We Daren't Go A-Hunting (part 2)

Arthur jerked awake – conscious – at the first yelp of pain, though more and more strangled noises rolled over each other, piling up inside his ears and his head and the pit of his stomach – an alert to imminent danger. A gasp… a moan of pleading and protest… Guttural, then rising, then helplessly piercing.

Reactively, he rolled to a defensive crouch, absorbing his surroundings in an instant, confusing as they were. An enormous cave, dark and rippling blue glow. And the people – he remembered the encounter beside the lake – only how had he gotten here, and where was-

Merlin screamed.

Arthur recognized the voice of his servant, though he'd never heard him make a noise like that. It was the sound of a wounded man dying messy and slow, in so much pain that death was the desire, rather than salvation. He wanted very much never to hear that again.

The eerie blonde people moved in a tight circle, slipping inwards, shifting back, and all intent on something – someone – at their center. Each panted eagerly, restlessly, hungrily, like a pack of hounds over a dying stag, waiting only for their master's permission to devour, though the only attack seemed to be a brush of their bare fingers downward on their prey…

Merlin was sobbing and retching and pleading at once. "Make it stop make it stop make it-"

Arthur charged with a wordless roar of challenge, up from his crouch and aiming to scatter the blonde demons and reach his servant – but the nearest dozen of the beings turned, casually and unconcerned. They caught him with deceptively ruthless hands that covered his arms and plastered his ribs, a communally implacable strength that swayed with his movement but allowed him no freedom of action.

Merlin moaned again, and he could hear his friend scrabbling on the rock floor of the cave – the bare feet of these people made no sound.

"Stop it!" Arthur cried out, struggling against them. "Leave him alone! What are you doing to him? Stop!"

The rest of them looked at him at once, even those crouched malevolently over his servant's body, and he couldn't help searching for at least one who might listen or negotiate. Maybe they acquiesced for some reason of their own, or maybe they were done for the moment anyway, but they edged out of Arthur's way, letting him at least see Merlin.

Crumpled on his side on the ground, arms up over his head and heaving with ragged breaths. And, apparently uninjured. Arthur drew a shaky-relieved breath.

"This one is the servant," someone said; he didn't see who'd spoken, someone in the back.

Someone behind him added, "And this one is the master."

"Their bond is unusually strong."

Arthur didn't bother trying to deny it, as he might have to a normal, human audience. He hated how lost he always felt when dealing with magic. Lost, and helpless, and it was part of his job to protect Merlin, no matter the teasing and bickering he was allowed to inflict on the younger man. In any case, it had less than nothing to do with their situation.

"What are you doing to him?" he demanded. "What do you want from me?"

"We want nothing from you…" The correction was subtle, and came from someone to the side, rather than someone he was facing – though he still could distinguish no hierarchy, which was disconcerting.

"Then why have you brought us here?" he asked bitterly, glaring at each one in turn.

None seemed discomfited or conscious of guilt, returning his gaze with serene diffidence. There was no signal that he could see, but they began to drift away, those at the edges first, and lastly those between him and Merlin, though all were so attuned to the rest that no one seemed in anyone's way. It was eerie to see – they didn't speak to each other or look in their neighbor's face to share or compare individual ideas or thoughts or reactions. No words or even expressions exchanged.

Heart pounding, though he controlled the pace of his breathing deliberately, Arthur stepped to Merlin's side, alert to any move they might make to stop him. But though the majority of them moved further away, several hovered near enough to intervene, if not overhear. They lingered in close pairs and trios, without conversation.

It was an oddly empty cavern, though he couldn't see to its edges. Flat rough floor, domed ceiling high overhead where blue ripples played – maybe reflective of the water somehow. No beds, no bedding, no stores or cupboards or shelves to keep them. What was this place?

Keeping an eye on those who remained nearest, he knelt beside Merlin, stopping just short of laying his hand on his servant's shoulder. "Merlin."

