Chapter 20: Merlin (3)
Merlin reached the top of the stair with Arthur still draped over his shoulder; the hall was empty, for the moment. Pausing for breath, he considered if he could disguise Arthur as anything, with magic or ordinary means. Invisibility might be possible – some day in the future, after study and practice. Otherwise…
He took a deep breath and entered the hall.
The hair rose on the back of his neck to put the busy kitchen behind him, but the hum of noise remained low, contained within the room, not spilling over to the hall. At the far end, two doors stood open to another well-lit room, with the sound of dishes and voices Merlin recognized – the dining hall – and he staggered with his precious burden down the dimmer corridor opposite.
He passed two doors that were shut, and one that was open – barracks by the look, but the men inside were drinking and dicing and no one so much as glanced up at the doorway as he warily skirted the pool of light.
Beyond that, twice he heard the weighty clomping of boots. Both times he pressed himself and Arthur to the corridor wall and watched Caerleon's warrior enter the barracks – a common room, maybe – without noticing them.
His heart was pounding and he was panting by the time he reached another stair – but the flickering torchlight at the top was perfunctory, and he found he was grateful Caerleon did not employ more servants, or care much about lighting throughout his castle at night. His legs burned and trembled, and each step was welcome penance for his previous ignorance and neglect of his friend – his reward that the last hall was deserted also.
He arrived at their room from the opposite direction, and was glad that it was still empty, bathwater and low-burning fire and drying towels. He bolted the door – briefly considered trying to lower Arthur bodily into the tub, trousers and all, – and staggered instead to the bedchamber.
There was no question that he would put his king in the bed – the sole, though large, bed – but Arthur's body was both grimy and foul, and there would be questions if the sheets needed to be laundered tomorrow. Merlin's remedy was to levitate the bedside rug, covering the pillow and blanket before half-collapsing on the mattress himself in trying to lay his friend down gently.
Arthur looked even worse, in the better light and finer surroundings. Merlin could well believe he hadn't been allowed to bathe the entire time. His hair was long and lank and brown, his lips beneath beard-growth gray and cracked, his eyelids stretched red and moist.
"Arthur?" Merlin tried softly, but his king remained unconscious.
He rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of the borrowed black jacket – then took it off, and the tunic. Rolling his shirt-sleeves above his elbows, Merlin plunged himself back into practiced habits as manservant and physician's apprentice both to clean his master's unresponsive body, hair to heels, and dressed him in Gwaine's extra clothing, shirt and trousers. All the hope and encouragement he felt in finding very few breaks in the skin he was cleaning was swiftly lost in the extensive discoloration of bruising. The feverish warmth, the labored breathing, the persistent unconsciousness.
Merlin found an extra blanket in the wardrobe to tuck around his friend's body, better than the ones they'd used in traveling, and added fuel to the fire to warm the air in the room. He coaxed half a cup of water down Arthur's throat and thought about food – he could peel and mash one of the past-season apples into some water and heat it by the fire…
He was almost finished with preparations for this form of sustenance for his unconscious king when someone tried the door. Then knocked. Merlin wiped juice from his knife on the leg of his trousers and went to unbolt the door, allowing only a few inches and keeping his weapon and his king out of sight of –
Mithian, her eyes bright in the light that passed him, and all the shadows behind her. The relief that shone in her expression and touched his face with her sigh was for his safety, and it knotted his stomach.
He stood back and allowed a few more inches, saying as she crossed the threshold, "I got him."
She halted for a moment, eyes on the bed in the other room, hand on his arm as if for balance. Then she glanced down at the knife in his hand – over at the apple on the table, minus its peel – and nodded resolutely.
"Good," she said, releasing him to go to the bedside. "How did it go?"
"No one saw me." Bolting the door again, he returned to chopping the apple into water. "But sooner or later the pair of guards is going to wake up, and I left a couple rather obvious signs of magic."
Mithian rounded the bed to climb onto the other half, glancing up at Merlin as she bent over Arthur; he read the look.
"Nothing to bring anyone running, though," he assured her. "I figured it could be as if Arthur's sorcerer rescued him, and it has nothing to do with Gwaine's visit, his lady or his servant." Mithian was touching Arthur, patting his cheek or feeling his pulse or opening an eyelid or something. Merlin added, "It might be a few days til we can get him out of here, we'll just have to hide him and play dumb."
