Chapter 3

Despite Merlin's extensive injuries, the morning guard insisted that Merlin work. Gwaine fought tooth and nail (Merlin's side of the story stated that Gwaine instigated a flyting with the guard rather than any physical altercation) for the better part of an hour so that Merlin could stay in their cell and rest. It was Merlin who eventually forced himself unsteadily onto his feet, stood as tall as he was able, and marched out of his own accord. Gwaine hovered protectively at Merlin's side, glaring at anyone who moved, including the other servants in the ballroom, who resolutely kept their heads down and focused on their tasks. None of them seemed surprised that Merlin was in such a condition.

Their schedule remained the same, and it seemed that nothing would change. Gwaine worked extra hard and fast, finishing his share of the work to shoulder some of Merlin's. Merlin could hardly move without a new bolt of pain shooting down his arms and back, and his head throbbed sickeningly. Several times he had to stop and just breathe, and when he opened his eyes again he found that somehow the section of the floor he'd been scrubbing had been done. He suspected it was Gwaine, but he was too exhausted and hurt to even think about calling him out on it. He supposed he should be grateful.

It was perhaps a mockery that the two slaves were kept on laundry duty. They didn't even bother to appoint a sentry to watch them as they worked. Gwaine damned them all - they knew that they would not attempt anything again. It had been a mistake to try the first time.

"Merlin," Gwaine said softly.

Merlin turned his head slightly to indicate that he was listening.

"Take a break. I can finish this up."

The warlock shook his head, wincing as he did so. "No, that's not fair."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gwaine retorted. "You need to rest. You're hurt - and badly, at that."

Merlin scowled, but did not deny it. He felt like death warmed over, honestly. He couldn't remember a time he had hurt so much for so long. At other times his magic seemed to act as a sort of barrier to distance himself from his injuries, especially at the times Arthur was in danger.

That thought had Merlin suddenly wondering what Arthur was doing. Was he searching for them? Had he returned to Camelot? Probably not. Gwaine and Merlin had only been missing for about three days, give or take, so they must have found the trail by then. Merlin was quite certain that Arthur would indeed cross the border, at least until he spotted the castle, at which point he would probably devise a half-baked plan to attempt to discern whether his manservant and knight were being held in the castle, and then go from there.

Or he might bypass the castle in favor of following the slavers' trail, too dollop-headed to believed that the lord might have bought them. Arthur would definitely want to avoid a war, if he could help it. Merlin wondered whether he and Gwaine should try to convince Brunhilde to ransom them. He'd surely at least consider it, if there was a profit - which there would be, especially in Gwaine's case.

It took a moment for Merlin to realize that his hands had gone idle, and that Gwaine was still furiously working. Chastising himself, Merlin took up the soap again and continued to scrub the pillow case he was working on. Gwaine's hand snatched out and took away the sudsy bar, and Merlin gave him a startled look. The knight stared back at him coolly, but there was a guilty, sorrowful expression underlying it.

"Just let me take care of it, my friend," he said. "I insist."

Merlin hesitated, but at last conceded. He turned and leaned gingerly back onto the tub, resting his dripping hands in his lap. He listened to the sound of splashing as Gwaine continued to work.

"Thanks," he said.

Gwaine snorted derisively. "For getting you into this?"

"For not leaving me," Merlin said, staring at his boots.

The knight ceased his efforts and turned to look at Merlin with a confused and incredulous expression. "Who in their right mind would leave you, Merlin?" he said, uncharacteristically serious. "It's you who should be doing the leaving. You're too underappreciated, you know."

The corners of Merlin's lips twitched upwards, but the lightheartedness did not last. "I have magic."

"I know," Gwaine said.

"Magic is evil."

"Are you evil?"

Merlin's brows furrowed slightly. "Is that a trick question?"

"Not at all."

"I'm not evil."

"Then magic is not evil," Gwaine said conclusively. "I have been to many places, and seen all nature of things. There are good people, like you, and bad people, like Brunhilde, no matter where you go. And it has nothing to do with magic, my friend." Nodding as though approving of himself, he returned to his menial job.