The younger man flinched back from his voice, taking three faster breaths before opening his eyes and returning, from wherever he had gone in his mind when they were torturing him. It took him a worrying moment, and his eyes only flicked to Arthur briefly before he moistened his lips to speak.

"Are you all right? Have they hurt you?"

His tone was soft and flat, nothing at all like the frenetic concern Arthur had heard from him before, in situations of danger. Then again, it was probably incredible that he showed care for Arthur at all, after whatever they had put him through.

"I'm fine," Arthur answered. "What did they do to you?"

Merlin closed his eyes and swallowed. Then rolled away from Arthur to push himself up onto his knees, spine bowed and head hanging down. "It was a… memory," he said, still sounding hoarse. "It was… real again. Like I was caught in that moment and it was… endless."

Before he could reconsider the advisability of such a question, Arthur blurted, "What memory?"

Because something in Merlin's personality – the cheerful optimism, the energy and humor – seemed to make it impossible that he retained troublesome memories. Even though, after a moment's reflection, Arthur could name a couple dozen less-than-wonderful memories that he shared with the younger man.

Merlin raised a hand to rub at his eyes, and it was shaking. "Um," he said. "We were… fighting."

Yeah, those were bad, even though Merlin was usually safe in hiding behind a tree or curled up on the forest floor or something.

"Who were we fighting, do you remember?" he asked gently.

Merlin gazed at him as if he didn't understand the question, emotion bleeding from his eyes in slowing trickles of clear moisture.

To cover Merlin's return to composure and excuse himself from having to watch the process, Arthur added, "There are moments in battle that seem to last forever. And you don't know if that moment will be your last, if you'll be taken from behind and killed, or wounded, or crippled… But you can't fight like you're afraid to get hurt. Because then you will be, and you'll lose."

Merlin dropped his hand and straightened his spine, looking out toward the groups of creatures. "Yeah. I guess that's true."

Arthur moved back, stretching up from his crouch as Merlin rocked to get his feet beneath him and haul himself to his full height, having to pause to steady himself more than once. "I don't see a way out of this place. I don't know what they want, but since we're not exactly restrained at the moment…"

"Under guard though," Merlin put in softly, his eyes never resting. Almost skittish, in the way he observed their captors.

"When I start moving, follow me," Arthur said, unable to contemplate any other option. Stand and wait to be told what their fate was to be? Not hardly. "Maybe we can get an indication of how to get out of here by the way they react." Maybe he could find where they'd dropped his weapons, too.

Merlin made a noise that wasn't dissent, and Arthur lifted his chin, beginning to stride across the cavern floor toward the largest gap between the groups of loitering beings. Caves had to have walls in addition to floors and roofs – and ways to get in were ways to get out.

And he'd ignore the magic that convoluted logic as long as he could.

He made it ten steps, Merlin at his side but facing outward to their flank – maybe he did pick up some things from Arthur after all, more than discarded socks and parchment and dented armor – before it began to feel like he was trudging through snow or water or sand. He looked down at his feet – boots on stone, no visual impediment – and struggled to lift them to shuffle forward. Merlin didn't immediately notice, stalking on freely and Arthur fought to catch up, but succeeded in shifting his soles inches only, before he stuck fast.

"Merlin!" he hissed, angry like it was somehow his servant's fault. Embarrassed like it was somehow his own fault, and angry that he was embarrassed.

The younger man swung around, as surprised as he, and some invisible force – magic, damn it – yanked Arthur back the way they'd come so hard he lost his feet and tumbled to a stop.

"Arthur!" Merlin leaped back to his side, and he batted his servant's hands away in his irritation.

"I'm all right. I was just knocked over."

Merlin hovered, as he got to his feet again, his eyes anxious. Arthur had no patience for that in the moment – confident action controls emotion – so he set off for the nearest group of creatures. Forget about evading them or slipping between them; if he glimpsed a tunnel in the cave wall, he was going to fight.

None of them appeared bothered by his approach at all. Just the unchanging gaze of curiosity on him and Merlin and the odd intimate-but-incommunicative attitude toward each other. Not even ten steps, and he was stuck again.