If that didn't work, he could attempt to shift them all outside the castle walls to make a run for it – but in that case, he'd be just as weak and helpless as Arthur currently was, from exhaustion. He stirred the apple slush into a half-cup of water, and set it on the hearth to warm for Arthur's comfort.
Mithian sat back in the pool of her skirt on the bed. "Dinner was all right," she said. "Pretty vague – Caerleon's not exactly chatty. I believe it was the truth when Annis said they don't get much news. Mostly they seem focused on Camelot – and Cenred's abandoned territory. They heard Arthur overturned Uther's ban of magic, and allied with Nemeth, though they seem to think that he and Nemeth's princess were intended to wed." Merlin grunted, but she continued without seeming to hear him, "Sir Gwaine is quite the diplomat. I was impressed by how much he could talk without actually saying anything."
"People tend to think he's a bit of a drunken idiot who can't keep his mouth shut," Merlin said, with a half smile. "I'm glad to know you're one of the few that can see past that, though I'm not surprised."
Mithian cocked her head, though he couldn't tell if there were subtler nuances to her expression from across the room. "You're very good at that."
The part of his mind that had been monitoring his hot-apple-mash decided it was probably warm enough, and he bent to retrieve the cup from the hearth. "At what?"
"Giving a girl a compliment that means something."
His whole body ached dully, weighed with fatigue; easily ignored. But her words sent another ripping pang through his half-riven heart. He didn't respond, only carried the cup into the bedchamber and retrieved a spoon from one of their packs. Perching on the edge of the bed next to Arthur's hip, he wedged the cup into the bend of his knee and reached to prop his king's head at a good angle for swallowing.
Exhaustion. If Caerleon had kept Arthur in this state for weeks, now, his body would be worn out in constantly trying to heal itself. Fever, and Merlin worried about the sound of his breathing, the illness his weakened state had allowed.
Three unconsciously-coerced swallows into the apple mash, Merlin uncovered Arthur's chest and stomach to test him for cracked ribs or damage to his softer insides for the second time, just in case carrying him up from the cell or the process of bathing had tipped some delicate balance of damage. He couldn't seem to stop checking; maybe he was a little paranoid.
Mithian gasped to see the horrific bruising. "Ay damn, Merlin!"
It felt like an accusation. One he deserved. He seethed over the terrible evidence of Arthur's torture and couldn't help wondering if there would be further damage that couldn't be seen. Not just the worry of lung illness; men had been changed by torture. He knew he was lucky he'd only been with Aerldan a couple of days, but there was no reason to think Arthur wouldn't recover quickly, at least physically.
He went back to spooning soft warm apple into Arthur's mouth and persuading him to swallow. And was increasingly aware of Mithian watching him quietly – watching him, more than Arthur.
"What?" he said, keeping his voice quiet, though Arthur showed no sign of rousing.
"This is a side of you I haven't seen," Mithian said.
"Guilty and furious?" he suggested, and choked on his tone. His eyes blurred and tears tickled his lashes and he blinked them angrily onto the shoulder of his shirt.
"This isn't your fault, any more than it was Gwaine's," Mithian told him.
Merlin shook his head. It wasn't the same thing. Gwaine wasn't the Once and Future King's appointed protector, and he hadn't exactly chosen to leave Camelot, or for such frivolous reasons.
Mithian pushed herself up from the bed and went to the other room of the chamber. Merlin continued coaxing some nourishment into Arthur – maybe they could ask for breakfast to be served in their chamber in the morning. If he went down to the kitchen he could request specific foods that would help Arthur regain strength and would be easy to eat.
He was just finishing the last spoonful when Mithian returned, climbing back onto the bed. She'd changed from her red-brown satin dress to one of white, soft layers with a neckline that pointed down to her heart, the bodice fitted and emphasized with outlining ribbon. It was gorgeous for a nightgown – not that Merlin had any experience with women's night-wear, and he tried to keep his eyes away from hers as he set aside the spoon and emptied cup on the desk next to the bed.
And then she said, "How tired are you?"
Odd question; he did look at her then, studied her face fully for the first time in days. She looked worn also, and he could see the stress of the trip and the situation, but her dark eyes held a determined patience that captivated him. She didn't need him, he knew – but somehow felt that she was offering to need him. To attach herself to him, heart, soul, and body.
