A/N: **PLEASE READ** Okay, so this one was one of my ideas- it's been done by other authors before, I know, but I wanted to try my hand at it. It wasn't requested, but I still had a lot of fun with it. Too much fun, as it turns out. It sort of got away from me- the finished version was 11,000+ words (that's 27 pages on Word)! I wrote it for this collection, but 27 pages felt like too much to put in a collection of drabbles. For me, that's a lot of writing, especially for a one-shot.

So, I compromised. I posted half of it on here. It's still over three times as long as usual, but it's a more manageable read. HOWEVER, if you do want to read the full version, I have posted that as well. It's uploaded as its own short story (titled "Resemblances to Truth", same as on here). If you don't want to read something that long, don't worry. I ended this bit at a reasonable spot, so there's no cliffhanger. If you want, you can read just this part and still get a satisfying story from it.

That's all, happy reading!

Quick Info: AU meeting between Arthur and Merlin where Merlin was captured as a child and grew up in the dungeons. Uther is king, Morgana is still good, and Gwen isn't Queen yet.

Drabble 15- Resemblances to Truth

Growing up, Arthur had always had one magic- wait, no not magic. Scratch that, he didn't want to end up dead. Growing up, Arthur had always had one golden rule: magic was evil, and thus the dungeons were unfit for the young prince to explore. His father had always told him gravely that he must stay away from the cells below, which held a number of magical foes and their horrible instruments of destruction.

Arthur had always listened, his father's son through and through. So when as a teenager on the brink of adulthood he finally did go to said dungeons- well, you can imagine it was a shock for him.

Merlin had had one golden rule growing up as well: hide your magic. It was thought to be evil, his parents had warned him, and he'd been told to avoid and fear the crown. Merlin had listened for the most part; he had a few slip ups here and there, but fear of the pyre made a good child of him.

Until.

Well.

Life has a way of ensuring it cannot be planned through, so it was unavoidable that Merlin's secret was to be found out. By the age of ten, he'd found himself locked away in the dungeons, kept alive only as a secret weapon for the king who despised him. If he'd not been called Emrys, they'd have called him dead.

He'd stayed there, unable to escape, for seven long years. Then the prince came to visit and- well, you can imagine it was a shock for Merlin, too.

"Sire, are you sure you have to go alone?" Leon asked again, brows furrowed as he followed the prince.

Arthur didn't waver- in fact, his pace seemed to increase as he walked briskly down the stone hallways. And yet, he didn't reprimand the knight for persisting in his question. Leon never disobeyed the crown, so the fact he even dared to doubt Arthur's current destination showed he was truly worried.

"My father was very clear, Sir Leon. Only the crown goes beyond the first floor of cells."

"But sir-" this time it was another knight, Percival, who hesitantly spoke up- "You've heard the rumors, too. And sending you alone without a clear mission seems… unwise."

At this, Arthur didn't comment at all, besides to dismiss his two followers a little waspishly. Percival was right on one point; the sudden request from the king had been a surprise. But the prince had been given information that the knights had not, so he tried to focus on that and not the duo's uncomfortably accurate complaints.

"Sire." The prince started, thinking his knights had returned, before realizing it was just the guards saluting him. He'd reached the dungeon entrance.

Said guards must have known he was coming, because they opened the doorway for him immediately.

"Sire," echoed one guard again, looking up at Arthur from the thin slit in his helmet. "Watch your step down there, my liege. They're dangerous."

"I know," Arthur replied shortly. He suddenly felt irritated by all of the concerns, despite sharing most of them. Did people really think he was so incompetent? "Let me pass."

The guard obliged with a bob of his head, and the prince found himself descending down the dungeon stairs. The difference from the upper levels of the palace was stark. The stairs were uneven and twice the royal almost lost his footing. The torches flickered in the damp air, and the very walls reeked of mildew and rot. Faintly, Arthur could hear the drip of water from unlocated leaks. It reminded the prince of ancient ruins; uncared for and ominous.