He growled with temper, and because he was ready for it, kept his feet when he was yanked unceremoniously back where he'd started.

"Arthur-" Merlin said.

He ignored his servant and the creatures, trying every direction – but it seemed he was penned in a rough circle by some force he couldn't see or fight.

"What the hell is this!" he demanded of the nearest person. "What do you want from me?"

They all moved at once, the synchronicity more menacing than speed or aggression, and Merlin flinched away from their approach.

"We want you to stay," one said. That was giving Arthur a headache; it was never the one he was looking at who spoke. And he could never anticipate which one it would be.

"Stay," Merlin said, his voice unsteady. "Like her?"

Arthur caught movement from the corner of his eye and followed Merlin's pointing finger to the center of the dark underground lake at their backs. A floating girl who looked almost like Morgana, but wasn't.

"She was our favorite," more than one said, in a perfect chorus from four different points of the compass.

"Now she's sleeping," another commented ambiguously.

"We're waiting for her to wake up."

"But what do you want me to do?" Arthur demanded, frustrated. "You want ransom, or information?" If their quarrel was with Camelot and Uther Pendragon, if they weren't going to make demands of Arthur, why were they hurting Merlin?

They began to close in again, so casually his hair tried to lift off his skin, and he couldn't help but focus on the shared hair- and eye-color. Very much like his…

"We want you to stay." This time he could swear it was all of them.

"You mean – you want him to become one of you?" Merlin sounded incredulous and offended and scared, all at once. Arthur was dumbfounded, and didn't know how to respond.

Their attention switched to his servant, absolute and intense and Arthur didn't understand that. "We don't die," they told Merlin. "He won't die."

Silence. Merlin was staring at them and Arthur could only see the side of his face. Half his expression.

"I'd rather die than live like this," Arthur said determinedly.

Hands grabbed him, abruptly and without warning and without aggression, covering and restraining and lifting him; his heels only grazed the ground as they dragged him away from Merlin. Half of them, and half hauled Merlin bodily away from him, and Arthur fought them – no one touched a crown prince without his permission. He floundered like a fish off the hook, with comparable success in freeing himself.

"Get your hands off me!" he bellowed, furious at his helplessness.

Merlin was kicking and shouting and absolutely frantic – but for another reason. "Get your hands off him!"

But they had Merlin down on his back on the floor, holding him down – nothing else, that Arthur could see, only holding him. When he started writhing, and gasping like they were striking him with their fists and full force, they retracted their hands and only hovered, eagerly intent on him – but whatever agony was inflicted, didn't cease with their minimal retreat. They didn't just watch, they devoured his torture with him, once again like hounds trailing saliva in their appetite.

A memory, Merlin said. Real, and… endless.

Arthur couldn't bear it. Half of them held his arms so he couldn't lash out and his legs so he couldn't kick and he only quivered and swayed and swore at them with all his might, sweating and sick to his stomach with helplessness. Merlin lurched over onto his side, wrapping his arms defensively around his head – now drawing his knees up to his chest, now kicking out.

"What are you doing?" Arthur shouted furiously, feeling tears sting his eyes. "Why are you doing this to him? Why do you want me?"

The hands turned him inexorably and not ungently, til he couldn't see Merlin anymore, not even craning over his shoulder, and then the noises that ripped from the younger man's throat muted to spasmodic grunts.

He hoped that meant the torture was ending.

"Everyone wants you," one of them hissed in his ear. He jerked away, but another took up the explanation.

"We too know who you are now. Arthur. Greatness in potential… If you stay with us, you will never fail. You will never fall… you will never die. Triumph and victory will be yours if you stay with us, and unending life."

"But what might happen to Camelot without me?" he asked hardly, ignoring the burn in his throat.

"You wouldn't care."