He shivered, and knew she saw it, as close as they were and as intently as she was watching him in return. He ducked his head, denying the feeling, trying to hide the expression of his emotion.
"Why?" he said. And something about the way she evaluated him, sparked a memory of kneeling over Lancelot's injury after the ruins' collapse. "Do you know of any-"
"Samod minum bealucraeft, ic agiefe minum gewealde forlaecedom thaes," she said. "It's a general-healing magic, you probably guessed…"
He looked down at Arthur, damp with fever-sweat and struggling to breathe, bruised and unconscious. The spell would use strength from both of them, essentially speeding the body's normal recovery; Arthur would sleep, and Merlin – might not be able to attempt the transportation spell for a few days. Then again, after that spell, he probably wouldn't be able to use this magic, and they'd be two days from Camelot at least, and maybe as many as four if the weather turned bad. And if Caerleon came after them… Was having Arthur well and strong again worth his weakness. Yes – of course, yes.
"Samod minum bealucraeft…" Merlin repeated the spell, spreading both hands above Arthur's chest.
He felt the magic wash out of him, over and into his king – as Arthur inhaled deeply, the yellows and browns faded and the reds and purples lightened to replace them – resolving into grotesque bands across his chest and belly from the rim of the tub, before the marks healed almost completely.
Arthur stirred, turning slightly on the pillow before relaxing again, the lines of tension in his face smoothing and making him look more like the young prince Merlin had learned to love. Relief drained Merlin so completely that his vision blurred around the edges and he had to lean on his arm so as not to slump onto the bed – or off of it.
"Thank you," he said to Mithian breathlessly, trying to blink or shake clarity back into his eyes.
Then he felt her fingers touch his hair, slide between strands to smooth it back, over and around his ear. And he wanted to catch her hand, rest his cheek in her palm, press a kiss to the pulse in her wrist because he was so glad she was there.
Instead he jerked back, almost unbalancing himself. Don't forget Arthur, and what happened because you wanted and allowed these feelings.
He said roughly, "I haven't washed."
She said – and meant it – "I don't care."
Once, a year and a half ago, Gaius had removed a damaged piece of him before it could infect the rest – and once that part of his finger was gone, his hand had healed, though it had been a long and painful process, and was not without occasional reminders. This, he thought, should be just like that.
"You shouldn't care," he said, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed to Arthur's sleeping face. "Because I can't. I'm sorry – you will never know how sorry I am, but. I can't. I can't do this, I can't marry you. I can't marry anyone, I'm meant to-"
"Merlin, stop," Mithian said. She didn't sound angry – hurt, maybe a little. The bed shifted as she left it, circling behind him – and he jumped when she perched on the edge next to him, by Arthur's knee. "I won't come between you and your king, I don't want to take you from him. I only wish to stand beside you as you serve him."
He shook his head dumbly – and it made him dizzy. And his eyes were blurred again.
"We can speak again when we're safe in Camelot," she added. "There's things that-"
"There's nothing to say," he told her, belatedly realizing that he'd interrupted, and deciding that his rudeness didn't matter. "Nothing more to say. I can't marry you, so we can't continue…"
"Fine, then, I will say what I need to say and you will listen," she said, with mild exasperation. "You owe me that much, I think."
He didn't want to listen. It hurt to listen, to fight with himself – his heart that wanted to take and hold, and his head that said, no, you can't.
She said nothing further, just sat next to him on the edge of the bed. Merlin raised his hand to rub moisture from his eyes, to rub his forehead and the bridge of his nose, and felt himself swaying in place. Slipping down to the ground before he passed out seemed like a good idea; vaguely he felt her hands guiding him. Arm around his shoulders, fingers cupping the side of his face, as he leaned and rested.
And then realized, he hadn't gone to the floor. He was still seated on the side of the bed, his head on Mithian's shoulder, cradled in her arms.
And, damn him, he nuzzled a little further into the side of her neck. Soft, fragrant darkness; he closed his eyes so they would not be tempted to follow the neckline of her nightdress down. He couldn't make himself move away.
She whispered into his hair, brushing it aside so she could find his temple. "I love you."
I can't help it. I love you too.
They might have sat a minute or an hour, before Mithian's inhalation stiffened her frame, drawing Merlin back toward alertness. "What?"