The friends lapsed into another silence, Merlin contemplating Gwaine's words. He'd already known that Lancelot saw it the same way. He wondered whether Elyan and Percival would, too. He thought they might, Percival especially. Leon and Arthur, on the other hand, were a different matter entirely. They'd grown up under Uther's rule, and still believed, for the most part, that sorcery was not to be trusted. A shame, really.

But there was nothing to be done for it.

Merlin shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position. There was no comfortable position for him, though, in his condition. But he wouldn't complain. Gwaine felt guilty enough already, even though it wasn't his fault. It was Merlin's for insisting on escaping, and then not noticing the spell caster, whomever it was. Merlin suspected Brunhilde, but he hadn't gotten a good look, and Brunhilde might not be the only sorcerer. And then it was Brunhilde's fault, chiefly for being the one to put Merlin in his condition.

The man was a demon.

Merlin hoped Arthur was on his way.

"Merlin," Gwaine said suddenly.

He looked at him, raising his eyebrows.

"...Would you like me to wash your trousers, mate?"

{MERLIN}

Gwaine behaved for the next fortnight. The two weeks were grueling work, the same boring routine every day with the same people and the same guards. It was as though the mansion and its inhabitants were stuck in a perpetual motion, moving in a ghost-like state, reliving every day. It was a wonder that the servants didn't fade away as the days progressed.

Their hands had grown calluses, forming a thick, protective layer of skin. Though it sometimes broke under the strain and stung from the scouring soap, the men managed to live through it.

Merlin's wounds had healed well. The lacerations closed up and left shiny pink scars, which would disappear with time. His bruises faded from deep purple and blue to brown and yellow, and in some places a sickly green. But it all meant that he was getting better. He was able to move more quickly and fluidly, though he was clumsy as always. The best part of it all was that he felt normal again.

Despite all the good news, there was one worry that nagged at them: Where was Arthur?

There was no question that they had not, in fact, been abandoned. In all likelihood Arthur had searched for them until he simply could no longer stay away from Camelot, or he had found their trail and was unable to help them. Or he perhaps thought that they could fend for themselves, and was attempting to negotiate with Brunhilde. But they had not been forgotten, surely.

There was just no way to know for sure. Gwaine and Merlin often lay up at night discussing such predicaments, but they never reached any conclusion. Merlin privately thought, as he grew stronger, that they should attempt another escape. But he kept this to himself, knowing full well that Gwaine would not agree to it. He needed to form a convincing argument. Perhaps if they could just get the servants to rally with them, then they might stand a chance and scatter. But those who were caught might be subjected to the same treatment that had been given to Merlin. He didn't want anyone to go through what he had, so he stowed that idea away as one of a last resort.

Merlin just needed to play his cards right, catch Gwaine when he was in an agreeable mood to entertain such ideas. Usually he was up for all manner of things, but that had become a touchy subject with him, and for good reason. But still, something needed to be done. It had been two weeks, and there was no sign of Arthur or the Roundtable Knights.

His chance came when Gwaine was more tired than usual. For some reason he'd performed his duties with much more vigor than usual (probably from pent-up frustration), finishing ahead of time and working on other's areas. Gwaine would be Gwaine, Merlin supposed.

Gwaine was lounging on the thin mattress, resting his eyes and body. Merlin sat leaning against the bars, mostly to listen for any visitors. After taking a moment to gauge what Gwaine's reaction might be, Merlin began.

"Gwaine," he said.

"Hm?"

"It's merely a suggestion, but I think-"

"No."

Merlin bristled. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say we need to try and escape again, mate."

Merlin shook his head minutely even though Gwaine was not looking. "No," he lied. "I was going to say, um, that we should try and send a message out."

"Well, that lie is less ridiculous and far-fetched than usual," Gwaine said lightly, a clear smile tugging at his lips. He turned his head and opened his twinkling eyes.

After only a moment of attempting to hold a straight face, Merlin too broke out in a grin. "Right," he said, sobering up, "but we really do need to get out of here."

