Chapter 19: Merlin (2)

In the stable Merlin was given directions for the care of their three mounts – empty stalls and supplies – and he moved as quickly as possible, using no magic. He didn't want even a hint of that ability getting out. But as his hands were busy, so was his mind.

He believed that Caerleon and Annis had not heard of Gwaine's knighthood, or marriage in Gawant, so there would be nothing for Gwaine to deny, only fabricate. He also thought that the king and queen believed Gwaine to be no friend of Camelot or Arthur – not that they would admit to him the fact of their hostage, but it would probably be enough that they wouldn't feel the need to watch every move the three of them made.

Gwaine would be able to guess more accurately, but from what Merlin had seen of the fortress so far, it was well-manned but not well-organized. That made their job more difficult, if the warriors here were not required to conform to routines. The lads were curious, but not lazy; Merlin answered shortly and was left alone again, not wanting anyone with sharp eyes to guess how hard or long they'd ridden to get here. And like hiding his magic, he felt that being too friendly would be suspicious, and he simply wasn't in the mood. He wanted to blaze a path directly to Arthur without stopping, and then blast his way out again with Gwaine and Mithian. Not discuss worn horseshoes or saddlesores.

"Sst," someone said to get his attention.

Merlin looked up from emptying the last scoop of grain into the hopper at the front of the stall Mithian's mare was sharing with his. Gwaine, checking both directions down the stable-aisle, flicked his fingers for Merlin to join him. He ducked through the plank-rails of the stall-front rather than take the time to use the gate.

"You know I'm sorry for all that–" Gwaine began, referring to the casual verbal abuse he'd tossed in Merlin's direction in front of the king and queen.

"Don't be sorry," Merlin said immediately. "If it's working, keep doing it."

Gwaine snorted a little sourly. "Glad to hear you say it. Mithian had an idea."

Their baggage was waiting in the aisle outside the stalls; Merlin hoisted it about his person in a practiced way – over one shoulder, over the other, around his neck, under each arm. Now he weighed twice as much, but he'd paid attention to balancing the bundles, and didn't so much as stagger as he followed Gwaine from the stable to the stony courtyard, almost warm enough from his work to welcome the frost-edged breeze.

"What's her idea?"

"She was a little worried about how you might take it," Gwaine tossed over his shoulder. "But I said, anything that'll get Merlin closer to Arthur, he'll actually be pleased about."

"Gwaine," Merlin said, impatient.

And his friend rounded on him, seizing jacket-tunic-shirt at his shoulder and shaking him so furiously he dropped two of their bags – and a third when Gwaine released him in an unexpected shove that had him tripping over the lost baggage, down to one knee.

"You lazy, good-for-nothing son of a field-hand!" Gwaine shouted down to him. "How dare you try to steal from me – I, who put the very food in your mouth!"

Merlin gaped up at him, momentarily at a loss for understanding.

"Here, now, what's going on?" One of the warriors, a man with thinning blond-brown hair, whose skin looked pulled down tight from his face to hang in folds at his neck.

"I've caught my servant trying to dip his hand in my purse," Gwaine said wrathfully. "Your king has prison cells in this fortress, doesn't he? Maybe a night without food or water, sleeping on hard stone, will teach him to be thankful for what he's got!"

Merlin had to duck his head to hide his expression. He wasn't in the mood in the situation to consider anything funny, but he didn't want appreciation or satisfaction for Gwaine's plan to show. Once inside the cell area, he could find Arthur, and then it was just a question of getting them all out again.

"Well…" The warrior hesitated, then lifted his voice to holler. "Yer Majesty! Situation here!"

The hairs rose on Merlin's neck and he gripped the straps and material of their bags tightly, remaining tense on his knees as another pair of muddy boots carried King Caerleon to them.

"What's the problem now?" the king snarled.

"Thieving servant, m'lord," his warrior answered. "Wonders if he can throw 'im in a cell overnight."

