Chapter 4

There was no trace of Merlin, no lead. Anyone they had asked had either clammed up, denied knowledge, or genuinely did not know. It was maddening. It had been a month, and Arthur had borrowed some lord or other's messenger bird to send a letter to Guinevere, telling her that he would be away much longer than planned, and that everything was all right, and that she should take over for a while. They had not stayed to wait for a reply and headed south.

Tensions were running high in the company. There was such a friction between Arthur and Gwaine that just the fact that Arthur had taken Merlin's lost neckerchief out of his pocket had somehow instigated a fist fight. Leon and Percival had intervened, but not quickly enough to prevent the king from suffering bruised ribs and split knuckles, nor Gwaine from earning a blackened eye and fat lip. After that the knights had made an effort to keep them apart, confining Gwaine to one corner of the encampment or sending him to fetch wood and water, and making him to bring up the rear when traveling. Arthur tended to keep to himself anyway, brooding over the red scarf that had once served to hang around his infuriating but endearing manservant's neck.

A month was a long time. It was a long time to travel from town to town in an enemy's land, constantly hiding their identities to avoid detection or suspicion. Nothing seemed to pan out. Once they thought that they had been close to finding Merlin, but it had turned out to be a false lead. They had managed to free the young man who had been mistaken for their friend, but as he was not Merlin they quickly moved on, growing more desperate as the days drudged on.

Leon, personally, was beginning to wonder whether he was dead. But he wouldn't dare to say it aloud. He was quite sure that if he did, he'd be on the receiving end of not only his king and Gwaine's wrath, but of Lancelot's as well. He spared a glance to Gwaine.

The shaggy knight was standing by the horses, absently petting the nose of BigHeart, Merlin's mare. A ridiculous name, everyone had told him, but he insisted on calling her that because, according to him, she was the sweetest of all the royal horses and it didn't matter that her given name was Fallenhoof. Soon the horse only responded to BigHeart, much to the stable hands' and Arthur's annoyance. Leon found it amusing, usually. But recently the horse had only served to remind them that Merlin was gone.

Exhaling heavily through his nostrils, Leon returned his attention to the stew. He had been delegated cook, as next to Merlin he was second best. Another reminder that Merlin was not there, it seemed. He stirred the contents of the pot, wishing that the others would get back already. Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan had been sent down to the town to search. Arthur would have gone himself, but he was convinced that he was just too recognizable. Gwaine was too emotionally unstable, if the way he was muttering softly to BigHeart was any indication, and Leon was needed to be responsible back at camp.

They were taking longer than usual. At all the other villages, the three had been back before noon, shaking their heads sadly as they returned empty-handed. Now it was nearing the evening, and Leon was starting to worry. Had they been attacked? They had all only taken a dagger each so as to not draw attention. Had they found something worth investigating?

He decided that if they hadn't returned by nightfall, he would suggest to Arthur that they go and search for them. The senior knight's uneasiness only grew. They were close to the border of Nemeth, so it could be an escape should they need it. After crossing into their territory, it would be a long trek back to Camelot, but it was better to take a long route in an ally's lands than a short one in an enemy's.

Arthur, on the other side of the camp, suddenly stood up and pocketed Merlin's neckerchief. He unsheathed his sword, focused on the trees near him. Leon, too, stood, prepared to aid his king. The approaching footsteps, though hurried, were familiar, and both men put away their weapons. Sirs Lancelot, Elyan, and Percival were returning.

Elyan was the first to run into the camp. Without pausing to acknowledge anyone, which was strange in itself, he made immediately for the horses. Upon reaching BigHeart he opened and rummaged through her bags - Well, Merlin's bags. Lancelot appeared next.

"Sire," he said, inclining his head shortly. "We need water - warm water - and bandages. And blankets."

By this time Gwaine had turned around. His face had been filled with hope when Elyan came, but upon hearing Lancelot's words he looked drawn and frightened. The things he was asking after were meant to help injured people. Could it be...?

Arthur nodded and turned, instantly in king mode. "Gwaine, fetch the water, quickly. Leon, help Elyan make bandages."

Gwaine hesitated only a moment before spinning on his heel and making toward the stream. Along the way he picked up one of the larger cooking pots. Elyan, with an armful of clothes and several blankets, approached Leon, who reached out and helped carry them closer to the fire. Percival at last arrived, carrying a covered, limp figure in his arms.