He stilled, looking into each keen, inhuman face. Pale and beautiful, white-blonde, yellow-blonde, gold-blonde; sky-blue, ocean-blue, ice-blue. Young and unmarred – no wrinkles, no scars. Was that what had happened to each of these? People dragged from the world of men because they fit a fancied physical description, and for one reason or another had agreed to stay? Behind him, Merlin was mumbling, his breath hitching like a child in a nightmare, or one that had been crying too long and wore himself out.

"What happens to Merlin?" he said.

And anticipated the answer that sent ice down his spine. "You wouldn't care."

It was meant to reassure and convince, he thought, and it made his skin crawl. "And if I say no?"

Some of the hands released him, some petted and caressed him, and he controlled the wave of revulsion that threatened to crest in panic.

"Then we will sample you. And see how long you last."

Some of the collective focus had shifted behind him – to Merlin, he had no doubt. And he wanted to die – or kill them trying – before he could be sampled. Because something told him that this was the process that had already happened to Merlin. Twice.

He spun, abruptly and violently, slapping the remaining hands away, and charged out of their grip. Surprised when they did not try to catch or restrain him, he slowed rather than plowing into the rest still surrounding Merlin on the ground, as he'd intended.

Merlin was quiet – too quiet. Those of the folk that Arthur could see were still, crouched or leaning over those who were crouched, touching each other for balance or… no reason at all. A hand on someone's knee, someone's shoulder – they were all doing it, and each was connected to another in that way. Like an inhuman web.

Except for Merlin, who was separate.

"He is too young," one of them said to another.

"One so young should not have such emotion," a third responded.

"He's so young, there can't be so much there." Someone spoke from behind Arthur, sounding mildly disbelieving. Breathless, though, and excited.

"What there is, is so strong." That was three or four from the crowd around Merlin.

"Is he young?" someone beyond Arthur's sight hissed, and they all went silently intent on the young man curled on the ground.

"Get away from him," Arthur growled, stalking closer with his hands clenched into fists. "If you're going to sample anyone, do it to me, not him!"

Those enveloping Merlin looked up at him with a single movement, melting back enough so their feathery skirts or trousers revealed his servant's body completely – limp, and barely moving to breathe. One hand wound around the back of his neck in a vulnerably self-protective manner, and his forearm covered his face, knees drawn up to his chest. Hair and clothing disheveled and ignored.

And those who had carried Arthur aside clustered closely behind him in approaching the others.

"You would suffer for him?" someone questioned, just beyond his line of sight. Fingers plucked at him, slowing him, preventing him from reaching Merlin – but if he was unconscious, Arthur wasn't in a hurry to wake him again. Let him have a minute of peace.

And all the folk were staring at him. Half a dozen maybe, said, "He suffers for you."

That rocked him back on his heels, and he looked around at the too-similar, too-blank faces as if he could see evidence of deception. Because that was different than, he's suffering because of what we're doing to him… Sure there were some grisly memories he and Merlin shared, maybe a few minor injuries and lately more missions that were the opposite of comfortable, but… suffering?

"Would you like to see?"

"Would you like to sample? We can do that for you."

"Make him your first!"

"How fitting that would be, how perfect, for you to taste the ache of his heart!"

"He gives so much to you anyway, and you inflict pain in return so carelessly…" Suddenly they were all speaking at once, and it seemed every voice entered straight into his ear without pause to let him comprehend or refute.

He felt their lips brush his ears and in flinching away his balance shifted, and they were tipping him – struggling and flailing and grunting – right down over Merlin. Not exactly on top of him, though – Merlin's knees knobby in the pit of his stomach, his head curled down into Arthur's chest, and-

Arthur stood in an empty stable – helpless, motionless – watching a disappointed, angry, confused young prince berate a peasant who'd been literally rolling in horse manure, filth sticking to his clothing and skin, his face, all unnoticed in the hostility of the moment. Watched him scramble for explanation as the prince mocked. Watched an older, shorter man – shifty-eyed thief, he knew now – intervene.

You can go home and think about whether you want to be my servant or not – go!