Gwaine's humor faded, and he turned his head to look up at the ceiling. "I know."

"Maybe we could plan this next one a little better."

Gwaine grimaced. "S'pose we could," he said softly. "We can't do it the same way we'd done. Broad daylight is too risky, in any case."

"We'll have to go at night," Merlin agreed. "We'll have to break out of this cell and sneak past the guards."

Gwaine nodded. "Tomorrow we'll find something to pick the lock with."

Merlin hummed in approval, then pushed himself up and went to the bed. "Move over a bit."

The knight obliged, and Merlin dropped down next to him. "Good night. We'll need to keep up our strength."

"Way ahead of you, mate."

In a matter of moments, Gwaine was snoring softly, but it took Merlin several more to drop off. He took comfort in the steady sound of his friend's breathing, and soon enough he had matched it with his own. Both men dreamed of freedom.

{MERLIN}

They had caught the luckiest break in the history of lucky breaks. One of the maidservants dropped a pin, and in her hurry she did not notice. But Merlin did, and he quickly picked it up. It was a nice hair pin, for sure, and looked to be a family heirloom. Their need was far greater than his sense of chivalry, though, so he pocketed it. His only acknowledgement of the deed was to send a guilty glance in the direction the maid had gone, but then he ducked his head and back to scrubbing the ballroom floor.

The small ornament felt hot and heavy in his pocket, and it took all Merlin had to leave it alone. He couldn't afford to draw attention. Surely if the guards knew of its existence or saw it, they would confiscate it, and he would likely get a new cache of bruises. He shuddered at the memory of his last beating. It was something he never wanted to endure again.

Gwaine, though glad to not have to see Brunhilde's ugly mug, couldn't help but to wonder where he had been. Usually someone who had in their possession a man who knew a lot about an enemy's stronghold would question him more persistently, more severely. Had the lord decided that Gwaine had given up all that he knew? Or was he bored of him? Or...Gwaine didn't want to think of any more possibilities, too afraid of where that could take him.

He cast a glance at Merlin. The young warlock had been acting strangely the last few hours, more jumpy than usual. Gwaine hoped that he wasn't planning anything stupid. Knowing Merlin, that could very well be the case. But he had to trust the guy, because he did - with his life. Gwaine decided to pretend that he didn't notice Merlin's anxious state.

With a grimace, Gwaine looked down at his pruny hands. The skin was peeling again. Nothing to be done about it, though, so he sucked in a breath and picked up the brush. He was determined to finish his share, no more and no less. Unless it was Merlin's, though his young friend seemed to be working fast ahead of him.

It wasn't until later after they had finished laundering and been deposited into their cell for dinner and sleep that Merlin had shown Gwaine what he'd gotten. Upon seeing the pin in Merlin's callused hand, the knight's eyes had lit up brightly.

"Excellent, my friend!" he'd whispered, casting a furtive gaze toward the bars. There was no one there, of course. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," Merlin agreed solemnly.

They clasped their hands in a brotherly fashion, and then tucked into their last meal in that horrid estate.

{MERLIN}

After much whispered discussion, it was decided that they would risk picking the lock and sneaking out in the middle of the night. Neither of them slept, and neither would have been able to had they tried. There was always the chance that there was a guard situated at the base of the stairs, as there were in Camelot when prisoners were held. If not, then the stair landing might be guarded.

But Gwaine was confident enough in his hand-to-hand that they might make it without drawing too much attention. This time it was the dead of night, when most everyone was asleep, when the sky was at its darkest.

Merlin pulled the broken pin from his pocket and handed it to Gwaine, who knelt in front of the bars and set to work picking the lock. More than a few hissed curses and a pricked finger later, the door was jimmied open. Gwaine shot a smirk toward Merlin, who rolled his eyes at how incredibly practiced the knight was.

Then they sobered up. They needed to focus. Each muscle quivered with adrenaline, and they were hard-pressed to relax and move stealthily, Merlin even more so. He trusted Gwaine to get them out, and brought up the rear since he was practically useless at the moment. The least he could do was keep an eye peeled for movement behind them.

