said Merlin dismissively. "I think Tiernay might actually keep some of your lot to work for him. Meanwhile, I'm in with the skilled workers. Scribes, cooks, smiths, you know the types."

"Right," Gwaine said, feigning confusion. He plucked the apple out of Merlin's hand and took a careless bite. "How'd you weasel your way into the 'skilled' crowd then?"

Merlin gave him a dry look.

"I don't know, Gwaine," he said loftily, snatching the apple back. "They seemed to think training in medicine and courtly writing, as well as serving a knight in a lordly household was worth something. And, I can juggle."

Meeting Gwaine's eyes squarely, he took a meaningful bite.

Gwaine scowled.

"You didn't tell them who you served under, did you?" He asked.

"Of course not, Gwaine," Merlin said, sounding exasperated. "I'm not looking to get myself into trouble. Here," he said, holding something out to Gwaine through the bars.

Gwaine held out his hand and was surprised to see his necklace drop into it. When he'd woken in the cells, he'd noticed it missing, and it had been… well, a bit of a blow. He glanced up in surprise at Merlin, who was grinning cheekily.

"Merlin, mate…" Gwaine swallowed with some difficulty as he ran his thumb over the familiar pendant and the smooth, gold ring in turn. "How did you…?"

"I'm skilled," Merlin said simply, eyes dancing.

Laughing, Gwaine slipped the chain over his head, sighing as the familiar weight settled into place. Let them try to take it off him again.

"Merlin," he said seriously, gripping his friend's arm through the bars. "I don't know what to say."

The warlock returned the grip solidly and nodded before glancing away.

"Maybe say you've thought of a way out of here," Merlin said, pulling his arm back to lean against the fence.

"Ah," Gwaine glanced around. No one was listening. "I thought maybe you could… you know." Gwaine wiggled his fingers expressively. Merlin's eyebrow raised.

"Right..." Merlin said, rolling his eyes. He crossed his arms, eyes going distant. Then he shook his head. "It's too risky. Even if I was at full strength—which I'm not—it's too open here. Last time, we had a lot of chaos to work with. This—" Merlin gestured at the calm and quiet around them, "—is going to be hard to slip away from. Besides, if any escape went wrong… let's just say I don't want Tiernay to know just how skilled I am."

"Point taken," said Gwaine. "Then I suppose we'll have to wait."

Merlin nodded.

"We might have a chance to slip away on the way to the market," he said, "Or even after we been… sold. We just have to try and stay together."

At that moment, the crack of a whip broke the air. Large, cumbersome carts came into view, each pulling to the end of the separated yards. Merlin and Gwaine exchanged a brief look, then moved forward.

(More coming soon...ish. Thanks for reading!)