Merlin risked a glance. Gwaine stood with hands on his hips, and maybe it was easier to look displeased than to smile in the face of his king's abductor and torturer. Caerleon stared back a moment, then turned and stalked toward the stable they'd just left.

Gwaine glanced at the greasy-haired warrior as if for explanation. The man only watched his sovereign; Merlin lifted his eyebrows to his friend's second glance to convey his own ignorance, a moment before King Caerleon reappeared - carrying a coiled horsewhip. He dropped several lengths of it deliberately as he strode to rejoin them, reaching to hand it to Gwaine.

"Flog him and be done with it," Caerleon suggested without emotion.

Gwaine's jaw was set in a way Merlin didn't like. It was fine with him, if Gwaine needed to keep up appearances; he wouldn't hold it against the knight, or mind split bruising much – but he couldn't think how to let Gwaine know that without ruining the point of accepting a whipping. It was a turnabout from Gwaine cautioning Merlin to slow down and think clearly, but the two of them had been comrades in danger, before.

So Merlin cowered over the baggage, inching away and calling out, "Please don't, master! Not again! It was a misunderstanding – I wouldn't steal from you nor m'lady, I wouldn't! Please believe me! Please forgive me! Don't hit me with the whip!"

Gwaine raised it threateningly, and Merlin whimpered into the protective circle of his arms. Swearing, Gwaine recoiled the whip, squeezing it in his hands. "Damn me, but I can't bring myself to. He's just too pathetic. You've learned your lesson though, right?"

"Yes, master – sorry, master." Merlin scrambled to retrieve all their packed belongings.

Caerleon signaled his warrior to reclaim the unused whip from Gwaine, stating, "We've no place for soft-hearts, here."

Gwaine grunted, managing to make it sound like agreement. "He's not my enemy, though."

Caerleon's eyes were small and dark, and his hair hung down over his brows. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking – Gwaine pre-emptively reached down to haul Merlin to his feet.

"My lady's waiting," he explained to all three of them. And to Merlin, "Don't fall on or drop any of those again. If anything's broken I'll come back for that whip, hear?"

Merlin mumbled and followed Gwaine, up the stairs and into the fortress; he could feel Caerleon's eyes on them, but the enemy king said nothing.

"Dammit… Well, it was worth a try. Think we allayed suspicions, or raised them?" Gwaine asked under his breath. Two at a time he took a nearby stair as it curved up around the entrance area, which was open to several stories though the lighting was poor. Open arrow-slits rather than glass-paned windows kept the air chilly and filled with a faint whistle when the wind blew.

"I honestly wouldn't mind you knocking me about," Merlin answered, as quietly since the castle wasn't deserted. They reached a corridor and – breathless and weary – he struggled to keep up with his unburdened friend. "Arthur has done, in the past. It doesn't really mean anything."

Gwaine clenched his fists. "I prefer a clean fight, to this," he admitted. "I can't think whether pretending to treat you ill will convince them of our story – or make them doubt."

He leaned into a door, rapping twice with his knuckles. Inside, a bolt rasped, and Mithian swung it wide open for both of them.

"It didn't work?" she said in immediate dismay. "Or you decided you didn't like the idea?"

"It was brilliant, really," Merlin told her, beginning to unlayer himself of the straps and strings of their baggage. "It was Caerleon who wouldn't go along with it."

She came to help him untangle and free himself, claiming two of the bags to set aside on a small round table. "What do we do now?"

"Take a bath," Gwaine suggested, flicking a finger against a large metal tub that stood empty on the hearth-rug, warming by the blazing fire. "Get ready for dinner with the royals."

Mithian looked at Merlin uncertainly. He said, "I can learn my way around a bit, carrying and heating water. I can meet and talk to some of the servants, maybe get a hint of direction to the cells, or information about guard rotation, that sort of thing."

She didn't look happy, but she nodded. "We'll just wait here, then?"

"There's food," Gwaine observed, wandering away from the tub and fireplace, along the chamber's outer wall.