There were no guards at the stairs. Merlin and Gwaine released terse breaths, shoulders deflating slightly. Merlin pointed out a broken wooden chair leg that Gwaine might use as a weapon, and after a quick batting test the knight decided it would do. They continued onwards, stepping softly up the stone staircase, scarcely daring to breathe. Any sound they made echoed back in the direction they came and preceded them upwards.

But it was of no consequence, it seemed, for when they reached the landing there was no one there. Merlin and Gwaine exchanged a nervous look. No sentries meant that Lord Brunhilde was confident that they would not escape. The men hoped that sentiment was wrong.

Sticking to the shadows that protruded from the walls just in case of a patrol, Gwaine and Merlin followed the familiar route toward the ballroom. From there they could easily find the servant passageway that led outside. No one roamed the halls at night, it seemed. It was almost as though they were the only two in the castle, excluding the mouse that skittered in front of them and made them both nearly jump out of their skins. With no further incidents, rodent or otherwise, they found the right door and hurried down the dark hallway.

Dim light filtered in as Gwaine opened the door. During the day it was always propped open, and they had not even considered it might be locked. Good job it wasn't because neither had though to bring the pin. They peered outside. As night was wont to do, it transformed their surroundings into an eerie shadow of what it was in the daylight. Seeing no one about, they stepped out into the open.

Merlin shivered as the cool air caressed the back of his neck. He really wished that he had his neckerchief. Gwaine stopped abruptly in front of him, and Merlin nearly rammed into him. Luckily, he managed to halt himself, and his friend helped by stretching and arm out and pressing the both of them against the dark wall. A moment later, Merlin heard footsteps approaching.

They instinctively held their breaths and remained stock-still. Long black shadows, cast by the dim moon, swept over them, and then disappeared around the corner. The heavy boots stamped out of earshot, and only then did they exhale.

After quickly sharing a relieved glance, the friends peeked out of the hiding spot. No one was around. Not even the gate through which they had attempted escape all those days before was watched. A lucky break? A trap? No matter. They'd already gotten so far, and they'd be damned if they were going to chicken out then!

Sure that the coast was clear, Gwaine motioned for Merlin to follow him, then seemed to think better of it and grabbed the warlock's wrist with his free hand. An uneasy jolt ran through Merlin's body as he registered the familiar feeling of it all. But it was simply too late to go back. He hoped that this time his gut feeling was so, so very wrong.

For a few moments, it seemed it was.

Crouching low, they hurried across the grass to the gate, slowing as they approached to be sure there was no one on the other side. There wasn't, oddly enough. No time to question it. Freedom was in the form of a great dark forest, less than a mile from them.

Casting a quick glance back, Gwaine discarded the makeshift weapon and sprinted off, pulling Merlin along. Merlin kept up rather well, though the foreboding sense never left him. His eyes slipped closed in dismay when Gwaine fell, an exact repeat of their last escape. Inky darkness washed over the backs of his eyelids, and he felt dizzy as the ground left him again.

Sleeping spell, he knew.

Then nothing.

{MERLIN}

When Gwaine woke, his mouth and head both felt full of cotton and pebbles, neither of which was a good sensation on its own, let alone together. He immediately noticed that he was not chained up this time, and good job, too. He didn't think his wrists would be able to take the strain after that last time. The skin was even still a little raw to the touch.

The knight cracked his eyes open and cast his gaze around for Merlin, and with a jolt realized that he was alone in the cell. Well, perhaps not as alone as he thought.

"Where's Merlin?!" he angrily demanded, spittle flying from his lips.

Lord Brunhilde, standing safely on the other side of the bars, merely raised an eyebrow. "Pardon, Sir Gwaine, but who is Merlin? I was under the impression your servant's name is Kestrel."

Gwaine pushed himself onto his feet and stamped over to door, raising his chin defiantly. "It's a nickname," he said caustically, narrowing his eyes. "Where is he?"

Brunhilde raised his hand, thumb and middle fingers resting lightly together. Gwaine furrowed his brow suspiciously, resisting the urge to back away or grab him through the spaces between the iron poles. The lord snapped his fingers, the sound resounded crisply.