"Gwaine – that's the way he knocked earlier." She shifted like she needed him to move away from her before she could get up to unbolt the door, and it seemed a good idea for him to send a thought of magic across the room to do it for her.
His friend came in, a large swift shape that exclaimed in obscenity and slammed the bolt across the door. "Arthur?"
"He's all right, he's sleeping," Mithian said immediately, and her voice vibrated through her body into his like the thrum of harp-strings. "Merlin healed him, mostly."
"And Merlin?" Gwaine strode closer, and it was easier to focus on him, though he didn't yet lift his head from Mithian's shoulder. The way her arm curved around his back, though, made him think she might resist him if he tried.
"Too much magic," she explained again.
"I said to wait." Gwaine huffed, slapping the backs of his fingers against Merlin's shoulder as he bent over the sleeping king to check for himself; Merlin smelled wine on him. "Be all right in the morning?"
Merlin murmured something that felt like a promise, but probably didn't come out clearly.
"Well, neither of them can travel like this," Gwaine said to Mithian. "If we even had a plan for getting four of us out of here…"
"Dress Arthur as one of Caerleon's," Mithian said. "Get past the gate before they realize, and then run. If we need another day, we can use the sick-wife excuse – or you could even tell Caerleon that you had to whip Merlin, and now we have to wait for him to recover."
Merlin found he could push himself upright, though every inch of him begged for sleep – nerves numb and eyelids dragging. "No one saw me," he told them, slowly so he didn't slur the words. "The timing of our visit to – Arthur's escape. Is coincidental, but we can hide Arthur. And pretend ignorance."
"I hope you're right," Gwaine said. "No one came to alert Caerleon to a missing prisoner, and I'm pretty sure he was headed straight to bed, with a headache to wake up to."
"The guards also," Merlin said. "Though I've no idea if they change shifts during the night…"
"Nothing to be done now but wait," Gwaine decided. "Come on, Merlin, down you go before you fall."
His knees jarred on the floor – he missed the rug that was still underneath Arthur – but Gwaine had caught him with an arm behind, below his shoulders, and his own palms on the stone guided him down to rest.
"You take the other side of the bed," Gwaine said – to Mithian, Merlin presumed as he blissfully allowed his eyes to shut. "I'll get our blankets out of the packs."
Mithian murmured something that sounded like agreement – a moment later she was kneeling beside Merlin, curling her fingers under his neck to coax him to lift his head. He obeyed, and she slid something that was softer padding than their wool blankets under his head.
And when someone spread a covering over him, it was too much, and he surrendered to slumber with a sense of relief and gratitude.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin dreamed of Mithian. Of burying his face in the curls of her hair and breathing in her essence. Of her sighing and gasping softly against his ear, of her arms around him and their bodies twined together and moving in tandem to touch and caress and press closer…
He woke on the stone floor with his head pillowed on her folded cloak, cold and stiff, tears drying on his face.
The sound that had woken him was repeated, a light knock at the door – a sound of servant summoning servant, without disturbing the master. He scrambled out of his blanket, assessing Arthur in an instant – very still and very pale, breathing deeply but still gaunt after his month in Caerleon's dungeon, and he hadn't yet woken to find himself free. Merlin breathed a gentle swefe nu over him, and gestured for the rug to lift from the bed, carrying the slumbering king.
Mithian woke, lifting herself onto her elbow almost immediately – Merlin cautioned her with a finger over his lips as the knock sounded a third time. As he directed the rug down to the floor, and shuffling its precious unconscious burden sideways under the bed, Mithian leaned to hiss toward Gwaine, sleeping on the floor as Merlin had done, at the foot of the bed.
"Gwaine! Get up in the bed!"
Arthur was hidden; Gwaine grunted and stirred. Merlin was on his feet, padding toward the door, watching over his shoulder as the knight, rumpled and barefoot, tumbled into the sheets Mithian yanked open, sprawling like he owned the bed.
Merlin leaned into the wall and unbolted the door, allowing it ajar a few inches. A servant stood there, shabby and disheveled and grimy, as most of them here were. Merlin glanced again over his shoulder as Gwaine let out a snore, and shifted to make himself more comfortable.
"What?" Merlin asked of the servant – and had to stifle a yawn, himself.