Hearing a shout behind him, Gwaine hesitated and turned. He half-contemplated whether to abandon his chore and go back, but then decided that it would be better to get the water. It would be needed, and he was wasting time. So he hurried forward. The stream was only a few feet away from the camp, its lulling burbling filling the clearing nearby. Most times the knight found comfort in the constant noise, but no longer. He didn't deserve the comfort it brought. He had failed Merlin. Sweet, innocent, kind Merlin was helpless and alone because of his own foolishness. Gwaine had hated himself before, but never so severely as now.

He knelt at the stream and dunked the metal pot, filling it to the brim. He hefted it out again, but before setting off again, he seemed to remember something. Gwaine pulled his waterskin from his belt and gauged its contents. It could use some filling up. Whoever had been injured might like a fresh drink.

Gwaine wasn't delaying. He wasn't afraid. Because Merlin was not the one who needed medical attention. Merlin was probably sitting up in a tower somewhere, whistling while growing his hair out and waiting for them to come fetch him. Normally Merlin would use magic to get himself out of the situation, but he didn't have it, so he couldn't. No, it wasn't Merlin, Gwaine was sure.

At last the skin was filled, and Gwaine had no choice but to cap it and return to camp. So he did.

When he arrived the knights were crowded around a prone figure beside the fire. Arthur was hovering over them, unsure of what to do with himself, but not helping. He looked horrorstruck. Gwaine carried the pot to the fire, and after removing the forgotten and burning stew placed the water over the flames. Then he sat down and stared at the water to wait for it to boil.

Behind him, it seemed that the king had finally found his voice. "Wh-what the hell happened to him?!" he demanded, though the last few words sounded a bit choked.

"Sire," Percival said, stepping back so that the other would have more room. "If I may."

Arthur searched the knight's sincere features, then curtly nodded.

Percival took a deep breath, then let it out before starting his story:

{MERLIN}

"Excuse me," Lancelot said amiably, sauntering up to the butcher's table. The man hacking at a rack of ribs paused and looked up at the three men, eyes lingering a bit longer on Percival's massive form. As Lancelot spoke, his eyes returned to his. "We're looking for someone who might help us out here."

The butcher frowned and regarded Lancelot. "Depends on who you're looking for," he said at last. "And what you want."

"I'll just get right to the point," Lancelot smiled, placing his hand on his hip just above his purse. "We're looking to buy the one we're looking for."

The butcher's eyes lit up in understanding. "It'll cost you," he said. "Black market's expensive."

"Yes," Elyan said, nodding eagerly. "So there is a black market here?"

The bloody man studied them once more, and seeming to find them all in order, broke out into a toothy grin. "Sure," he said. "It's good a place as any to hide 'em, wouldn't you say?" With that he laughed heartily, as though he had just told a good joke.

The three incognito knights smiled back, though a bit weakly. Just thinking of all the poor souls behind held beneath the butchery to await their eventual sale - or death - was sickening. But they had parts to play, and they could not afford to lose their chance.

"Come around back," he said, jerking his head to the side of the shop.

They nodded and obeyed, casting a wary glance around before disappearing between the two buildings. It was a shorter walk than they expected. The slaves must have been kept underground, as they had heard. What appalling conditions. The knights were greeted at the back door and ushered inside.

"Don't ask my name," said the butcher, "and I don't ask yours."

"Of course," said Lancelot. "Now, we're looking for a specific...type, if you will. A man. Tall, lean, dark-headed."

The butcher stopped for a moment and looked back at them once more. They stared back defiantly. But the man again smiled. "I'm sure I'll find something to your taste. This way."

He led them into the dark bedroom, then shoved a table out of his way. Underneath was revealed a square trap door, which he easily pried open. A wooden stair descended into the darkness below, and a musty smell of damp earth, mold, and squalor wafted up. Percival grimaced, but said nothing and followed them down it.

What they had thought would be a cellar turned out to be a dungeon. There were no walls but for the earth surrounding them, bowed wooden beams pressed against them as a means of support. Water dripped from somewhere, steady and constant. Throughout the room were iron bars, strategically placed to create rows of cages. There were three to four occupants within each one, all cowering as far from them as they could press their scrawny, languid bodies. One woman had begun to sob, seeing that there were three strangers with their captor. They knew someone was going to be sold and never seen again.