All too soon, he'd reached the first level of cells. It was for the non-magical, "normal" criminals, but it still made the hair on the back of Arthur's neck stand up. For petty thieves and debtors, the ragged group looked surprisingly threatening from behind bars. Not for the first time, Arthur wished he'd been permitted to bring his knights. His single sword didn't feel like adequate protection.

You're being ridiculous, he scolded himself. They're already captured. If they could escape, they would have. Get over it. Still, his pace quickened slightly as he hurried to the next flight of stairs.

The second level was much like the first appearance-wise, but the air felt heavier to the prince with the knowledge that all of the convicted there were guilty of magic. A crime worse than murder, his father would say. Similarly to the first floor, Arthur didn't loiter.

At the entrance to the third and final floor, Arthur paused. It was the only floor that had an additional door, and the iron key seemed to grow heavier in the prince's pocket as he stared at the hard wood. What had his father said? The door is five feet thick and iron reinforced, so you don't need to worry. You'll be perfectly safe. Even with the door, the criminal is still behind bars. No need to look so concerned.

With a deep breath, Arthur inserted the lock and pushed the door open. It was surprisingly heavy and made a dry, scratching noise as it was dragged across the gritty stone.

Entering the room, Arthur got his first good look at the prisoner. His father hadn't lied; a line of bars still separated the two men (not that the blonde was complaining). Behind the bars, Arthur could see a thin body leaning limply against the far wall. The man's bony hands were chained at head-height, but because of his slumped posture they stretched above him. His clothes were dirty and torn, and even from the doorway Arthur could see splattered red across the manacles. Faintly he wondered if the blood was from escape attempts- the thought was unsettling.

The noise from the door seemed to wake the man and he lifted his head, blinking blearily at the prince. His face was as thin as the rest of him, making his cheekbones protrude and his blue eyes seem large despite how he squinted at Arthur. His black hair was messy, but not long, and he had no beard, so the prince knew he'd received some care. Or maybe the guards had just cleaned him up a little bit for the royal's visit; actually, looking at the criminal, the latter seemed more likely.

"Hello," Arthur said finally. It seemed like a dumb way to begin, but if the prisoner shared the opinion, he didn't show it.

"Hello," he said finally, his voice dry from disuse and dehydration. Shifting his weight, he climbed to his feet so he fully faced Arthur, although he still leaned on the wall for support. "You must be Prince Arthur."

"You knew I was coming." It wasn't a question. There was no other way for the criminal to recognize him.

"Yes," the man admitted. "The guards seem to think you're here to kill me and they didn't mind telling me so."

"And you're not worried that that's true?" Arthur asked, raising both eyebrows. "You're a criminal, I'd be justified. Maybe that is what I'm here for."

"Gods, I hope so." Arthur paused, trying to see if the man was lying, but he looked serious. "But you're not, are you? If you were you wouldn't talk to me. You'd just do it."

"You want to die?" The prince asked cautiously.

"Wouldn't you?" the prisoner fired back, and then seemed to deflate. "Just get on with whatever you're here for, Arthur."

"That's Prince Arthur to you," the royal snapped, ruffled. Privately, he found the other man unsettling, but he wasn't about to show it.

"What does it matter?" He asked, rolling his eyes. "Will calling you 'prince' change my situation in any way?"

Arthur decided to ignore him on that point. "I'm here for information, actually. I'm going to give you the opportunity to tell me on your own, or I'll force it from you. Your choice." The prince had no intention of whipping the man, criminal or no, but he kept that to himself. Besides, if the man didn't cooperate, Arthur knew the Captain of the Guard would have no such reservations keeping his hand from the whip, so it wasn't really a lie.

"Why you, though?" The man asked. Arthur couldn't hide his surprise quickly enough; threatened and captured, and that was the question he asked?

"What do you-?"

"No, really," the criminal interrupted. Arthur bristled again at being interrupted, but his companion either didn't notice or didn't care. "It's always been your father before. Why you now?"

"I'm eighteen, I can handle you myself," the royal snapped. Oddly enough, that made the man smile. No, not smile, beam. Arthur blinked in surprise, thrown off by the sudden change in mood.