A bowl of green apples sat on a side table; he tossed one to Merlin, who caught it and immediately wanted to hand it to the princess. He was not hungry, but the fruit was small and the skin beginning to wrinkle with the passing of the season; it was not something he wanted to offer her with the implicit suggestion that she eat it.

Instead he went to the door, placing the unappetizing apple on the round table as he passed. "I'll eat later."

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

Merlin didn't truly think about what he was doing – filling buckets at the well, carrying and heating and pouring into the tub in the room – until his last trip, when he kicked the door of the chamber shut behind him and leaned to set the last two buckets on the hearth, right by the fire.

And turned to see Gwaine getting up from a chair he'd tilted back against the wall, heading for the adjoining bedchamber with an inviting tip of his head.

And turned back around to see that the dressing screen had been moved – that Mithian's satin dress and some nameless white underthing or things had been thrown over it – that Mithian was moving shyly out from behind it in a robe she held closed over her heart and low at her hips.

Barefoot.

Merlin denied inadvertent thoughts so vehemently he actually shuddered.

"Thank you," she said softly, and the sound of her voice did not help. "For this. I guess I didn't think that… playing these roles, meant… you'd actually have to serve us."

"My pleasure, my lady," he said. His voice was hoarse and his face felt hot as he tried not to look at her, and the pounding of his heart had nothing to do with climbing stairs or carrying buckets-full of water.

He whirled to bolt the door, excusing himself around her to reposition the screen to block the tub from the rest of the room, and dragged the small round table – holding folded towels and packets he assumed she'd brought with her – to the hearthside.

"If you need anything else…" he said, awkward because she'd watched him do all this.

"I'll be fine," she told him. "I'll be fast."

Suddenly he felt acutely aware of how dirty he was, how ragged and unworthy – the cuffs of his jacket and trousers were soaked, as well as the outside of both trouser legs, from the knee down – and how sweet and vulnerable and trusting she was. And all the feelings in that tiny broken corner of his heart clamored for the rest of it to link back together.

He spun and hurried to the other room of the guest quarters to join Gwaine.

"Are you all right?" Gwaine asked, seated on the side of the bed to remove his boots. His sword-belt already lay next to him atop the cover.

"Funny," Merlin responded. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

"Well, for one thing, I'm missing my wife." Gwaine gave him a full, genuine grin – the first Merlin had seen since leaving his friend in Gawant. "Laugh all you want – I know no one that knows me would expect me to marry – or to be happily married, but. Elena is such a gift, Merlin. Something I never expected to happen to me, and I know I don't deserve her, but… sometimes, I think, destiny has more planned for you than you plan for yourself."

Merlin sighed, and muttered, "True."

Until he left Ealdor, he could never have imagined himself living in a palace. Until he traveled through the forest of Merendra to the Feorre Mountains, he could not even have dreamed of the responsibility and privilege of becoming a dragonlord. Until he left Camelot, he'd found it hard to imagine talking to Arthur freely about magic, and performing it daily and openly without fear of official reprisal.

"You and I are not so dissimilar," Gwaine said, too casually. "I apologized to Elena for getting her stuck with me, though she insists she's happy – and to Arthur for inadvertently leaving Camelot, though he said, he knows my loyalty won't slip. When Elyan came to tell me about all this, I thought – dammit, it's my fault, I should've been there fighting alongside Arthur, then this wouldn't have happened. What was I thinking, enjoying the company of a beautiful woman who's interested in me, instead?"

"You were thinking," Merlin said, his mouth twisting around words that tasted sour – because he and Gwaine knew each other very well, after all. He knew what Gwaine was saying, turning the comparison back on him and what he felt. "That you were doing your duty in Gawant, fighting Arthur's enemies. Making the best of an unfortunate situation. Not, thinking only of yourself and grasping some greedy and impossible happiness."