The knights were nearly overwhelmed, and only just managed to hold themselves together.

"I know they don't look like much," the butcher said apologetically, "but you understand that slaves are expensive to keep. I've been feeding them the innards and such from the meat, and the spoilt cuts that nobody bought. But even so, there are a few who think they're too good for it and don't eat."

Lancelot swallowed and struggled to reply, but thankfully he didn't seem to expect one.

"All right, let's see," he said. He marched across the room and grabbed the torch from the wall, then carried it back to them. Now they could see all the filth a bit more clearly. "A tall, dark-headed man is what you're looking for, yeah? I've a couple of them, methinks."

He led them to the right. Glancing back, Percival realized that the women were being held on the left. The woman who had been sobbing had fallen silent, though what that meant Percival wasn't sure. The smell only seemed to intensify the closer they got to the cages. How anyone could live in such condition was beyond them. The animals the man slaughtered and sold met better fates than these people, and were probably treated much better, too.

"There's one there," the butcher said, raising the torch to splay the light across the men in the cage. They shielded their eyes from it with bony hands and arms. The man he had pointed out had shoulder-length hair, so they knew immediately it was not Merlin.

"No," Lancelot said softly.

"All right," the butcher said, not put out in the least. He continued forward, leading them deeper. The room was a lot larger than they had originally perceived, extending to what seemed to be under the neighboring shop.

Two more men matching their description were pointed out, but neither were Merlin. The knights didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. They were thankful that Merlin was not being kept in such horrible conditions as these poor people, but all the same they had wanted to find him.

"Well," the butcher said, rocking back and forth on his heels. "There are a couple more, but they're in the very back. That's where I keep the spirited ones. Most buyers like them in their beds. Don't worry, I train them well, if you're interested in that sort of thing."

Lancelot stared at him for a moment, understanding the implication but not entirely sure if he was being serious. "Show us," he said at last.

Percival wished they would hurry. The smell and lack of oxygen was getting to him, making him feel quite nauseated and dizzy. But if Merlin were here, then he would definitely get him out. Merlin was the last person to ever deserve such treatment.

The butcher led them to the very back. If at all possible, the air quality was even worse than before. There were few men there. They were, after all, the ones kept for some lord or other's bed. Sex slaves. And apparently they had been "trained."

Each of these men had their own cell, though there was still no privacy. Unlike the others, these slaves did not shy away from the light or the butcher. Percival wasn't sure whether it was because they were too weak and exhausted, or no longer cared.

The first man pointed out to them was not Merlin. He had dark skin and had a rather effeminate form. His dull eyes watched them pass. The butcher led them to the very back.

"I've got one last man here that fits your description," he said. "He hasn't been here long, perhaps a few weeks at the most. He was feisty one, for sure, always screaming back and insulting me. Well, I had to beat that out of him, mostly, and tie him down so I could train him. He always fights back, even still, the little bastard."

He stopped at the farthermost cage and banged against the bars. The sound rang eerily throughout the dungeon. "Oi, you!" he barked.

The figure didn't move. He was tall and had messy black hair, but his back was to them. His clothes hung off his emaciated frame in tatters, and his hands were tied tightly behind his back. Percival could just make out dried blood on the ropes. The man's legs had been drawn up into a fetal position.

"Wake up!" the butcher barked.

"No," shot back a scratchy voice. It was weak despite the defiance and venom in the voice, and his reply didn't seem particularly lucid. Nevertheless, it was unmistakable.

"We'll take him," Lancelot said quickly, shoving his purse at the surprised butcher. He shook the purse to judge its amount, and seemed pleased enough. He wordlessly handed the torch to Lancelot so he could pull a key ring off of his belt.

"I'll just fetch him for you, then," he said. He went into the cell and reached down to grab the man.

"No!" the man gasped out, flinching away. "St-stop."

The butcher ignored him and heaved him to his bare feet, turning to drag him out. Merlin's legs instantly buckled beneath him, knees knocking together painfully. Elyan hurriedly stepped forward.

"I'll take him," he said.

The butcher shrugged and relinquished his hold. "Yeah, all right. He's yours now, after all."