For a split second nothing happened.

Gwaine nearly loosed his bladder's contents at the sudden scream that rent the air. It was a voice in total agony, shrieking so loudly and so unearthly that Gwaine had half a mind to cover his ears. But then, horrible realization sunk in.

"No!" he shouted, turning his wild eyes to Brunhilde. "No, please!"

Brunhilde did nothing, and Merlin's screaming continued. The sounds were, if possible, even more horrible than the ones he made when the lord had last inflicted the pain. And they were only intensifying the longer it went on.

"Please!" Gwaine tried again. He sank to his knees and grasped Brunhilde's robes through the bars. "I'm sorry! My Lord, please, stop this madness! It was my fault, all mine. He does not deserve this! Please! I'll do anything!"

After what felt to be an eternity, Brunhilde raised his fingers and snapped them. Merlin broke off into ragged panting, small whimpers intermingling. Gwaine clutched still at the sorcerer's satin clothing, breathing heavily himself. Unshed tears hung in his eyes, but did not fall down his paled cheeks. He swallowed hard at last and slowly raised his eyes to the lord's.

"What is your true name, Knight?" Brunhilde asked. His hand was held up in a snapping position.

Heart stuttering painfully, Gwaine instantly replied past the lump in his throat, "My name is Gwaine. I swear it upon my mother's life, My Lord."

"And his?"

"It's Merlin," Gwaine said. "I changed it to Kestrel so that if you knew his name you would not associate him with the king. He is the king's manservant, not mine, privy to as much as King Arthur himself knows."

"Why does the king's manservant travel with you?"

"We were on a patrol, the king and several of his knights and us. We were split up, searching for bandits, and I took Merlin as my partner. We instead ran into the slavers who sold us to you, My Lord."

"Humph." Brunhilde whisked his robe out of Gwaine's grip, and the knight retracted his hands, feeling quite numb.

"My Lord," he said softly, "may I please attend to him?"

"You and Merlin," the lord replied condescendingly, "shall be kept apart for the remainder of your stays. I had thought that his punishments would dissuade you from another attempt, and so you had promised. A knight such as yourself, who lies and gives false words, should not be given an innocent man as a plaything. I'm sure Merlin would be much more comfortable out of your presence."

Gwaine was paralyzed with shock, shoulders sinking lower with despair. He was not so affected by Brunhilde's insults as he was that he was not to see Merlin. Merlin needed him. He was hurting! Someone needed to comfort him, and since Gwaine was the only one around, it was up to him. But no, the noble had forbidden it, and Gwaine had no means of disobeying.

"Good night."

With that, Brunhilde turned and waddled away, polished shoes clacking against the cold floor. Gwaine glared at the spot where he had been standing only a moment ago, blood boiling. How dare he, the noblesse bastard! But he said nothing until he was quite sure the lord was gone. And then he waited a few beats longer.

"Merlin?" he called softly, wrapping his fingers around the bars. The knight tried to press his face out, struggling to see if Merlin were in a cell near his. He repeated the man's name more loudly, and again, and again.

There was no response but for his echo, sounding wounded and desperate. Merlin was likely unconscious, or - No. He was sleeping, surely. Just because Gwaine couldn't hear his ragged breaths any more meant nothing.

He shifted into a cross-legged position and prepared to sit vigil. As soon as Merlin woke, Gwaine would be there to offer comforting words and what he hoped were not empty promises. They would not be able to see one another or touch, but it was the least he could do, and by all the gods above Gwaine would do it.

Easier said than done.

Later Gwaine would claim that a spell had sapped his strength, it must have, but the fact of the matter was that he was purely exhausted, and had a slight concussion from his earlier tumble. He was simply unable to stay awake. In less than two hours, Gwaine was slumped against the wall, breathing deeply and evenly.

{MERLIN}

Gwaine woke with a start, feeling something was horribly wrong. His heart was pounding, his throat was dry, and he felt nauseated. He had no need to rub the sleep from his eyes, for there was none. He was utterly awake, and for the life of him he could not think of why.

