Chapter 22: Arthur (2)
"We have company, Majesty," Caerleon informed him. "Two of your knights, come to see for themselves that we have you alive and well, before whoever you left in charge decides to pay your ransom or negotiate… Come along, then."
Caerleon stood aside, reaching to take the crossbow from his warrior, who entered the cell to unlock Arthur's shackles for the first time.
He rubbed his wrists and considered his chances of killing Caerleon right here and now – no, probably not. No matter that it seemed they didn't intend to use a form of torture that wouldn't leave any lasting evidence upon his person, he was too weak from lack of proper nourishment. One fist to the gut would lay him out, right now, and only delay the meeting with his knights.
Caerleon seemed to read his thoughts. Sneering, he turned his back to saunter away, arrogantly confident that Arthur couldn't and therefore wouldn't, attack him.
The warrior nudged him and gestured, and Arthur padded after the king on filthy stockinged feet.
Down the row of cells, around a corner and up a stair that made Arthur's legs ache and his breath spark pain throughout his chest. He was noticeably slower, ascending, than either of the other two men, and wondered if it was entirely a physical effect. At the top of the stair was a little room with a table and a set of backless chairs, an empty weapons rack on the wall. A pile of folded clothing lay next to a pair of boots on the table – and Arthur couldn't quite help startling at the sight of the water-filled washtub on the floor.
Caerleon bared his teeth in a grin. "Wash yourself thoroughly, Majesty. Company for dinner, after all, and you reek like swine."
"Privacy," Arthur demanded, not pointing out that his state of squalor was Caerleon's own fault.
"That's what this is." The king gestured between himself and his guard. "If you're going to be rude about it, I'll call the others. How many attendants do you require, Majesty?"
"Oh, just a few loyal ones," Arthur shot back.
Caerleon stared at him, unamused. Also uncaring – and Arthur knew why. His knights couldn't stay, couldn't take him with them, couldn't even suspect that he needed…
Well, would he have his men besiege Caerleon's castle and die by the dozens, for him?
And he'd already decided that he couldn't feign brokenness and cooperation, for the sake of freedom. So what was there left? Just endurance, maybe.
Ignoring his enemies – mumble, snicker, mock – he stripped to his skin and scrubbed it, scalp to toes. His hair felt a bit long in his fingers as he combed it, smoothing it as best he could. His face bristled with whiskers and his nails could stand with paring, and if they didn't think they could trust him with the sharp implements necessary for those particulars of personal hygiene, he wouldn't beg.
Perhaps his knights could read into the details.
But the clothes were clean, and of fine material that felt uncomfortably delightful on his skin – it bothered him to be thankful for anything Caerleon gave him. The tunic that covered his white shirt was unadorned black, the collar high, the shirt cuffs too tight to shift and betray bruising.
"He's pretty when he's clean, isn't he?" Caerleon jeered coarsely, and his guard muffled a snicker.
Arthur was still buttoning the tunic when a knock sounded on the door. Caerleon nodded to his guard to open it, revealing another turbaned warrior, with a crust of bread balanced on the side of a steaming bowl, and a carved wooden goblet in his other hand. Arthur straightened under the man's glance – though he looked almost immediately to his king for permission to complete his chore – trying to hide the way his stomach twisted on itself with hunger at the rich smell of beef broth. His mouth was salivating involuntarily. Caerleon jerked his head, and the guard deposited the cup and bowl – stew, not just broth – on the table before exiting, leaving the door standing open, as if in invitation, or temptation.
Arthur pretended to be fussing indifferently with his cuffs. "What's that for? I thought I was invited to dinner – proof of wellbeing, and so on."
"Can't let deprivation overcome your manners, can we?" Caerleon returned condescendingly. "Think of it as your own personal opening course."
Arthur dearly wished to wipe the smug look off the other king's face with his knuckles. Instead he kept his gait slow, sauntering to the table. His fingers trembled with the desire to grab and ravage – thick broth soaking fresh bread. He forced his chin up, meeting Caerleon's eyes.
"Is this really the best your kitchen can produce?" he said sardonically. "I think I'll pass." His stomach cramped in protest, but he held his expression even.
Caerleon let out a hoarse laugh, pushing himself up from his perch on the edge of the table. "Not broken yet, by damn. That's good, it means you won't slip up and make killing your knights necessary. Have it your way, Majesty – follow me."