"You're eighteen? I'm seventeen- at least, I think I am. Near there, anyway. I've never met anyone so close to my age before. Most of the guards are at least thirty," he babbled, still grinning.

"You think I care?" Arthur snapped, trying to ignore that the man didn't know his own age and never had any company. It wasn't completely unheard of for guards to grudgingly befriend some of the more long-lasting prisoners, but it seemed this one had had no such luck despite his weirdly cheerful demeanor. No sympathy. He's a monster. A monster, understand? He thought to himself, steeling his mind. He didn't notice that he was quoting his father.

The prisoner didn't reply, but the smile didn't quite leave his eyes, either.

"I need information about the Druids," Arthur continued. That wiped the smile from the other's face.

"Oh," was all he said.

"I need to know fighting techniques, military locations, and of any secret weapons," the prince carried on. Across from him, the prisoner seemed to sag.

"You're waging war on the Druids?" He asked finally, not looking Arthur in the eye. Maybe the action was supposed to guilt the prince, but Arthur found it was easier to talk to him when he wasn't looking directly at him, anyway.

"Of course not," he scoffed. "They're waging war on us."

"They're peaceful."

"You must have a different definition of 'peaceful'."

"They don't fight, Arthur." The conviction in his voice was hard to argue with, but the prince was not a quitter.

"Then they've changed. Go on then, tell me." Arthur was determined not to let the criminal change the subject.

"I don't know," the man shrugged- or, at least, he tried to. He seemed to have a shoulder injury, because he immediately stopped like the action pained him.

"How can you 'not know'?" Arthur demanded. "You're Emrys. You're practically their king!"

"I am not," Emrys snapped. "They don't have a king. And don't call me Emrys."

"That's your name, idiot," the prince hissed. This man was crazy, Arthur decided.

"My name is Merlin," Emrys argued. "And how could I possibly know? I've been locked up in here! Do I look like I get bloody Druid visitors?" The sorcerer demanded, resent practically dripping from his voice for the first time.

"Remember what I told you about not cooperating," Arthur warned coldly, crossing his arms.

"You're just like your father," Emrys spat, like it was the worst insult he could think of. "I don't know."

"Fine!" Arthur cried back. "But don't blame me when you get beaten!" On that note he stormed out; or at least, he would've. He had to close the door, which took a moment and completely ruined the exit.

By the time Arthur reached the throne room, his temper had cooled. He couldn't believe he'd allowed some sorcerer to get him all riled up, but now all he felt was regret. He was going back to his father empty handed- at the thought, a fresh wave of shame washed over him.

Entering the throne room, Arthur found his father right where he said he'd be; on the throne, alone. Crossing the floor, Arthur felt like he was shedding years the closer he got, until he felt like a small boy about to apologize to a disappointed parent for disobedience.

"Well?" Uther asked. He seemed not to notice his son's somber mood.

"I'm sorry, Father. The prisoner refused to cooperate," Arthur admitted, his head dipped in shame.

"He never does," Uther agreed, waving away the apology easily. "I meant what did you think? Was he more responsive to someone his own age?"

"Wait, what?" Arthur spluttered, his head snapping up to gape at his father. "You're not upset?"

"With him, yes. With you, no," Uther clarified, giving his son a rare smile. "He rarely offers any useful information, Arthur. I would have been stunned if he'd actually been honest with you."

"Oh," the prince replied blankly. He felt completely blindsided, like someone had pulled a rug from out under his feet. He hadn't been expected to get the information after all? "Then what was the point?"

"The point was for you to meet him. I want your opinion," Uther explained, standing up to pace in front of his throne. "How much do you think he knows?"

"I think…" Arthur paused, replaying their conversation in his head. "I think he really doesn't know. He believes the Druids are peaceful."

"Don't be so naïve, Arthur," Uther snorted. "They aren't peaceful."

"Of course, sire," the prince assured his father. "I know that. But I don't think the prisoner does. He seemed very convinced."

"Perhaps he's gone senile in his confinement," Uther mused, pausing his pacing thoughtfully.