"Her Majesty the Queen." The servant seemed both excited and impatient – rushed and inquisitive, even. "Wants your master for breakfast. Quarter of an hour. And you for service."
Nothing suspicious about the request, except that Merlin was suspicious of everyone and everything, in this place and with his king's life and freedom at stake, not to mention Mithian and Gwaine. He pushed the door open still further, so the servant could see inside the chamber – and he did, staring curiously for any detail to share with his comrades in gossip.
"Quarter of an hour?" Merlin said. "But my master was up late with yours, drinking. I try to wake him before noon, he'll have my hide."
"And if you don't, my queen'll have mine – and your master will have her displeasure."
Which was something, Merlin reflected, they had to avoid, given Caerleon's disposition. He sighed, and nodded. "I'll do my best. If the kitchen can send something up for my lady in about an hour?"
The servant nodded, turning to leave. "Someone will come."
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it; Mithian was sitting up in the bed, watching him. As much as he wanted to barricade the four of them in the room until he was able to transport them all out with magic – he knew they had to keep on with the plan for subterfuge. Arthur's sorcerer had rescued him in the night – that had nothing to do with Gwaine or his servant William.
"Gwaine," he said, pushing away from the door. "Get up. We have a quarter-hour til Queen Annis wants us."
"Do you think they know?" Mithian asked, as the knight began to drag himself bodily to alertness.
"They might know Arthur's gone, by now." Merlin had used one of the spare buckets of warm water to wash Arthur the night before, which left one still clean and lukewarm, next to glowing coals in the fireplace.
He decided Mithian could stoke the fire if she wanted to, and instead dipped a double handful of clean water to rub over his face and hands, pushing wet fingers through his hair. He poured about the same amount into a basin on a side table – that left plenty for Mithian to use - before bringing it to Gwaine, who slumped over the side of the bed.
"Where's Arthur?" Gwaine asked, still groggy.
Merlin shoved the basin in Gwaine's hands. "Watch your feet."
Gwaine lifted them as Merlin spoke the spell to pull the rug out from under the bed; Arthur's body rocked gently as he repositioned it, but the king didn't wake.
Mithian crawled to the edge to look down on him. "He looks a lot better," she observed.
Merlin turned away to put on his borrowed tunic and tuck his new boots under the frayed cuffs of the trousers; Gwaine rubbed water over his face with a deep, rough sigh.
"What about you?" Mithian added. "Are you feeling better? Well-rested?"
"I guess I have to be," Merlin said grimly, bringing Gwaine his own brocade tunic and boots from the desk-chair where they'd been draped the night before.
Gwaine abandoned the wash-basin, stepping over Arthur, standing to fit the boots to his feet. Merlin busied his fingers lacing his friend's shirt, helping him into the high-collared tunic, buttoning it and tugging the wrinkles out faster than Gwaine's confused hands could do. When he knelt to adjust Gwaine's trousers over his boots, his friend objected.
"Stop that, Merlin, you don't have to –"
"Yes, I do," Merlin said. "You have to look like I did. Even if you act like a hungover mercenary who knows nothing about anything."
"Hey," Gwaine said, on a yawn. He rubbed his eyes, widened them – then gave Merlin a grin. "All right – you ready?"
Merlin went for the apple bowl – if he was going to be serving breakfast, his own meal would have to wait til after. And he knew from experience, sometimes it was then skipped entirely. Mithian climbed off the bed, around Arthur, and followed Gwaine out of the bedchamber.
"I'll just bar the door, then," she said. "Pretend to be asleep if anyone but you two comes?"
"Probably best," Gwaine agreed. "Do I need my sword?"
"Yes," Merlin said around a mouthful of apple.
At the same time as Mithian answered, "Not for breakfast with the queen."
Gwaine looked between the two of them; Mithian raised her eyebrows to Merlin, uncertain at having her assumption contradicted. He shrugged, swallowed, and crammed more apple into his mouth, turning away.
"I guess it's better if I don't look like I expect trouble, yeah?" Gwaine decided. "If worse comes to worst, we'll need Merlin's magic, anyway." He pulled the door open, and Merlin made to follow obediently on his heels.
"Be careful," Mithian said, as she had the night before.