Arthur thought of three ways he could have killed the other king – if he had his full strength and the guard behind him not armed with a crossbow – but still memorized as much of the stronghold as he could see or guess at, along their route. The smells in the air were almost torturous – if he hadn't been assured of partaking in their meal – and he couldn't stop thinking incongruously how clean everything was.
And following on Caerleon's heels into a dining hall – impression of set table and ready chair, other guests including warriors wearing indigo and at least one woman – Arthur was paralyzed at the sight of his two men, struggling not to show the myriad emotions suddenly warring inside him.
Relief. And at the same time, worry because he must not let them suspect the truth; if Caerleon thought they'd guessed – it would mean their lives.
Pride, to see the polished and chainmail and bold scarlet tunics, the gold embroidered dragon he hadn't realized he'd missed til that moment. And a dreadful empty homesickness – he wasn't wearing his own colors, and might never again.
But recognition brought the greatest turmoil. Sir Brenner – well and good, he was level-headed and could be honorably courteous to a monster; he'd have to, tonight. Arthur also thought, he'd take his king's word for the situation, and believe anything he said.
But the other. Ah, hells – Sir Leon.
His keen perception stemmed from genuine concern for Arthur as a friend as well as his king – and he'd be far harder to fool. It made Arthur wonder – dangerously – if it would be possible to send a message of the truth of his situation without Caerleon noticing. But Leon was also his heir, though that was information restricted to the two of them, and the council. If anything happened to Leon while Arthur was captive, Camelot would be leaderless and vulnerable – internal warfare probably inevitable as the lords and knights quarreled over who else they'd swear allegiance to as king. And if the kingdom didn't split, it would be helpless before any invasion – and meanwhile the people suffered the very real effects of destabilization.
"My lord!" Leon exclaimed immediately.
And Sir Brenner, at the same time, "Sire! Are you all right?"
Arthur couldn't move; they began to come to him, and he panicked to think they would begin to discover, and to question. Bruises, strength decreased, muscle weight lost – maybe even the desperation he felt visible in his eyes.
"Ah!" Caerleon warned sharply.
Both knights halted as if they'd been given instructions on allowed behavior beforehand. Then returned their attention from their host to Arthur.
"You are all right, sire, aren't you?" Leon questioned.
"I wasn't injured when I was taken," Arthur said. Deliberately raising his chin and adopting a certain attitude from his youth, when facing his father for displeased scrutiny and censure. Royal arrogance allowed for little else to show.
Leon moved his eyes to Caerleon, and back again. "And now?" They weren't close enough to speak without being overheard – a precaution Caerleon had undoubtedly required for the meeting.
Arthur pasted a sarcastic half-smile on. "It would be rude to complain in front of my hostess."
The tension at Leon's eyes eased, as if Arthur's attitude reassured him. Caerleon snorted, and a woman said, "Sir Knights, my lord Kings – dinner is served. Would it please you to be seated?"
Leon tried to catch Arthur' eye as they moved for the table, but Arthur didn't allow it, even though both his knights were placed across from him. He didn't want Leon to wonder at his reaction to the sight of the table – platters piled high with food steaming and aromatic – dishes and silverware and damn, everything was so clean.
He distracted himself by surreptitiously studying Caerleon's queen. Annis, though they hadn't been formally introduced. She was sharp, though not ungracious; their position as his hostage-holders gave her confidence in the situation, though that was probably not lacking, else. She had the poise of a consummate hostess and the manner of a queen; Arthur almost respected her, and couldn't help wondering what her husband had told her of his care.
It didn't matter, probably. Unlikely that she'd wield any real authority to challenge his successfully.
Annis led the conversation skillfully, touching on mild and common topics like the weather and the condition of the roads. She asked general questions about Camelot, and Brenner left the responses to Leon, who gave away nothing significant, but was distracted in that duty, from his inspection of his king.
Arthur focused on his fork and knife, cutting deliberately and chewing slowly and keeping his eyes down, though he felt both his men watching him periodically. The knowledge that Leon at least would almost certainly deal with Caerleon, maybe Annis also, after he was removed from the room, was like an itch between his shoulder-blades where he couldn't scratch.
Now that you've seen for yourself… what is Camelot's response to our demands.
Negotiation that concerned Arthur intimately, which he would not be part of. No, he'd be returned to… He repressed that thought, so emotion wouldn't overflow, dragging Brenner and Leon down with him.