"Merlin," Gwaine said reproachfully. "When you left Gawant you'd made your mind up to journey to Nemeth not because you were pursuing romance in spite of what everyone else thought or needed. But because you'd made your mind up that giving yourself for Arthur's treaty was going to best benefit the kingdom."

That felt like a long time ago, and hard to remember his thinking processes. It seemed disloyal to recall wondering if a real relationship might be possible with the princess who'd chosen him. His hope, his relief, his surrender to emotion –

Dangerous distraction. Dangerous to Arthur, and now to Mithian herself, here in this enemy castle because of him. Because of his weakness.

Merlin cleared his throat and deliberately changed the subject. "And now you're back here, after all these years, having to make nice with the king who betrayed your father."

"I do not know how you did it," Gwaine stated, allowing the subject of women and wives to drop, "with Uther." He started tugging at his chainmail, and Merlin motioned for him to stand so he could help.

"It wasn't always easy," he said. "But I had Arthur." And now it felt like, if they lost Arthur, he'd lose those years of suffering and sacrifice and patience – that it would all be for nothing.

"A reason to persevere," Gwaine said, his voice muffled a little from the armor dragging over his head, and the position of his arms. "You weren't born proud, though, either."

Merlin grunted agreement and turned to drape the mail over the chair by the desk against the wall the bed's headboard shared. "Do Caerleon and Annis have children? Who's the heir?"

"They didn't when I left," Gwaine answered, unfastening his coat. Merlin took it off his shoulders through force of habit, and hung it over the chainmail on the chair. "Something I can find out tonight at dinner."

"Speaking of dinner," Merlin said. "How do I get to the cells?"

"I don't suppose we can just wander down there, tomorrow, on the excuse that I'm reacquainting myself with the place," Gwaine said, pulling a clean shirt out of one of their bags. "Or even showing my new bride around the castle…"

"No, I mean – give me directions," Merlin said, wondering if Gwaine had misunderstood him on purpose. "Do you remember the way – which stair, which hall? I offered to help out in the kitchen, any tasks no one else wanted, like bringing prisoners' meals, but they declined to let a stranger handle that."

"Not a bad plan," Mithian said, swaying into view at the arched entrance of the bedchamber. Back in her satin dress – still barefoot – rubbing her hair with the towel over one shoulder. "Too bad it didn't work."

"Speaking of dinner," Gwaine said, saluting her as he passed in the doorway, and yanking his shirt over his head as he strode toward the screen-hidden tub. "I imagine it'll be quite the polite interrogation, Mithian."

Merlin glanced at Mithian as he sidled past to follow Gwaine, who dropped his clean shirt onto the table holding the towels. She didn't catch his eye, but he caught her scent, fresh and clean and damp, and didn't stop til he was on the opposite side of the room from her, between the tub and the door.

"Well," she said, giving attention to her hair and turning her back as Gwaine's shirt and trousers flew over the dressing screen, followed immediately by the sound of him stepping into the tub with an audible sigh of satisfaction. "We're only distraction, aren't we? Talking of Camelot or Arthur is bound to draw attention."

"Do you want that clean hot water?" Merlin asked Gwaine, to distract himself from watching Mithian rub her hair dry with the towel.

"No, this is good. Mithian, we need to agree on a story we can both tell. Simple, but something that can't be easily disproved – and maybe just leave Camelot and Arthur out of it altogether."

"Why don't you call me Bronda?" Mithian suggested. "That's my maid's name." Gwaine made a sound of agreement, and Mithian disappeared into the bedchamber, calling across the space, "Have you ever been to the Western Isles?"

At the door, Merlin could hear her but faintly, and was satisfied that no one would be able to hear anything, listening from the other side.

Gwaine splashed a bit, washing energetically. "Almost, once. I was on a boat and we were crossing, but a storm came up and we returned to port."

"Which one?"

"Glevun," Gwaine answered.

"I've been there," Mithian said. "We'll say I'm the daughter of a penniless earl of Glevun who held a tournament with me as the prize, to keep the family estate running with the money from entrance fees."