He looked back at her, barefoot and worried in the middle of the floor, her curls tousled and her night-dress wrinkled-soft, and it felt like a rather large chunk of apple had gotten stuck in his throat. He wanted to smile reassuringly – didn't think he could manage it.
Then Mithian smiled at him, deliberately encouraging.
He loved her so much – all of his heart tried to pound at once, but it was splitting, and it hurt.
"Coming?" Gwaine said, and Merlin closed the door between them.
"What do you think of the queen?" Merlin murmured as he descended the stair at the end of the hall one step behind his friend, deliberately forcing his thoughts away from the woman he'd just left.
"She's smart – smarter than Caerleon. More principled, too, though this is hard country, and I can't imagine life with Caerleon has ever been easy. I'm not sure she loves him, but she respects his position at least, and he does listen to her."
There were more people about, when they reached the foot of the stair and turned deeper into the castle. A couple of female servants, hurried and harried, more warriors passing through, but Merlin couldn't tell if any or all were specially alarmed by the escape of their king's prisoner, or tasked with hunting down the fugitive and his assistants.
Gwaine yawned loudly and stretched casually, greeting a few of them who passed more closely. Merlin stuck to his heels, keeping his head down save for quick, wary glances that told him everything he needed to know about his surroundings.
They came to the dining hall where Merlin had heard them the night before; the table was set for three. Annis – without her wolf-pelt – waited standing, her fingers laced together over her waist, negligently watching a pair of servants unload platters of food from kitchen-trays. One was the unkempt fellow who'd knocked to wake Merlin; he paused beside his queen to murmur in her ear. She listened, head cocked – then dismissed him with a nod that held more meaning for him than Merlin gathered; he left through the door they'd entered by, and closed it behind him. The other servant, a timid middle-aged stick of a woman, bowed herself out the far door.
And it was just the three of them.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," Gwaine said genially, with a slight bow and flourish. "Early morning." His voice held the slight hint of a question.
"Not for me," Annis said briskly. "Have a seat, Gwaine."
Merlin moved when she did, to hold her chair and position the heavy, high-backed thing closer to the table when she seated herself. She accepted the help, though the glance she threw over her shoulder at him was either surprised or wary. He avoided her eyes to circle and claim the only pitcher placed on the table, pouring what looked to be well-watered wine into the queen's goblet first.
And she watched him, as Gwaine settled into his seat. Merlin kept his eyes on his work.
"William, isn't it?" Annis said.
Merlin bowed, saying nothing, and passed behind her to fill Gwaine's cup as well. The far door opened discreetly to admit the unkempt servant again, but he only put his back to the wall and stood still.
Gwaine said, "Will the king be joining us?"
"I don't believe so," Annis said, "he rarely stirs before noon after drinking so much – you must be exceptionally hard-headed, Gwaine."
Gwaine laughed out loud. "It has been said, my lady. May I serve you some of this stewed pear dish?"
"In a moment, perhaps." Annis leaned forward. "William, would you like to join us." Merlin was startled into looking up – her eyes were shrewd, and it made him wary, especially since the other servant didn't bat an eyelash at such an odd request.
"It's not his place," Gwaine objected. Merlin wondered if he felt as uneasy about the unusual turn of conversation, also.
"What is his place, I wonder," the queen mused.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You see," Annis said, dropping her eyes from Merlin and beginning to serve herself a slice of steaming, dripping ham from another platter. "There was an incident last night, with a couple of our men. Two witnesses claim the time to be, while you and your lady were dining here with Caerleon and me. The incident clearly included the use of magic – and I know for a fact no one in this castle is capable of that. Which leaves your servant, doesn't it?"
"But he remained in our –" Gwaine began.
"In your chamber all night. And alone." Annis smiled thinly. "Permit me some sensible doubt. So, William. You have magic?"
It had been a long time since Merlin had to deny. And Annis was clever, but… He shrugged, juggling the pitcher to scratch the back of his head. "Magic, Highness? I don't… I mean I can't… Master?"
"What was this incident?" Gwaine interrupted, beginning to serve himself also, spearing two sausages at once with his fork. "Not a theft, I hope – I warned you about that yesterday, William." He turned to point the empty fork at Merlin – and with his face turned away from Annis, communicated an instant of questioning worry.
What do we do? What can we do?