And then his plate was empty – he forced himself to stop scraping it and licking his silverware – and the food being removed by servants out of the room's single back door. His stomach was almost uncomfortably full, though he hadn't eaten more than he would have at dinner in Camelot, and inclined to cramp in the confusion of so much and so rich, after so little. He stood when the others stood, trying with all his strength to betray no reluctance.
"You must be tired from your journey," Annis was saying to the two knights of Camelot. "And of course you'll want to start upon your return as soon as possible in the morning. I will have wine sent to your room, and bid you good evening, now."
Both Brenner and Leon bowed and murmured properly. Caerleon and two of his warriors moved toward Arthur – who avoided looking at the other king.
"My lord?" Leon said softly; the table was still between them. Arthur lifted his head but couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Have you any message for anyone in Camelot, that I could carry?"
Arthur could hardly breathe around the lump in his throat. Anyone in Camelot… Fewer friends now, than last season, and he couldn't possibly say anything as obvious as Send for Merlin, or anything as suspicious as, Tell my manservant. Or anything as private as, Give Guinevere my love…
Instead he shook his head – and then connected his gaze to Leon's. "Your strength is mine," he said.
There was an uncertain wrinkle between his friend's brows, but he bowed, understanding what Arthur meant. Give them nothing.
Arthur barely heard Caerleon's more brusque leave-taking of his guests, as he was herded back the way they'd come, with increasing roughness, once they were out of sight of the dining hall. And he denied the urge to look over his shoulder for one last glimpse, if his knights had stepped to the hall to watch him being taken away.
Down the first stair, and through the door to the little guard-room. Where he was ordered to strip off the clothing he'd been given.
"You don't want your borrowed finery ruined, do you?" Caerleon drawled.
Arthur bit his tongue on desperate and ill-advised rudeness. They could force him, after all.
He was given only his trousers back – filthy and worn toward ragged. Apparently his shirt had gone missing in his absence; Caerleon mockingly promised to search for the thief and have the garment returned, if Arthur valued it. He didn't bother mentioning socks, choosing instead to remain silent. He also kept his chin up and his eyes level, so he couldn't see the bruising on his chest that ached every time he breathed.
His bare feet slid in the damp grime, down the second flight of stone steps, and just that quickly, the comfort of cleanliness was gone as surely as the comfort of adequate clothing. He was marched to his cell, where he didn't bother resisting the guard who shackled him to the wall once again with the cuffs padded so they would leave no marks.
Caerleon intended, Arthur knew, to scar and deform his heart and soul and spirit so thoroughly he need never fear Arthur revealing this torture – and no one could ever prove it, then.
Arthur twisted his arms and the chains that held them around so he could face Caerleon, lounging in the open doorway of the cell. "If you named a sum, Camelot would pay you. If you met me under truce, I would treat with you as an equal. But–"
"As an equal," Caerleon snarled, his sarcasm slipping to something more like genuine malice. "Treaties, and pretty words all twisted round, from a snot-nosed boy with clean hands and fancy clothes, who believes he's better than me. Ha! – no. I will prove to you that you are less than nothing, and when I'm finished, you will thank me for allowing you to swear yourself and your kingdom as my vassal."
Arthur was furious. And maybe a little terrified. But he glared at Caerleon and said deliberately, "Don't hold your breath."
Caerleon straightened from his slouch, and the malice was lessened by surprise. "I could almost like you for that. If I'd ever had a son –"
"Shut up," Arthur said. "You are nothing like my father." Reflexively; he wouldn't allow himself to examine comparisons too closely.
"Maybe not," Caerleon mused. Then turned as the sound of footsteps caught Arthur's ear.
And two warriors moved into view, carrying a washtub between them by the rope handles, heavy and sloshing.
Arthur's throat closed as his heart rose into it – and he didn't even realize he'd moved til his bare back hit the cold slime of the stone wall. And he didn't move away, but pressed into it.
For the love of… Camelot. Not even a day. Not even an hour.
In spite of his initial physical reaction, Arthur fought when the two warriors reached for him. He fought as his knees were kicked out from under him, and his bruises bent over the tub's rim. He fought as his head was lowered to the water.
"Camelot is mine," he heard Caerleon say, over his panting grunts of breath, kicking and struggling. "The sooner you accept that –"
Arthur closed his eyes and held what breath was in his lungs as his face plunged into the water, up to his neck. As a new line of bruising pressure slanted across his ribs. As his toenails broke and tore on the stone of the floor.