Gwaine made a disgusted sound, dripping his way out of the tub behind the screen as Mithian re-entered the room, boots on her feet and combing her hair over the towel draped over her shoulder.

"It happens," she reminded them both mildly.

And, when Merlin told her what he had to tell her, she'd have to choose a different man from Camelot to marry – and how was that very much different than waiting to see who'd won the tournament, as Elena had been forced to do?

Maybe he could recommend Leon – Leon would be good to her. But how on earth could Merlin watch their happiness grow – or their tolerance strain – feeling how he felt? With Leon, or with any other man? Would she kiss that man the way she'd kissed Merlin? It might be worse, he thought, than losing Freya the way he had – helplessly and completely and at once, without reminders lingering every day, and doubts plaguing.

Damn him. But then, sacrifice wasn't meant to be easy.

"What shall we call you, then?" Gwaine said, emerging from behind the screen with his shirt half on, shaking his head to rid his hair of excess water.

"You mean instead of boy?" Merlin said lightly. "William, maybe. My best friend in Ealdor."

Mithian turned to look right at him; he'd told her of Will's death, fighting to free their village from bandits. Giving his life to save Arthur's, telling a lie to save Merlin's. A village boy and another knight's son who'd regarded nobility and royalty with bitterness – and who'd changed his mind.

But what she said was, "Aren't you getting in the bath?"

"No," he said, surprise submerging embarrassment. "Servants don't, especially in their masters' baths. That would raise more than a few eyebrows here, which is something we don't need."

Mithian looked unhappy; it hurt Merlin – she shouldn't have come, no matter how advantageous her presence proved – but he turned away to Gwaine. "Do you remember the layout of the cells, how to get in and out, or do I have to go searching, myself?"

Gwaine frowned, pausing in tightening the laces of his tunic at his throat. "We're not going to do this tonight."

Merlin took a breath, and then another, and didn't change his mind. "I'm not going to wait."

He didn't miss the look Gwaine gave Mithian, but he ignored it, striding back to the bedroom to retrieve Gwaine's boots and sword-belt. As he returned, he overheard his friend speaking in a low voice to the princess, who'd drawn closer to him to hang her towel over the dressing screen.

"…Not just a servant… fighter, but…"

Merlin didn't pause, bringing Gwaine the finishing touches of his son-of-a-knight, guest-of-a-king finery. "We can't do this during the day, there will be too many people around," he said, absolutely unconcerned that they would be discussing him, especially if there were doubts occurring to Mithian to make her change her mind. "And Caerleon sounded like he could reject you tomorrow and have you escorted back outside the gate."

"We've thought of a plan for that," Mithian said neutrally, half-turned to finish combing her hair by the heat of the fire – Merlin made a mental note to carry and store extra wood. "I can excuse myself early tonight, and if it looks like Caerleon is going to dismiss Gwaine tomorrow, I can plead illness. I'm pretty sure Annis will let us stay, then – a few more days, that is."

Merlin shook his head – not to disagree, but because he really was unwilling to wait. "We don't know what they'll be doing with Arthur in the meantime. It sounded to me like Annis doesn't know what's really going on with their hostage – Caerleon could spend a few hours down there after dinner tonight and I can't sit here in this room and let it happen."

"So I'll keep him up late and make sure he goes to bed drunk," Gwaine proposed, buckling and settling his sword-belt around his hips. "Come on, Merlin, if Arthur goes missing our first night here –"

"Better if he goes missing while you two are at dinner with the king and queen," Merlin challenged, "and obviously not involved." That had been Arthur's own plan, years ago, when they'd rescued Mordred from Camelot's dungeon – and it had worked, then.

"And what's the plan for getting the four of us out of here, then?" Gwaine demanded. "If I can get Caerleon to add me to his ranks, I might be able to –"

"I'm not waiting for that," Merlin warned him.