"Maybe," Arthur agreed, although privately he didn't believe Emrys was crazy. Crazy unhelpful, perhaps, but nothing beyond that.

"You're dismissed," Uther said finally with a wave of his hand. "I'll deal with him myself."

"Yes, father," Arthur bowed and took his leave, leaving the king to stare thoughtfully at nothing.

When he heard the dry scratch of the door being opened for the second time that day, Merlin thought maybe the prince had returned. In an odd way, he had enjoyed talking to someone his age, even if he was a Pendragon.

It was for this reason that he found himself disappointed to see the more familiar face of the king.

"Monster," Uther greeted dryly, gazing at his captive unflinchingly. Merlin didn't reply. He knew from experience that defending himself was no good, and pleading his case never worked. The king could not be swayed.

Opening the cell door, Uther entered so that he stood directly in front of the smaller man. This did spark some surprise in the warlock; normally, only the Captain of the Guard entered the cell. Then forbidding flooded him- whenever someone did enter his cell, it never ended well for him.

"I hear you're being about as useful as usual," Uther continued, his distaste clear. "Do you feel no guilt for your sins against the crown?"

"I've never sinned against the crown," Merlin said finally. Uther hit him hard for the comment, making his head snap back against the stone wall painfully and the chains around his wrists rattle.

"You dare lie to me, sorcerer," the king hissed, red with rage. Merlin didn't reply- instead he opted to watch the blood drip from his lip to the dirty floor. The red was a striking contrast to the gray. He tried to focus on that instead of his throbbing jaw, with little success.

"Since pain has proven not to sway you," Uther added darkly, and Merlin's mind flew to whips and red, so much red- "Let's see if hunger will loosen your tongue. Maybe next time I see you your memory will have… improved."

Then he left, leaving Merlin alone in the near-darkness once more with nothing but his throbbing jaw to keep him company.

It had been two days since Arthur's "mission" to the dungeons, and since then he'd had trouble keeping Emrys from his thoughts. He couldn't seem to banish the memory of the young man- practically a boy, really- lighting up at having some company his own age. It was something that Arthur could relate to as crown prince, and though he was loathe to admit it, it had struck a chord of sympathy in him.

He hated it, but couldn't change it, so he tried to keep himself busy. On the second day (third, if you included the day of the incident), he found himself at a feast, bored out of his skull and with too much time for wandering thoughts. Even his desperation to be occupied couldn't drive him to conversation with Lord Borin, the noble sitting at his left. His father, who sat to his right, was already deep in conversation with Morgana, and was thus not an option either. Arthur found himself in the perfect predicament.

With a sigh, he accepted the inevitable and let his mind wander as he stared at his mostly-full goblet. The feast was in honor of the harvest's end, and was a popular holiday in Camelot. He couldn't help but wonder if Emrys had ever celebrated a harvest's end. Did sorcerers have holidays of their own?

No, stop, the prince thought sternly. It doesn't matter. They're evil. He's evil. His people are irrelevant right now. It doesn't matter!

Despite this, he couldn't seem to completely banish the thought. He kept thinking of Emrys, delighted to meet someone his own age… what did prisoners normally eat? Just bread and water, as far as the royal knew. Maybe they got soup or porridge, too, Arthur didn't know. They had to be living off of something, although admittedly Emrys had looked pretty underfed.

It didn't seem fair that the whole kingdom was celebrating and the prisoners didn't get even a slice of fruit to commemorate the holiday. Stop! 'Fair' doesn't matter, they aren't regular people, he scolded himself. He needed to stop thinking so… radically. It was dangerous.

He managed to master his thoughts for a few moments, and then gave up. It was no good. Excusing himself from the table, he grabbed his plate (still mostly full) and left the room.

He'd prepared a lie to feed the guards, but it turned out he needn't have bothered. They were gone, probably to celebrate at the nearest tavern. Arthur almost made a mental note to reprimand them later, before realizing he'd have to explain his absence from the feast and presence in the dungeons to do so.

Besides, wasn't he here in spirit of the holiday anyway? Might as well overlook the guard's laziness just this once. It was too late now, anyways.