"A theft of sorts, actually." Annis plied fork and knife on her sliced ham, almost unconcernedly. "We had a prisoner here. A very valuable hostage. I'm told he escaped last night during dinner, with the help of magic."
"A hostage?" Gwaine said, sounding interested, leaning forward over his own plate, with silverware idle in his hands. "Who did you have, Highness?"
Annis put a bite in her mouth, her eyes fixed coolly on Merlin. "The king of Camelot."
"King Arthur? Was your prisoner?" Gwaine's incredulity might have been laid on a bit thick. "But I heard he keeps a sorcerer in his court, now – surely that's how he escaped, if magic was involved? What does that have to do with my servant mending my socks in our quarters during dinner?"
"Perhaps nothing." Annis glanced across the room at her servant – who reached behind him to open the door –
On a warrior who raised a loaded crossbow. Pointed not at Merlin, who might have dodged or ducked behind the table – but at Gwaine. Who surely couldn't move fast enough, in that heavy chair with arms on both sides.
And fired.
Merlin inhaled – and caught the bolt with magic, less than a foot from Gwaine's chest. Gwaine jerked back reflexively – then snatched the quivering bolt and turned toward the queen. Merlin couldn't see his face, but it was rare that the good-natured expression dropped from his friend's countenance. He'd seen it a handful of times, and Gwaine truly furious was a sight to make anyone pause and reconsider.
Annis didn't blink. Satisfaction curled her thin lips. "Or perhaps Arthur's sorcerer has everything to do with your servant William. And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised after all that you'd ally yourself with Camelot, Gwaine."
"What does that –" Gwaine cut himself off. "So what now, Highness?"
Merlin kept one eye on the warrior – who held the crossbow casually, not reloading, nor wheeling to shout for reinforcements. Well-planned, he thought. Controlled.
"I assume Arthur is hiding in your chamber," Annis continued, taking a swallow from her goblet – and now addressing Merlin. "I did mean it when I said he was a valuable hostage – he won't be harmed. And I do respect your loyalty and your daring in trying to rescue him – so much so that I will have the two of you and your lady escorted from our lands without further punishment, if you give your word nothing further underhanded will be attempted."
He held her gaze and believed she meant what she said. But.
"Let's talk about underhanded," Merlin said, setting the jug on the table and straightening his shoulders. Gwaine pushed his chair back a few inches, so he could be out of it in a moment if he had to. "Let's talk about Arthur's treatment while he's been your hostage. Let's talk about torture and privation and untreated illness. No, I'll not leave him here. I will do whatever I must to see my king freed from yours."
Annis was shocked into forgetting her breakfast entirely. "What do you mean, torture?" she demanded.
Before he could answer with an accusation against her husband, Merlin's attention was snatched by the crossbow-wielding guard at the door, alerting to some other disturbance in the hall. He reached for another bolt in the quiver at his belt – Merlin's hand rose to stop him firing again, and Gwaine was on his feet.
"Don't touch it!" Mithian's voice snapped. "Drop the crossbow and step back, or your friend suffers for it."
The guard turned to look a question at his queen, who rose slowly in her place at the head of the table, wearing an intrigued expression and nodding at him to obey. The guard set the crossbow down, pushing the servant to the corner of the room as another of Caerleon's warriors shuffled into view, his own hands empty and aloft.
Behind him, Mithian came into view wearing her white sleeping-gown and handling a loaded crossbow herself, skillfully. She met Merlin's eyes for a moment before he saw the man behind her.
Arthur, backing into the room with someone's drawn sword in hand to cover their rear, wearing Gwaine's extra clothes and no boots. He slammed the door and turned – clean-shaven, shaggy golden hair clean and combed – his mouth grim and stern, his eyes and bones gaunt. But upright and present.
Merlin gave a sigh of relief and smiled.
Before the door behind him banged open, and he whirled to see Caerleon enter, crowded by several of his warriors, ready and eager for battle – all with swords bared in their hands.
"Take the one with the sword alive," Caerleon commanded. "Kill the rest."
A/N: Merlin's healing spell is roughly translated, "Through my magic, I give my strength for this healing."
Also, fair warning. Next chapter is Arthur's pov, and I'm doing a considerable amount of backtracking through the past month before we pick this cliffie back up… Good news is, I probably won't wait a full week before updates, as I'm trying to get this done before November's NaNoWriMo…