"Right, well," Mithian interrupted, winding her slender leather tie around several inches of hair over her shoulder, leaving the rest of the curls to dry further. "It's dinnertime, and they will wonder what's keeping us."

"Wait til we can make a plan," Gwaine said to Merlin, who set his jaw. Gwaine growled, but turned away to the door.

Mithian came to Merlin, and he tensed for her warnings and cautions, too. And instead she held out her hand as if to give him something. He opened his palm reflexively, and she placed the red-silk-thread bracelet in his hand, turning her wrist up in clear invitation.

Merlin hesitated. Maybe it wouldn't mean anything, no more than Gwaine giving her his father's ring temporarily. But it felt like commitment to him, that he wasn't free to make. That he never had been free to make, he'd only been deluding himself and misleading her.

Whether she noticed or guessed, or not, Mithian said quietly, "I am very grateful to have this – the magical protection you spelled into the stones will be good for my peace of mind, here."

She spoke, he understood with relief, not to reduce the gift to an impersonal charm of safety, but to shift its significance away from romance, however slightly. And in that spirit of caring for a friend, he could tie the bracelet around the tight cuff of her dress and be glad himself that it was there.

Gwaine had the door open, his elbow extended, a stern look for Merlin silently repeating his insistent advice to wait. Mithian went to him – Merlin drifted behind her – she took Gwaine's elbow and the edge of the door to pull it closed.

And met Merlin's eyes unexpectedly, her own dark and luminous, the lines and curves of her face strong and determined and brave.

"Be careful," she whispered intensely – and shut the door.

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

It was blue twilight, and Merlin's third trip to the shed behind the bake-house where the firewood was kept. A private, out-of-the-way place – there were a few in Camelot, too – where couples might steal a moment's privacy. When a woman's low, suggestive laugh preceded light footfalls, Merlin grimaced and prepared to announce his presence with the clatter of a dropped armful of wood.

Except the man following turned in a spot of torchlight to check behind them. Merlin recognized him, freezing in place – one of the guards who'd been in the cell with Arthur, holding his head underwater.

"I haven't seen you at night for almost a month," the woman complained breathlessly as she tugged him into blending into a shadow.

"Can't, luv. Valuable prisoner – king needs his best men on guard."

"Aww…"

The sounds that followed made Merlin clench his teeth, feeling the low burn of fury in the pit of his stomach, that this man could enjoy his freedom, like this.

"A'right," the man said gruffly, "but I've gotta be getting back in a minute…"

Merlin was sorely tempted to curse their tryst with something a bit nastier than his usual tricks-on-oblivious-guards. Instead he focused on replacing his load of firewood on the nearest stack, one chopped quarter-log at a time, so he wouldn't be heard, himself. By the time he was done, so were they – and he was glad he'd left his black jacket on over the bleached shirt, in spite of sweating with exertion and getting bits of bark and dirt on his sleeves. At least he was nearly invisible in the falling darkness as he slipped from his place to follow the couple, sauntering arm in arm back to light and company. Using magic, he caught the door swinging closed behind them, ajar about a foot-width, and watched them exchange a last sloppy kiss before the woman's skirts disappeared into the well-lit kitchen just off the hall that led deeper into the castle, where Merlin had not been.

The guard turned down the hall.

Merlin slid along the stone of the outside wall to the door-crack and glanced inside. Several voices could be heard in the kitchen, as the royal meal was probably only about half over, and perhaps they served some contingent of Caerleon's warriors as well, before cleaning duties.

A large copper pot twisted on its hook next to the hearth – Merlin glanced deliberate magic, and as the clang! it made when it fell drew all eyes, he passed the doorway into the hall.

Dark and deserted – a juncture several paces down glowed dimly with the flickering of torchlight on the move; he sped on his toes, ducked a look around the corner to see the guard descending a stair, his back to Merlin. He eased around it more carefully himself, aware of the possibility of the man turning, or someone coming to the kitchen door behind him, before… the guard reached the bottom of the steps and marched out of sight down another dark corridor below the kitchen, at right angles to the first wall.