Elyan took Merlin's weight, and was shocked to feel every one of his bones. His hair had grown a bit longer, but not by much due to malnourishment. From what he could see of him in the darkness, which wasn't much, he was also quite banged up. He wanted to cut the ropes binding poor Merlin's wrists, but he didn't dare break character, not when they were so close.

Percival, Elyan, and Lancelot turned to leave. Merlin appeared to have fallen unconscious from the abrupt change in position. They needed to get out right then, not just to get Merlin free. They had weapons, and didn't exactly trust themselves with them.

But the butcher followed them closely, carrying the torch he'd gotten back from Lancelot aloft to light the way. He continued to speak as though abusing and starving and raping and selling people were perfectly acceptable past times. "He's stopped eating a few days ago," he explained. "A bit skinny, as you can tell, but that's easily remedied with food, if you see fit to give it to him. I'd suggest making him work for it, though. No sense in making him expect it of you, his masters.

"He's got a pretty face, I didn't hurt it too much. I may have bruised his cheeks a bit, but that was his own fault for trying to bite me. He's learned the pleasing skill quite admirably, despite all his fighting." He laughed, and with each word the knights' blood boiled more fervently, and it took more and more willpower to not whirl around and draw their blades. If Percival could have had it his way, he'd have slit the butcher's throat and strung him up for display in his own shop.

"We'll need a blanket to cover him with," Percival said coldly once they had ascended the stairs. The butcher closed the trap door and moved the table back over, then gave the knight a wary glance.

"Of course," he said.

Before he could move to grab a suitable covering, Percival whisked away the blanket from the butcher's bed. His mouth opened as though to protest, but one glare from the larger man stopped him short, and he shut it again. If he was confused by the tender way Percival wrapped Merlin up before lifting him into his arms, he didn't voice it.

They left without looking back. Surely if they did then they would lose their daggers in his vile flesh. Not that it was a bad idea, but it would take time that Merlin might not have.

{MERLIN}

Throughout the story, Gwaine, Leon, and Arthur had listened silently and still. The water had heated soon after Percival had started speaking, and Elyan and Lancelot had quickly set to work cleaning the filth from Merlin's dry skin. His muscles were atrophied from starvation and from disuse, and all his bones jutted painfully. Dark bruises of various size and stage mottled his pallid skin, highly concentrated around his throat, shoulders, and hips. Two distinct finger-shaped bruises lined both his cheeks. Open pressure sores on his shoulders and hips wept yellow pus. One of his lower ribs were cracked, and his wrists were practically flayed by the ropes. His right ankle had been dislocated and left unset, leaving the muscles stiff and the foot bent at a painful angle. There were angry red welts across his scrawny back and the backs of his thighs that indicated he had been whipped severely. No one mentioned the dried blood caked between his legs, originating from a place they knew very well had been brutally violated numerous times.

By the end of Percival's tale, Arthur's eyes held unshed tears of righteous fury and devastation for Merlin. Gwaine's tears had spilled over as soon as he'd worked up the courage to glance back at the man. It was Merlin who had been hurt. Held captive, and treated cruelly, and so very abused in so many horrible ways. It just wasn't right.

Lancelot, upon discovering that Merlin hadn't brought spare clothes in his pack, fetched a pair of his own trousers and a clean shirt. Once Merlin had been bandaged up as well as they could under the circumstances, he was dressed, and then wrapped up in several blankets and capes to keep him warm. The rest of the bed rolls were laid on top of one another for a make-shift bed so that Merlin might have some comfort. Night had fallen, and the air was chilled with the disappearance of the sun.

Merlin had woken a few hours before, but he showed no sign of recognizing his friends, not even Arthur. He flinched at any sudden movement, at any move toward him. Sometimes he jumped at the natural sounds of the forest or when someone spoke. But mostly he just lay and stared up at the stars, blinking blearily but not really seeing. Somehow he had managed to work a stick-like arm out of his cocoon of warmth, and had curled his fingers through his hair. They didn't understand the gesture, but they left him to it so as not to startle or frighten him.

The knights discussed what to do. Merlin was in no condition to ride a horse, and there was no possibility that his body could endure the journey back to Camelot. Nemeth was quite close, and their allies would surely give them shelter for a few days, if not more. But they worried that Merlin wouldn't stand that short distance, either. In the end it was decided that they would have to go to Nemeth anyway. Merlin needed medical treatment, he needed a physician, for they had no idea what to do. Once the plan was set, they separated. Leon served the stew he had made, and the six knights forced it down their throats.