No, it isn't. And it isn't mine, either.
Camelot wasn't his to give away, to subject to another sovereign's rule. It was only his to serve, by his life or by his death.
They held him down til he thought his lungs would burst. They gave him three breaths, and did it again.
He vomited his full fine dinner onto the water-splashed floor – and nearly choked when they submerged him immediately. He vomited bile when they let him up – and they washed his face for him again, plunging his head into the tub til his strength was gone and they had to yank him up and out by his hair, dropping him to swing bonelessly by his chained arms.
"Care to sign the treaty, now?" Caerleon said nonchalantly, moving out of the doorway as his men retreated with the half-emptied tub. "You could return home with your knights in the morning…"
Arthur's breath rattled around the droplets in his throat, in his lungs. "Go to hell."
Caerleon grinned. "I'll see you there tomorrow."
Arthur's body heaved for air; his ears rang and his eyes blurred, and it was some time before he could move even sluggishly to ease the strain on his arms in lying nearer the back wall. Which was all right; it kept him out of the vomit on the floor.
He hugged his chest and thought how Brenner and Leon were still there – maybe still awake. And they might as well have been in Camelot.
He hoped that Leon would protect the borders – but not risk the army invading Caerleon to avenge him; he doubted this castle could be taken easily, without significant loss of life. He hoped the council would not treat with this king who had broken the faith of their kingdoms and fathers. He hoped his knights would follow and support Leon wholeheartedly.
He was glad that Lancelot had Lady Alayna, but Gwen now had no one to turn to for comfort and hope; he squeezed his cold arms tighter to his aching chest and couldn't deny the hot tears that stung his eyes. He would never relent. Which meant Caerleon would never let him go. And with escape impossible, he was dead already.
And Arthur dreamed of the one chance he had, that he couldn't allow himself to contemplate awake.
Arthur dreamed of Merlin.
He dreamed of his sorcerer alighting atop the castle's highest tower, and beginning to dig through the heavy dark stone with his bare hands – like a child who's buried a treasure at the bottom of a play castle made of sand or mud or blocks of wood – tossing great chunks far to the sides. And people like ants scurrying and screaming, crushed beneath pieces of their home or smeared across the stone when the destroyer shifted position.
Caerleon and his two warriors – the same two? it didn't matter – came again. Lights, footsteps, water splashing on stone. The scroll from Caerleon's pocket.
And Arthur had to say no. He wouldn't allow himself any other choice.
He dreamed of a roaring earthquake. The ground rolling and shuddering, hard enough to fling him into the air. The stones of the fortress popped loose; the bars clanged against each other like a dropped rack of spears. Metal shrieked and twisted as the castle was slowly disemboweled. He saw daylight and a figure striding toward him, lightly through the rubble, stepping on stones that lay on top of people – stepping on the people. Once crunching someone's skull under his boot like a careless farm-maid stepping on an unclaimed egg. He drew near, and smiled as he bent to reach for Arthur's hand – his eyes smoldered with bronze fire. It was Merlin.
A guard brought him bread.
Sometimes he was awake. Sometimes he was sitting up. He didn't bother to stand, though; there was no point.
Three pairs of footsteps. Arthur ignored Caerleon. He struggled, or he didn't, but every time, he fought to hold his breath and not drown. Maybe it was pride.
He dreamed that the walls rippled in a wave of heat. The faint candlelight burned higher and hotter til the iron of his bars dripped like icicles on a sunny afternoon. And Merlin wafted to him unconcerned that the fortress flowed liquid away from them – far miles in every direction, a lake of glowing death leaving no survivors. His friend's heart and soul was hard as diamond, hot as a forge, even as he appeared childishly satisfied with himself, pleased to have gotten his way with this devastating magic, to have rescued his king as he claimed his destiny.
Arthur shivered until he wasn't aware of the cold anymore, and didn't care about his constant lethargy, and only vaguely noted the way the water seemed to remain in his lungs, turning them soggy in a way that made him cough whenever he breathed too deeply. He thought of Gaius.
And when he was more alert, he sometimes wondered what would happen in Camelot when he died.