Merlin crouched so he could see well down the lower hall, where any unseen person might notice his feet coming down if he wasn't careful, and crept lower into the bowels of Caerleon's castle step by step.

The guard's carried torch was the only light, and Merlin froze on the third stair to the bottom as it came into sight about six or seven paces down the hall. The man stopped to pound on the heavy iron-bound door blocking his way, and someone must have answered from the other side, for the guard said clearly, "It's me, dammit, open up."

The muffled sound of a bolt being drawn on the inside was echoed by the guard Merlin had followed shooting a bolt on the outside – and the hinges shrieked as it swept inward.

Merlin hesitated, only for a second.

Then snatched away the torchlight, throwing the corridor into inky blackness, relieved only by the faint glow of light from beyond the door. Both guards exclaimed in surprise and frustration. Merlin sprinted.

Down the corridor, on the new boots Arthur had given him, lowering his shoulder and plowing into the guard he'd followed before either of them even realized he was there. Breath whooshed from the man's body in a startled grunt; Merlin grunted with the shock and a bit of pain, also, stumbling before righting himself. The guard – not so lucky - flew forward into the stone wall on the opposite side of a small guard-room.

"Hey!" his companion from the inside said –

But a motion from Merlin had him pasted to the side wall – past a lantern on a small table bracketed by a pair of chairs, next to an empty weapons-rack - so hard his limbs flopped and his head dangled on his neck. Unconscious but alive, and Merlin let him sag to the floor as the first guard stirred sluggishly.

Merlin knelt over him, fisting a hand in greasy brown-gray hair, several months past due for a trim, and turned his face away forcefully as the man began to struggle back to consciousness.

"I warn you," he hissed. "I am a sorcerer, and you have my king. If I decide it is worth my while, I could turn the stone of this floor into liquid, and push your head under. Permanently. Do you understand me?"

The man whimpered, and nodded under Merlin's hand.

"Where is his cell?" Merlin demanded. "And if you lie, I will return and bury you in molten rock. If you tell the truth, I will take my king and go, and you will wake in the morning with only a bad headache."

"Down that stair," the man suggested fearfully. Merlin lifted his head to see a break in the stone at the far corner, like a closet with no door – evidently a stair descended behind the wall. "The hall on your right. And the one my king calls Majesty is on the end."

"You're sure," Merlin growled menacingly.

The guard made a frightened, ingratiating noise – and Merlin slammed a sleeping spell over him ungently, before rising to check back the way he'd come.

The hall and the steps were empty; Merlin closed the door again without bolting it, and checked the stair the guard had pointed out. There was only a small slice of floor visible beyond the lowest step, opening to the side, but there was light on that level also. Merlin left the lantern on the table in the guard-room and ghosted still lower on silent feet.

Beyond the stair, a stone wall broken by two dark-mouthed halls, lit by a short uneven row of candles stuck in a waxy niche – a constant source of light, Merlin assumed, replaced when they burned out. He listened, breathing shallowly through his mouth, but heard only dripping water, somewhere out of sight. It made him shiver, and step quickly to the doorway on the right. Still no one in sight, and the far cells were almost completely blind in the gloom.

Merlin took a risk, and called – authoritatively, though not loudly – "Hello, is anyone there? Speak up!"

No answer. And he doubted that other prisoners would try – or be able to – give them away. Holding out his hand, he conjured flickering torch-flame, and ventured down the aisle between cells, separated by crusted ferrous bars.

And he recognized it. Recognized the cell at the end, and the motionless shape in the corner. Gray trousers, gray skin, gray hair. Wet, filthy stone – reeking straw.

"Arthur," Merlin said – called – coaxed.

The shape didn't even twitch, and Merlin's throat tried to close as he swallowed.