The prisoners on the first and second level didn't seem quite as intimidating this time, but the prince still didn't hang around. He had a job to do, and the quicker it was over, the better.

Reaching the third floor, Arthur opened the door to find Emrys in the same position he'd been last time; presumably asleep, leaning against the wall with his arms chained above him. This time the door didn't seem to wake him.

Walking further in, Arthur closed the door just in case and set the food down on the floor. He hadn't realized it before now, but he was going to have to enter the cell to deliver the food. At least he's asleep, he thought uneasily, drawing his keys again. He was here now; might as well go through with it.

Compared to the floor door, the cell door opened silently. Walking across the gritty floor, Arthur set the food down within arm's reach of Emrys- then he realized the second problem. With his hands chained the way they were, Emrys would never be able to reach the meal, much less feed himself. He'd have to unchain at least one arm.

Leaning back on his heels, Arthur hesitated uncertainly. Unchaining him presented potential for escape. But at the same time, the prince knew the sorcerer wasn't in top condition. It was possible he didn't even have the strength to.

Actually, thinking about it, the man looked even worse for the wear than last time, which was saying something. What little color he'd had had vanished, and spreading across the line of his jaw was a dark purple bruise that faded into a greenish yellow around the edges. His lip was cut and slightly swollen, and Arthur realized he'd been struck- hard- by someone wearing a few rings.

Making up his mind, Arthur nudged the man with his foot. Blinking, Emrys straightened, looking around in confusion.

"Arthur? What are you-"

"Prince Arthur," the royal interjected, more from habit than from actual irritation this time. "I need your word on something."

Emrys' eyes hardened. "I told you, I don't know anything about the Druids."

"This isn't about the Druids," Arthur said bluntly. "It's a holiday and I thought you might appreciate some real food. But if I let you eat, I want a promise first that you won't do any magic."

Emrys blinked at him owlishly, and Arthur felt a small spark of pride that he'd surprised the man.

"You brought food?" He asked, unable to hide the longing in his voice. For the first time, he seemed to spot the royal's plate and goblet.

"Do I have your word?" Arthur asked again, praying that Emrys put some weight on a promise.

"Yes," Emrys said quickly, eyes still glued to the food. Taking his key, Arthur unlocked one shackle, leaving the other one still bound above his head.

Although he was clearly hungry, the sorcerer didn't go for the food right away. Instead he lowered his free arm slowly, hissing in discomfort as the sore muscles relaxed. Arthur had to admit he hadn't considered how painful it had to be to be bound in such a position for hours at a time. Now that the cuff was off, Arthur could see that the man's wrist was scarred and bloody from being chained.

Once he'd stretched out his arm, Emrys grabbed the plate and shoveled the food down.

"Gods, it's like you haven't eaten in days," Arthur scoffed, taking a seat on the far wall and watching the other man with a stunned fascination.

"'M haven't," Emrys said around his meal.

"What?" Arthur asked, confused. "They feed the prisoners."

"Not me, these last few days," Emrys said, still focused on the food more than Arthur. "Curtesy of the king." First Arthur felt horror; he'd directly disobeyed his father, and to a greater degree than he'd thought. Then it faded out, to be replaced with unease. Prisoners were not usually starved for information, especially information they claimed not to have. In addition to that, his father hadn't told him he'd employed such measures on their prime captive. It didn't sit well with the prince.

"Oh," was all he could say. Soon Emrys had eaten half of the plate's contents and was eating at a slower, more civilized pace.

"Although a meal, courtesy of you, was not expected either," Emrys added, shooting a curious look the prince's way.

"Don't question it, just be grateful," Arthur snapped. In truth, he wasn't sure how to answer the question himself.

"Fine, then I'll ask something else," Emrys said, not to be deterred. "Why have you never come to the dungeons before? Why at eighteen?"

"I was never needed in the dungeons before," Arthur said. He wasn't sure why he answered at all, but he supposed it was because it was hard to look at Emrys and think of him as a threat. "It's hardly the place for a prince."