He dreamed that all sensation fell away from him, and he rose to standing in the cell, looking down upon his own curled, shackled corpse. He heard a frantic, indistinct shouting and looked up to see his lanky black-haired friend tearing down the aisle between cells, Caerleon's men in pursuit. Merlin yanked the bars right out of the stone, tossing them carelessly backward – the warriors ducked and scrambled – and darting into the cell. Falling to knees and searching and searching, for signs of life. Fingers digging into the corpse's wrist, then neck; Merlin lifting the body's chest in his arms to press his ear to a silent heart. Merlin's face upturned, weeping – then screaming, too late. And the force of his scream was a gale that scoured the earth from horizon to horizon, down to stained and porous bedrock. Arthur watched, helpless to intervene.
One set of footsteps meant bread. Three sets of footsteps meant water.
In the haze between consciousness and oblivion, Arthur was not sure whether to hope that Merlin would finally come, or not. He was not afraid of Merlin, he never had been. But rather, he was afraid for Merlin…
He dreamed that Caerleon's two warriors hauled him up by his arms, and the chains were gone, but he was too weak to raise his hands to any effective defense. They dragged him forward – and the stairs led to a cobbled courtyard. Blinded by sunlight, he didn't see the pyre bristling dead-wood til he was nearly upon it. Terror froze his breath in his chest as he was thrust upon the waiting bonfire – and he almost didn't notice Merlin standing beyond, separate from a faceless crowd. Dressed in a long black robe, arms crossed over his chest and face impassive as marble. Arthur tried to call to him, but couldn't breathe. He was cold, but smoke began to curl in his chest, filling his lungs, and he understood. He'd failed destiny, he'd outlived his usefulness…
Just before his eyes went dark, he saw Merlin break from his pose to rush forward. Arms outstretched, face pale and eyes dark with desperate worry, the kind that came from unshakable loyalty and abiding love. Arthur struggled, determined that Merlin would not join him on the pyre again, but the feel of his friend's arms encircling his ribs would not be denied…
And even when that sensation turned into the rim of the washtub and the smoke of his execution became water cold and turbulent around his ears, he felt Merlin's presence. Representative of all his people. Hold on a little while longer…
He blinked and tried to focus on Caerleon, tried to hold his resolve as terror scrabbled at his grip. "No," he said, as firmly as he could. And repeated, "No, no, no –"
Water blinded him and filled his nostrils, and he fought.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur dreamed again, of a thick padding beneath his body, protecting him from the stone of the floor. Of his wrists free and cool and light, of clothes and blankets covering him.
He opened his eyes and tasted apples, and didn't know where he was.
A room the size of his own in the citadel in Camelot - nearly impossible to recall but coming back to him with the reminder of his current surroundings – similarly furnished, but darker, and different. There was nothing he recognized as familiar, even as his mind defined the objects around him… and he seemed to be lying on the floor.
Why would he dream himself into unfamiliar surroundings – and then next to the bed that towered above him, making his eyes blur with vast expanses of clean sun-bleached linen, a luxury that seemed so foreign to him, now.
But his lungs felt clean of gummy fluid, and his head wasn't foggy. He couldn't smell anything foul, not himself nor his surroundings.
The mattress moved and the bedclothes rustled, and a wealth of black curls cascaded into his vision. He searched eagerly – but instead of Guinevere's round sun-kissed cheeks, he found a narrower face with much paler skin. Arthur blinked and recognized Princess Mithian of Nemeth, who was smiling and twisting her hair back behind her neck.
"I'm dreaming," he whispered, not trying to move – in case it would jolt him back to the cold damp stone and iron of his cell.
"No, you've just woken up," Mithian said. She moved back from him; he watched her leave the bed and circle to his side, kneeling down to lay the backs of her fingers against his cheek and forehead. She seemed to be wearing her nightgown.
Arthur closed his eyes and swallowed hard against a sudden lump, accompanied by a prickling sensation in his nose and behind his eyelids. The touch was too gentle; her femininity was too sympathetic. He felt closer to breaking now than he had since Caerleon had caught him in the gorge – if this was a trick or hallucination –
"I'm dead, then?" he suggested hopefully, his voice still feeling husky in his throat. Past breaking, past worrying how Caerleon might use him against his kingdom.