Letting the flame hover midair to give him sufficient light, Merlin wrapped both hands around bars as far apart as he could reach, and focused on Ally's first spell – athwinan thas heard – vanishing the bars he held, and all those in-between. He stepped through the wide gap, approached and knelt behind the prisoner.

"Arthur," he said again, softly. He reached to roll the man's filthy, half-naked body from side to back – the chains clanked and rattled and pulled at unresisting arms - cushioning his head and feeling for a pulse at the same time.

It was there; it was not firm and steady.

His eyelids fluttered – but so did his lungs. Every breath gasped and crackled subtly under the shadows of bruising over his chest and ribs and down his belly. But it was Arthur. Even under the grime and weeks-old growth of beard, Merlin would know his king anywhere. Gently he tested for broken or cracked ribs; gently he probed a few of the darker bruises for injuries to his friend's internal organs. Nothing life-threatening, though.

"Arthur?" he tried again, and his voice caught raggedly in his throat. "It's Merlin – I'm here. Can you wake up for me?" An idea occurred, and he opened his mouth to say, Rise and shine, but a sob broke out instead, and he bit his lip to remain quiet and calm.

Arthur should not be so limp, so damaged.

He put his hand on the cuffs at Arthur's wrist, padded with scraps of cloth so they wouldn't cut and chafe and leave marks, and with a murmured Unclyse, they dropped to free him.

Still no response.

"Arthur, for the love of Camelot…" Merlin wriggled the crook of his elbow under Arthur's neck, bracing against the stone floor to lift his unconscious friend.

Was this what Arthur felt like when he'd visited Merlin in that cell in Camelot, after his first session with Aerldan? But Merlin would not be advocating compromise, or swearing to return.

"Come on," he said, ducking forward in his crouch, shifting his arm to raise Arthur's. He put one knee down, and tucked his shoulder – not the one that was sore from knocking down the guard – carefully into Arthur's midsection. "You should – wake up, you know? You'd be impressed… how strong I am."

Arthur moaned involuntarily a couple of times as Merlin climbed to his feet, lifting and balancing his king's weight over his shoulder.

And then it was just a question of carrying him out. Staggering to the stair – and up – reminding himself he was not going to be able to move or turn quickly, or see past Arthur's bulk.

The two guards were still down – one unconscious, one asleep. Arthur's feet butted Merlin's knees and his arms dangled down his back; Merlin stumbled against the closed door with his free hand extended and mixed grief and anger exploded with the vanishing spell again. Silent, so no one would be alerted and come running, but absolutely unmistakable come morning. The door was gone, and a sizeable chunk of rock wall to either side.

Merlin made his way down the hall slowly, unsteadily, and aware that the top of this stair was open to the hall that passed the busy kitchen.

Beyond which was fresh air and open sky. And two fortress walls, and the bakehouse and woodshed was on the side furthest from the two main gates. The odds that he could stagger the whole way – and out – without being noticed, were extremely bad. And he couldn't risk Arthur, as helpless as he was. And though he couldn't leave Gwaine and Mithian, he couldn't immediately take them, either.

He'd tried to memorize their last stop, where they'd changed clothes, but he simply wasn't certain the familiarity would be enough, not with the energy and magic he'd already expended on the trip. Again – not enough to risk Arthur's life on the magic, or to gamble that he could return the same way and bring Gwaine and Mithian on a third trip, without leaving Arthur in his weakened condition alone in a winter night.

He could barely keep his head up as he mounted the second stair, alert for any passers-by in the kitchen corridor; it was hard to listen for anyone's approach over his own heavy, scuffling footfalls and fought-for breaths.

Arthur was a too-warm, too-limp weight pressing on his neck and unbalancing him and stretching the muscles in his shoulder and arm and chest – and it was all his own fault. His friend – his king – suffering because he wanted to get to know a girl, because he thought he could have a princess. Before he spoke vows to someone who wasn't his destiny.

"I'm sorry," he whispered over his shoulder.

Arthur didn't hear him.