Yes, he was in a cell. Not surprising in the least, sadly. He struggled to remember his circumstance of being held captive. He was being held captive, he knew, because this cell was not in Camelot, and he was quite sure he knew the structure of those cells quite well. (It wasn't his fault that Arthur was such a stickler when it came to paying the tab.) Perhaps he had been on a patrol? That sounded right.

Memories began to slowly return to him. Bandits causing problems, boorish patrol, Merlin shivering, slavers, burning, running, Merlin, Lord Brunhilde the Fat, crossing the border, "I'm sick of taking care of the bloody horses!". Gwaine shook his head in an attempt to rearrange the pieces into their correct sequence and immediately regretted it. With a sharp hiss, he touched a hand to his forehead as though it would stay the pain. Once the throbbing lessened and he was able to focus, he found that the puzzle had been put together. All his troubles were forgotten in favor of ascertaining Merlin's well-being.

"Merlin!" he cried, leaping to his feet and pressing himself against the bars. "Merlin, mate?"

There was no reply.

That was why his subconscious had dragged him back to the world of the living. Something was indeed terribly wrong. Just to make sure, Gwaine called Merlin's name several more times, hoping that he had just been sleeping and would wake and tell Gwaine to shut up. Not even a peep.

Gwaine's mind raced, thoughts roaring through his head like water through a burst dam. Was Merlin unable to reply? Why? Was he sleeping, or unconscious? Was he gone? There was no way he could be dead. Merlin was too Merlin to die. It was simply impossible. Unthinkable. Inconceivable. He wouldn't think of it. He needed to find out what had happened to Merlin.

As if answering his desperation, two pairs of boots began to descend the stairs. Gwaine turned his head in that direction and stood as tall as he was able. When the guards approached, the knight was stony-faced, and looked every bit of the noble that was in his blood.

"Let me see Merlin," he demanded as they unlocked his door.

Both young men regarded him silently, but did not acknowledge him otherwise. One guard pulled open the door, and Gwaine was ushered forward. The knight immediately made to go farther into the dungeon in search of Merlin, but his arms were grabbed and forced behind his back. Before he could properly fight back, a cold pair of manacles were clapped over his wrists, restraining his arms.

Didn't stop his head or feet, though.

Unfortunately, Gwaine was a little out of practice in the arts of kicking and head-butting, and the guards, younger and apparently stronger than him, quickly subdued his actions with little effort and herded him toward the stairs. All his demands and requests to see Merlin, or even to hear if he was okay, went unheeded.

He was dragged in a different direction that usual, so he knew that he was not being put to work. Good job, too, since he wasn't entirely sure how well he'd be able to scrub with his hands behind his back. Of course, there was also the chance that he was being brought to Brunhilde, in which case Gwaine might not be able to keep himself in control. Hell, who was he kidding? He most definitely wouldn't keep himself under any semblance of control. Another possibility: he could be taken outside and executed. But where would that leave Merlin?

Gwaine demanded to see Merlin again. When he was ignored, he tried to shove off their holds on him, though his attempts were met with effective resistance. He surmised that these guards were magically enhanced. There was no feasible way that two men as scrawny as them could each have the brute strength of an angry, drunken Percival covered in clotted cheese. He was quite sure that their grips were going to leave hand-shaped bruises on his biceps and forearms.

After a few more twists and turns down the bare halls, Gwaine realized that he was being brought outside. The chances of his execution escalated, and he began to weigh the odds of his survival after beheading. He hoped that Merlin, at least, would be kept alive and fed, and that he would no longer be punished.

Exiting the main doors through which the slavers had first brought the two of them for presentation and private auction, Gwaine blinked the sunlight from his eyes and cast his gaze about. No gallows or pyre, that was good. Chances of execution diminished slightly. There was a line of soldiers standing near the gate, their backs to him. He was being brought there. All the guards had their swords drawn, but they were held down at their sides. Battle royale, perhaps? If so, he hoped he got a good sword. Then he noticed several archers standing atop the walls, looking down on the scene.