Gwaine was unable to finish his cold meal. His eyes were drawn to Merlin, who hadn't moved a muscle - that is, if you didn't count the way his fingers sometimes curled through his dark locks. He wondered why he was doing that.

Then Gwaine remembered that Merlin hadn't had much to drink, and was probably dehydrated. That was a good excuse to go near Merlin, wasn't it? Gods, Gwaine was selfish, but he couldn't help it. He just wanted to be near Merlin, his best friend, who was so very hurt and in dire need of help and comfort.

He grabbed his water pouch and approached slowly and silently, as though he were hunting. The knights noticed him, and then his intentions, and lowered their eyes. Arthur watched Merlin peripherally, prepared to get Gwaine away from him should his manservant become frightened.

At first Merlin didn't seem to see Gwaine, but when Gwaine uncapped the skin it popped. Merlin didn't start, but his gaze was drawn toward the noise.

"I'm going to help you drink a bit, mate," Gwaine said softly.

If Merlin understood he did not show it, nor did he seem to recognize Gwaine. Heart thudding in his chest, Gwaine gingerly reached down and braced the back of Merlin's neck so that he could lift his head. The knight did not like how cold and bony he felt. Merlin only stared up and past Gwaine, but parted his chapped lips slightly when the skin was pressed against them.

He grimaced as he swallowed, as though it hurt, but he drank nonetheless. As Gwaine pulled the water away, Merlin jerked forward as if attempting to grab it back. Gwaine put it back to his friend's lip and let him drink his fill, feeling slightly relieved that he was actually able to drink more than a sip or two. Once he was finished, Gwaine set the skin aside and gently lowered Merlin back down onto his pallet.

Merlin's fingers furled through his hair.

Then Gwaine saw it. Without remembering that it might startle Merlin, he snatched out and caught the louse between his thumb and forefinger. Luckily, Merlin didn't jump, though that might have been because his eyes had finally slipped closed. Gwaine sat back on his haunches and glared at the wriggling little insect, then crushed it mercilessly. Crimson blood stained the pads of his fingers. Merlin's blood. Merlin's hair was infested with blood-sucking lice. His fingers weren't curling through his hair; he was trying to scratch his scalp. How had they not noticed it before?

He looked up to see that the others were watching him questioningly. "Lice," he explained shortly. Arthur looked angry, though it was unclear at whom his fury was directed. The others merely looked saddened and resigned.

Gwaine sat cross-legged beside Merlin's head. Merlin, eyes closed, was breathing deeply, thin chest stuttering occasionally. He seemed to have finally fallen asleep, for which the knight was grateful. This way he might not be startled. He set to work picking the nits from poor Merlin's hair. Each one he caught he crushed between his nails with a burst of red, glaring at them contemptuously. Merlin didn't stir.

They all knew that it was too much to hope that when Merlin next woke he would be lucid, but they couldn't help it. Merlin always bounced back from everything, no matter what. Merlin was the stronghold, though they would probably not admit that to him. Merlin was the one who defied the rules and brought them together. Without Merlin, they would have never become brothers. So if Merlin was gone now, where would they be?

The only acceptable answer was that they would just have to be strong this time. The roles were reversed. Merlin was the one who needed them. They would look after him this time, since they weren't there when he needed them most.

Each of the knights silently vowed to make things right.

If Gwaine, who had first watch, noticed Arthur slip away with a spare short sword in the night, he said nothing, and in fact might have sent an approving nod in his direction. If Percival, who had third watch, noticed Arthur slip back into camp without a sword, he said nothing either.

And, if someone looked into the butcher's disappearance later and discovered a trap door leading into a slave-sty, and the butcher lying dead at the bottom with a sword through his heart, Merlin and the knights would never know.

A/N: Well, he wasn't with Brunhilde...

Sorry for no Merlin POV and limited Gwaine. I figured Gwaine would be too emotionally distraught to provide any reliable story-telling, as would Arthur and most definitely Merlin. This is also the shortest chapter. Sorry about that, too.

But in any case, thanks for reading! I really appreciate it (even though I don't take the time to PM you all... -.-)