"Hardly the place for anyone," Emrys commented innocently.

"It's different when you've committed a crime," Arthur amended, rolling his eyes.

"Right," Emrys said, unconvinced. "And what's my crime?"

"I can't believe you'd ask me that!" Arthur all but laughed, a look of disbelief on his face. "You're kidding right? Magic!"

"That's inconvenient for me," Emrys mused. "Since I can't do anything about it."

"You, Emrys, could've chosen not to study it in the first place," Arthur stated matter-of-factly. Emrys didn't comment at first. Then:

"I thought I told you my name wasn't Emrys."

"Right, right," Arthur said, rolling his eyes again. "Marvin, right?"

"Merlin," the sorcerer corrected indignantly. In truth, Arthur had remembered the name, but it was nice to get a rise from someone for once.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Marlin," Arthur grinned.

"It's Merlin. With an e," he complained. "Get it right, you prat."

"Did you just call me a prat?" Arthur echoed, eyebrows rising to his hairline. "I'm your prince!"

"Oh no!" Merlin gasped theatrically. "What are you gonna do, send me to the dungeons?"

A small snort of laughter escaped Arthur at that, which he quickly tried to cover up with a cough. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable again, the blonde got to his feet and motioned for Merlin to put his hand above his head. Reluctantly, the sorcerer obeyed.

Re-latching the lock, Arthur noticed the metal was etched with circlets of tiny symbols.

"What are these for?" He asked. Later he would wonder why he'd expected Merlin to know the answer.

"They restrain my magic," Merlin grumbled. "At least, I'm fairly sure it's the manacles that do it. I know something in this room does."

"Ah," Arthur said, dropping the chains like they were hot. "I see." Gathering the dishes, he re-locked the cell and headed for the door.

"Hey, Arthur?" Merlin called just as Arthur was leaving.

"What?"

"Thanks for the food."

Arthur couldn't help but smile, although he didn't turn to face the prisoner again.

"Shut up, Merlin." As he slid the door shut, he faintly heard Merlin give a little cheer at having his name pronounced correctly.

After the prince left, Merlin found himself in renewed spirits. The food had filled his hollow stomach and efficiently warmed his blood, making him feel almost content, and his arm was no longer painfully stiff. The company had been an added bonus as well, although Merlin had to admit he was no longer sure exactly what to make of the younger Pendragon.

He'd clearly been raised by his father's ideals, and yet he seemed not to have inherited them. It was confusing; although Merlin had a feeling it was just as confusing for the man in question. In the very least it gave him something to think about, which he was grateful for.

His good mood was dampened somewhat when Uther finally made his appearance a few hours later. Unlike his son, he did not come bearing food- or anything that could bode well for Merlin, actually.

In his right hand he held what looked like a lump of charred wood. In his left, a whip was neatly coiled. The former Merlin could see no obvious use for, but he did feel fear bubble up in response to the latter. He tried to master his fear, with little success.

"Emrys," Uther greeted, eyes hard and mouth in a thin line. "Do you have anything you wish to share with me? There may be a meal in it for you if you do." Earlier, it would have been tempting. But the fact still remained that Merlin had nothing to tell.

"I don't know anything about the Druids," Merlin said flatly. He suddenly felt a renewed wave of gratitude for the meal- it made it easier to look Uther in the eye and tell him what he didn't want to hear.

"Humph," Uther grunted, eyes narrowing. "So hunger masters you as poorly as pain."

"There's nothing to master," Merlin said, almost pleading with the king. "I don't know."

"Lies. They never end with you," Uther hissed. Then he straightened, forcing himself to remain calm and collected. "Since hunger is inefficient, and pain is useless, I will try a different tactic. How do you handle fear, sorcerer?"

Merlin didn't respond, so Uther carried on.

"Do you see this?" The king asked, hoisting up the whip and letting it uncurl. Even from his seat on the floor, Merlin could see it was braided with what looked like glass and metal. His stomach turned at the thought.