"No – Your Highness, no." She sounded near tears herself – and drops rolled down his temples as he opened his eyes to look at her again. She was still smiling widely, happily – but her eyes shone with the emotion he heard in her voice. "I came here with Merlin and Gwaine. Since your council and Sir Leon couldn't –"
He couldn't quite believe they'd actually negotiated a release. He wasn't sure he wanted to allow himself to contemplate rescue. But…
"This is real," he interrupted, not sure if he was trying to convince himself, or begging her to do it. He dug his fingertips into the surface beneath him, the woven fibers of a rug. "This is real…"
"Merlin found you in the cells last night, and brought you out," Mithian told him, and there was a subtle note of pride in the saying of his name that Arthur decided to think about later. "He used some healing magic on you – how do you feel?"
Arthur breathed deep – and clear. There was no sticky tightness within his chest, no painful ache of bruising without. He brought his hands together and rubbed his wrists simultaneously; the twinge of his bones was faint and healing. And his hands were clean. All of him was clean.
He was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by emotion. Relief, and gratitude, but he couldn't hold it to a calm expression. His heart expanded, squeezing his lungs – he gasped to suppress the sobs that threatened, and couldn't quite. It had been far too long an ordeal to be shrugged off with a sardonic grin and an offhand quip – but because he was still him, he had to roll to his back, away from Mithian, and crush his fists against his face. Pressing to his forehead, covering his eyes, he finally let the tension release, and when he felt Mithian's hand rubbing his back soothingly, it helped to pull him back from the despair of torture, and the guilt he felt now at the hopelessness he'd felt then.
Knuckling away the last of the moisture from his eyes, he cleared his throat and breathed twice, trying to think like a free man… and a warrior… and a king, again. It didn't come easily.
He said, "So – Gwaine. And Merlin. And you?"
Mithian's hand retreated. "Sir Leon sent Sir Elyan to Gawant, I think? And Gwaine came for Merlin…"
Arthur loosened his muscles and rolled to his back again, keeping one wrist over his eyes. He had been reminded, forcibly and repeatedly, how very worthless he was – he was deeply and fervently grateful for men like these. Leon who knew, and Gwaine and Merlin who risked.
"How long have I been here?" he said into the darkness, pressing his wrist-bone into the bridge of his nose.
"A month," she answered. "Give or take."
He tried the muscles of his chest and stomach, and they contracted obediently to bring him to sitting. He was… maybe not quite three-quarters strength, he thought – but all of him worked properly. Leaning forward over slightly bent knees, he looked sideways at Mithian, propped up on one hand with her legs curled under the full white skirt of her nightdress.
A month he'd been away… a month Gwaine had spent as a new husband and lord; a month Merlin had been in Nemeth. It seemed years ago since they'd received word of Merlin's intent to remain there for the winter – and he cringed to remember his eagerness for one last campaign, to deal with bandits on the border as a relief from the looming boredom of the coldest season. If it had been bandits, and not King Caerleon and his warriors, he'd probably have been fine.
"Are we still in Caerleon's fortress?" he asked. There was nothing in her manner that indicated danger or haste, but –
"Merlin doesn't yet have the strength of magic to transport all of us out," she explained. "He said no one saw you two last night, but –"
Arthur understood. Of course his escape would not go unnoticed, and the king and his castle of warriors would react. It struck him, how odd for the two of them, royalty both, to be sitting on the floor in nightwear – but Mithian seemed perfectly comfortable. On the floor, in her nightdress, in an enemy stronghold.
"Where are Merlin and Gwaine now?" he asked.
"At breakfast with Queen Annis. Yesterday when we arrived Gwaine claimed to be searching for permanent patronage, and Caerleon's supposed to be giving him his trials today. It sounded like the queen wanted to talk to Gwaine without her husband present, and asked Merlin to serve."
"They haven't sounded an alarm for my escape yet?" he said.
"No – Merlin and Gwaine think they can play it off as having nothing to do with us. Since Camelot has a sorcerer who can do anything with magic." Her eyes crinkled prettily when she smiled, and Arthur snorted.
"What's…" He turned to get his knees under him, held onto the side of the bed to get on his feet. "The plan for getting out of here? Besides waiting on Merlin to risk the insane kind of magic transporting four of us would take?"
"It depends on you." Mithian rose more gracefully, watching him gain his balance. "If Gwaine can fail his trials without arousing suspicion, we'll probably be told to leave. And if we dress you as one of Caerleon's warriors – some of them cover their faces – you can pretend to be escorting us outside the walls, and –"
"Leap onto a horse and ride?" Arthur said. "And then just outrun them?"
He located a basin of water on a small table next to a bucket and a crumpled towel, and he was thankful to be able to share wash-water with his loyal friends. He made it across the room with his balance intact, though his knees felt like jelly, and blood pounded unpleasantly in his head.