Why would anyone want to be that prince's servant? Oh, because there were keys to treasure chambers to be stolen. Selfish reasons to put up with that prince's abrasive attitude.

Are you deaf? Were you born clumsy, or do you work at it? You've gone too far this time, Merlin – you can spend a few days cooling off in the cells!

Arthur was vaguely aware that in reality, Merlin had surrendered and stalked off fuming, to nurse his upset and find commiseration elsewhere. But here and now, both young men were trapped in place as the words echoed and stretched and repeated, and Arthur's own stomach cramped with mounting nausea.

A memory, Merlin said. Of a battle, or an attack? Had he told Arthur the truth, or had he made something up in order to avoid having to explain? Usually he was unhesitatingly vocal about defending himself against Arthur's careless temper, and Arthur never thought that it mattered to Merlin, what he said, beyond the few moments of the situation. Merlin rolled his eyes and shrugged and retaliated in word or later surreptitious deed.

We were fighting…

Arthur stood in his own bedchamber, his belongings strewn about him – Merlin hadn't cleaned properly; Merlin would have to clean this mess – putting all the force of his willpower into a clipped, cruel order, cut for maximum devastation like the edge of a verbal weapon. Get out. I ordered you to get out. Now leave me!

Who do you think you are to speak to the prince at all…

No. You're not my friend. You're my servant. Think about whether you want to be my servant or not…

Go. Get out. Leave me.

The room spun around him, blurred. I believed you, I trusted you, and you made me look… a complete fool. You humiliated me! I no longer require your services – get out of my sight!

Think about whether you want to be… no longer require… Leave-go-getoutofmysight!

Memories.

Truth.

What he'd said, what he'd done. Immutable and cruelly careless, the words smeared close as a shroud around him, like the effect of the worst sort of drunkenness. He was caught in place, each moment and each word dragging out excruciatingly.

He remembered those moments, enough to anticipate the words, the looks – to resist the relentless repetition-

It wasn't that bad! I didn't mean it like that! Did I really look like that to him?

The inevitability, the inability to prevent it happening – again, and again – was a dreadful anticipation. Pierced through with cruel-edged shards of ice, each syllable of scorn, each shift of disdainful expression - left open and bleeding, throbbing at the ugly and inescapable conclusion.

It wasn't just the moment that hurt, or the momentary remembrance later on. It was the resulting emotions that wouldn't retreat, ebbing only to wash over him again. Hope disappointed, genuine affection rejected, extreme effort ignored.

Again, and again, and again, and again, and...

Guilt sloshed through his gut, foreign and venemous. Stupid words, thoughtlessly tossed out, unplanned attitude and expression – reckless and deadly as if he'd been tossing knives blindfolded at his vulnerable servant. And Merlin was vulnerable by his own choice, Arthur knew, because he'd had servants before who never once tried to connect with him. To understand, to comfort, to ally…

And he knew he was no different than dozens of royal or noble masters, giving no thought to the fact that his servant was a person. Not one of his horses, not one of his hounds. He knew that Merlin's village hadn't been a comfortable nest of loving solicitous neighbors, so why.

Why did Merlin care so much? About him? Why did he keep coming back?

"Stop it," he tried to say. Speaking to his vision-self, or to the creatures that had enchanted them into this, somehow. "Stop it. Merlin, I didn't mean it – don't listen to them… Stop!"

He snapped back to his own consciousness in the cave, rolling away from Merlin as pale feet shuffled to give him space. Merlin had curled tighter, muscles going taut, hoarsely murmuring a broken echo of Arthur's own words, "Stop it… stop it… please, stop…"

For one dreadful moment, he wasn't sure if the younger man was addressing their captors, or him.

"Did you see?" they asked Arthur earnestly. "Did you feel? Did you taste? How satisfying, is it not?"

Arthur couldn't stop shaking, and didn't trust himself any further than his knees. "You… sick… bastards," he ground out. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't like that."