"This is the best that could await you," the elder Pendragon carried on. "You must be punished for your disobedience, but you would live. On the other hand…" here the king paused and turned to the block of wood. Merlin suddenly had a horrible feeling he knew where this was going. "I may decide the great Emrys is no longer useful to me. Do you fear the pyre, boy?"

Merlin didn't answer, but mentally recoiled. Yes, of course he did. He didn't fear death, he'd told Arthur as much, but death by fire was a different matter entirely. Better to be hung or beheaded than burned alive. Uther seemed to read the fear in Merlin's wide eyes, because a grim smile crossed his face.

"Good. I'll let you think it over, hm?" Then the king tossed the charred wood between the bars, letting it tumble to a stop by Merlin's feet. He automatically scooted back, to Uther's great satisfaction. Glad he seemed to finally be getting through to his captive, Uther left in good spirits. Merlin could not say he felt the same.

For Arthur, the next week flew by. With the harvest over, winter would soon be approaching and seasonal treaties were due to be revised and renewed. Predictably, such talks would take place in Camelot that year. The crown prince spent his time training for tournaments, hunting for feasts, and discussing politics with his father. From time to time Merlin would come to mind, but he was a little easier to dismiss now. After all, he'd done the man a favor and so Arthur's conscience felt adequately appeased.

That was not to say he could be dismissed entirely. There was something about the prisoner that made him linger on the edges of Arthur's mind, he just couldn't put his finger on it. With so little free time, however, he found that it didn't matter much.

That was, it didn't matter until he found himself in the company of Garvin, the eldest son of a visiting lord. Garvin was Arthur's age physically, but mentally he resembled more of a young teen drunk on his family's power. Needless to say, he got on Arthur's nerves and the two rarely saw eye-to-eye.

It was on that day that Arthur found himself out in the fields, shooting at targets with the other man and wishing desperately for an excuse to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watched as his companion skewered another perfect bulls-eye. Although he claimed otherwise, Garvin clearly had chosen the current set up to show off and not to challenge himself.

"Fantastic range you have, my liege!" Gushed said man suddenly, turning to face Arthur and lowering his crossbow. Arthur accepted the compliment with a nod but offered no further reply.

"Forgive me for saying so, highness, but you seem a little absentminded today," Garvin added, now looking a little irritable. He'd tried several times to get Arthur to talk to him, and so far none had worked.

"My apologies, Garvin," Arthur said, mirroring the other's stance and lowering his own weapon. "I'm afraid I have pressing duties later that have consumed my attention somewhat." It was a blatant lie, of course. Uther had (regrettably) given Arthur a day off to "spend time" with Garvin, despite Arthur's protest. What I wouldn't give for some good old-fashioned paperwork right now, he grumbled mentally.

"Well your distraction hasn't impeded your aim," Garvin commented, unable to hide his envy. Like Garvin, Arthur's target boasted of several perfectly-placed arrows. Also like Garvin, the exercise had not been challenging to Arthur, which irritated him to no end and made the whole thing seem like an even bigger waste of time.

"You've had a fine practice yourself," Arthur allowed, for politeness' sake. "But I do wonder if you'd excuse me? I can send some knights to continue with you, if you'd like."

"Ah, no. I think I'll call it a day as well," conceded Garvin, pacified by the royal's compliment. "I think I'll accompany you back to the castle instead. May I ask what these pressing matters might be?"

There was no polite way for Arthur to say no to either request. So the pair left their crossbows with the servants and started back to the castle.

"Nothing concerning the treaties," Arthur assured Garvin, scrambling to come up with a plausible story. "I… am needed questioning a prisoner we've had in our custody. Nothing too serious, but necessary. I'm sure you understand."

To Arthur's immense surprise, Garvin immediately perked up.

"Oh, yes!" He nodded vigorously. "Could it be Camelot's secret, milord?"

"I'm sorry?" Arthur asked, baffled.

"Camelot's secret," the other continued enthusiastically. "The rumored warrior captured and hidden in the castle."