Mithian followed. "Merlin can probably hold off any pursuit, don't you think? with magic?"
He glanced at her – there was that tone again - before he wet the towel in the water and scrubbed it over his face. "Are you and Merlin betrothed now?"
She blushed and looked down, playing with a bit of ribbon loose at her waist, before crossing her arms over her chest in an unconsciously self-defensive attitude. "We were going to do it according to his customs. And he'd asked my father's blessing, the day before – the day before we left. But now…"
"But now?" Arthur dropped the towel and began a series of stretches, feeling for balance in movement, and the new limits of his reduced strength. He watched Mithian turn away, as if seeking a distraction; she noticed and retrieved a rather wizened apple from a bowl on a side table, and handed it to him.
"The kitchen was going to send a tray for me," she said, not meeting his eyes. "But for now, this is all we've got – sorry."
"It's fine." He probably couldn't handle a big meal, anyway.
Biting into the wrinkled skin, Arthur finished the out-of-season fruit in three bites, moving back to the bedchamber to scan for – one of those bags was Gwaine's and one was Merlin's, he expected, steadying himself to bend over without getting dizzy. Gwaine's would have a comb – yes, this was the knight's – and Merlin's would have implements he could borrow to shave… though it looked like his one-time servant had neglected them for a couple of days, at least, still packed all the way at the bottom.
He moved for the basin and soap and mirror; Caerleon's warriors mostly went unshaven and long-haired, but if he was going to wrap his face in disguise anyway, he wanted to feel like himself, at least. Lathering his chin and beginning to scrape, he glanced at Mithian's reflection, beside his own and several paces back.
"You were saying – but now?"
"Merlin is different. He's changed, he's…" She looked at him, troubled and hesitant, and he couldn't help thinking of his dreams, like feverish memories.
"He's different how?" Arthur added. Hesitated, then ventured, "Vengeful?"
It was not a word he'd associate with his young friend. He'd seen Merlin face Morgause, and the Fisher King with confidence. He'd been quietly determined talking to an ignorant Arthur about dragons and eggs and tombs – he'd hidden the burn on his arm where he'd been set on fire after Arthur's coronation banquet and he'd forgiven the sorceress who'd enchanted his mind for a week in favor of calling her cousin. He always forgave, when it came to insults to him…
"No," Mithian hedged. "I'd say – focused, which is entirely appropriate, right now. But I'm afraid he's changed his mind about marriage, and I… don't think I can change it back."
Arthur turned to look at her, wiping his chin on the towel. A princess, and probably too proud to beg outright or wheedle seductively; he shook his head – such odd thoughts to have in regard to his skinny clumsy former-servant. Not so much, he reminded himself, in regard to a confident, powerful sorcerer… And if he'd wondered, a few months ago, whether Merlin's loyalty to him would shift when a woman was involved – now he had his answer. And he wasn't sure he liked it, if such tenaciously focused loyalty led Merlin to the sort of actions Arthur had feared in his nightmares…
He said to her, "You love him."
She met his eyes, grave and regal, tears brimming but not falling from her own, and Arthur sighed.
"Then don't give up hope. If it's one thing I've learned since…" It was harder than he expected, to think back before his imprisonment; it had begun to feel like his whole life was bounded by that cell. "Anyway, love is funny like that. More powerful than magic, I sometimes think. And things can turn out better than –"
A quick double-knock sounded on the chamber door; both of them startled, and Arthur was not reassured when Mithian remained tense. She motioned a suggestion for him to hide himself behind the dressing screen, and said aloud, "Yes? Who's there?"
"Kitchen servant with breakfast?"
Arthur slipped behind the dressing screen – flinching involuntarily to find a full tub of water, before catching and controlling himself. He positioned himself close behind the chamber door that would open the other direction, still able to step into concealment if the servant entered instead of handing the tray to Mithian. She glanced at him, reaching for the bolt – he nodded, and she drew it back, opening the door.
The look on her face was immediate warning, something was wrong. Surprise turned to wariness; she tried to hold the door from opening further with her body, though she was slender and light and barefoot.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "You lied to me!"
"Queen's orders," said an unfamiliar voice – with the hard note of a soldier, rather than a servant. "We know you're concealing a prisoner in this chamber – let go of the door and move out of the way."
A/N: Yep, another cliffie. Sorry-not sorry.