"Stay with us. You can sample him every day he lasts. You won't care – you will be satisfied, when you are like us…"

He almost vomited, right there on the cave floor, at the thought of experiencing Merlin's anguish, ever again. Of actually coming to enjoy it. "Why do you torture him?" he demanded. "If you have to – sample, why not good memories?"

Blue eyes blinked uncomprehendingly. "Happiness is fleeting. It lacks substance."

"Memories of joy well up so slowly. They are unsatisfactory."

"They don't last."

Maybe it was because they couldn't bear the echoes of others' happiness and contentment; they had to know that they'd given it up, even if they didn't care. Maybe the repetition of the misery of their captives justified their own choice to stay.

Maybe the rest of them tortured their captives into agreement.

"Pain has flavor." Arthur was able to focus on that speaker, standing close on Merlin's other side – looking down at him, not Arthur. "This one is unique. So much pain for one so young. The pain makes hope necessary, but the hope prolongs the pain, also."

Hope? Pain? Merlin? Yes, he'd been careless with insults and arrogance, and it was no excuse to say it was not uncommon or unexpected, and Merlin's ready rejoinders were no defense of Arthur's choices or behavior. But he had no idea that their occasional friction carved into the younger man so deeply, or so lastingly. What was he going to do if Merlin ever actually obeyed him, obeyed that order to leave?

"You know him not at all," more than one of them stated, quietly certain. "But you will see."

"When you're one of us, he will hope forever. Wait forever."

"Despair forever..."

"Would you like more?"

"Back off," he said, a bit desperately. If he couldn't fight them and he couldn't escape… what then? "Give us some time. I… I will consider, staying."

A collective sigh of contentment, that made him shudder.

But then they were retreating, like before, slowly and without attention for each other, though they stayed in tight knots of two and three and four. Leaning on each other, brushing against each other, watching Arthur and Merlin.

"I don't know how we're going to get out of this," he admitted in a bleak whisper to the unconscious form of his friend.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He was stood outside a door he recognized for Morgana's bedchamber, and Arthur was furious, and raising his voice to cover embarrassment, again.

You humiliated me…

Oh, I'm sorry, Merlin. Which bit didn't you understand? The making a fool out of me, or making a fool out of yourself?... In the future, stick to what you do best: Nothing!

It wasn't even true, but the repetition made it feel more real than real. And Arthur couldn't know.

Stick to what… you do best. Nothing! Nothing-nothing-nothing!

Magic. He was good at magic… except when his magic was useless. Then was it true that he did nothing, best of all… Because he couldn't move. Couldn't open his mouth to interrupt, protest, apologize, anything. Even just to roar wordlessly at the folk who'd caught him and Arthur in this stupid spell-

Whose job is it to ensure that my chambers are locked at all times? Whose job is it to ensure that something like this can never happen? If you ever put me in that position again, I'll clap you in irons myself! I don't know why I bring you on these expeditions, you spend the whole time terrified!

Alien whispers intruded. "Let's keep him. His emotions are strong and never-ending, especially in regard to the master, if we assimilate him. We have never sampled this before. The depth of pain is nothing to the capacity for hope."

"He'll never give up trying to reclaim his master. It will be impossible, but he'll never give up."

"If we assimilate the master, he will never die."

Let the boy die – if he lives – that little boy is going to kill Arthur…

"You know you won't die either, Emrys. Don't you."

"We would let you stay with him. This won't kill you, Emrys. You know that, don't you."

"Once and future. We can assure that, if he is with us."

"When he is with us, he will know. He will see you and he will know and he will be satisfied with you. Just as we are."

"Stop it," he mumbled. "Stop it… please, stop."

But what shattered the torturous memories was Arthur's voice, clear and terrible and not a memory.

"I will consider staying."

On… these expeditions… you spend the whole time… terrified. Terrified. I don't know why I bring you… Merlin, this is your fault! Merlin, this is your fault! I give up!

I… give… up!

Hearing Arthur so close to surrender tipped Merlin over the edge of unconsciousness, and he didn't fight it.

(tbc…)

Also, Happy Halloween!