The knight wasn't sure what to think any more.

"My Lord," said one of the guards at Gwaine's side as they approached.

The line of swordsmen parted to allow their passage, and though Gwaine didn't look he knew that they stepped back into position behind them.

Gwaine was first greeted by the back of Brunhilde's robe, looking extraordinarily stupid in the heat of the day. He was about to start shouting and swinging his feet and spitting and hissing at the disgusting noble, but then he stopped short with the first syllable on his tongue. What started as a word his mother would faint to hear became an overjoyed, "Arthur!"

The blond king gave Gwaine a once-over with his blue orbs, then glanced behind Gwaine as though searching someone out. Of course he was looking for Merlin. Behind Arthur were his ever-loyal knights of the Round Table, swords drawn but held down at their sides like all the other men present.

"As you can see, Your Majesty," simpered Brunhilde, gesturing to a fiery-eyed Gwaine. "He is yet in one piece. If you would please pay the agreed-upon sum of ten thousand coins, he shall remain so and be relinquished into your custody."

Arthur squared his jaw. "Very well," he said. "You may count it, if you wish, but I assure you it is as you requested." He tossed a rather large purse at the guard nearest to Brunhilde, who caught it single-handedly and proffered it to his lord.

Brunhilde smiled and took the purse, obviously relishing the sound of jingling metal. "Pleasure doing business with you, Your Majesty." He gestured once more to Gwaine, and with a golden flash of his eyes the cuffs automatically fell away. Gwaine was shoved forward, but he stumbled to a halt before reaching his comrades and spun around angrily.

"They're holding Merlin in the dungeons," he announced loudly.

With his back to them, Gwaine didn't notice the way Arthur and the company's eyes hardened and flashed, the way their postures stiffened. But Arthur, ever the diplomat, stepped forward and placed a restrictive and authoritative hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "Lord Brunhilde," he said, "I am willing to pay an extra ransom for the return of my manservant."

"Apologies, Your Majesty," was the quick reply. "But I am afraid your knight lies, as he seems wont to do."

Arthur's chin became squarer than ever, and his contrary countenance came out in that way Merlin usually mocked or insulted. "Then you wouldn't mind if we take a tour and see for ourselves?"

"You may if you so wish, King Arthur," Brunhilde answered. "But I am sorry to say you shall not find him. You see, a traveling salesman passed by in the wee hours of the morning, and he was interested in buying. I, of course, did not begrudge his handsome offer."

Gwaine felt cold and weak in the knees. If he hadn't felt Arthur's firm grip on his shoulder tighten, he might have said that the young king hadn't reacted at all.

"You," Arthur's brow furrowed slightly as though he had been presented with a riddle, "you sold my manservant."

"Yes," Brunhilde answered, feigning apology. "For much more than I had bought him in the first place. I must say, King Arthur, that if you really must find him, you would do well to follow the road to the next village and ask after him. The salesman would be nigh impossible to miss. After all, he leads a white horse, which pulls behind it an iron cage. I hear there are quite a few black markets in the towns."

Arthur's hand twitched toward the hilt of Excalibur, but then seemed to think better of it. He nodded curtly to the lord, then turned and dragged Gwaine back with him. Gwaine gaped at the cruel Brunhilde, for once at a true loss for words.

The Roundtable Knights followed in Arthur's brisk wake, keeping an eye on the lord's fighters. But no one followed them, and they were allowed their leave. Percival helped Gwaine onto his horse, and they set out immediately in the direction that they had been pointed. No one spoke, and Arthur looked positively murderous.

Lancelot looked worried and shot several furtive glances to the recently rescued knight; Leon rode at Arthur's side - Merlin's usual place; Percival and Elyan flanked an unresponsive Gwaine. Elyan sympathetically forced a water skin into Gwaine's hand, but he didn't drink.

As they cantered away from the castle, Gwaine couldn't help but notice the one horse without a rider.

A/N: Again, sorry for all the skipping...Um, and thanks to everyone for reading / following / favoriting / reviewing! It means a lot to me. :)