"Where did you hear of such stories?" Arthur asked, looking at Garvin out of the corner of his eye as he walked. The man had to mean Merlin (the humor of that was not lost on the prince), but how did he hear of him? Arthur had heard rumors growing up as well, but as a member of Camelot's aristocracy he'd never given it much thought. It had never occurred to him that others outside of the castle walls might have heard of Merlin.

Luckily, Garvin was all too eager to share.

"It is rumored that Uther has a secret weapon he used to scare away the Saxovs," Garvin explained, eyes bright. Arthur did remember the Saxovs, a nomadic tribe of skilled warriors that had threatened the kingdoms years prior. Uther and several other monarchs had met with their leader; mysteriously, they'd never been an issue again. "A warrior he threatened to unleash on them if they bothered the kingdoms again. And there were legends that the Saxovs knew of that spoke of the warrior, so they fled. Milord, I'd love to meet him!"

"I'm afraid no such warrior exists," Arthur lied smoothly as they reached the castle doors. Mentally, his mind reeled. His father had used Merlin to defend Camelot? Why condemn him if he had only planned to use him?

"Oh," Garvin said, deflating slightly. "Then who are you talking to?"

"Just a petty criminal. Some new evidence has come to light recently about his case," Arthur said distractedly. "I must take my leave of you. Good day, Garvin." He walked off with a new purpose in his step- something was going on between Merlin and his father, and he planned to get to the bottom of it.

The path to the dungeons was familiar now, and it was hard for Arthur to remember ever feeling intimidated. He opened Merlin's door easily; this time, the man was awake.

"Evening, Merlin," Arthur greeted, closing the door.

"Arthur," Merlin replied, looking pleased. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten I was down here."

"I've tried," the prince admitted. "But some people drive even me to the dungeons, I'm afraid."

Merlin's eyes sparkled with humor. "You're hiding," he said, laughter in his tone.

"If you'd met Garvin, you'd hide, too," Arthur accused, pointing a finger at the sorcerer. "Although he did tell me some interesting tales. Were you involved in the defeat of the Saxovs?"

"Depends. Who are the Sagofs?" Merlin asked.

"Saxovs," Arthur corrected. "And they were a tribe of horsemen from the Northern Valley. Big, dark, deadly with a bow and arrow. Threatened the kingdoms five or so years ago."

Merlin thought for a moment, and then nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think I do remember them, actually. Big meeting, all the rulers went? Uther hung around after and made me do some magic tricks for their leader. They feared magic, you know."

Arthur nodded, but inside he felt sick. His father had used magic. Maybe not directly, but close enough that had someone else done it, they still would've been sent to jail. "I see." Maybe it was no wonder there were rumors.

Sitting down, Arthur leaned against the door, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent so that he could rest his arm across it. "Does that happen often?"

"Does what happen often?"

"Does my father use you to help him resolve issues," Arthur clarified.

"Ah. I dunno, really," Merlin admitted. "It's happened a few times, but he doesn't normally let me leave my cell, so I only really know he's done it if he brings them down to see me."

"Right," Arthur said. He could be lying- the thought crossed his mind briefly, but was dismissed. Merlin didn't seem like the intentionally dishonest type. Although really, how much did he know about him?

"How long have you been down here, Merlin?" Arthur asked, genuinely curious.

"Best I can figure, near seven years," Merlin replied honestly. "It's hard to tell. I know I was ten when I was arrested."

"Ten," Arthur echoed, mouth dry. "That's very young."

"Yeah, it is," Merlin agreed softly.

"What happened to your family?"

Merlin paused at the question, as if rolling it around in his mind before answering. Finally, he said:

"I'm not sure. My father is dead. He was a Dragonlord- that's how I got caught. The knights came after him and discovered me. I'm not sure what happened to my mother." The sorcerer's voice was very quiet, and he didn't look Arthur in the eye when he spoke. "When I was young, I used to think maybe she'd survived somehow and was coming to get me."

"It would be impossible for any one peasant to break someone out of the dungeons," Arthur said, shifting somewhat uncomfortably.

"I know," Merlin said, finally looking Arthur in the eyes. "But at the time, false hope was better than no hope."

Merlin's words awoke a new struggle within Arthur's conscience. He was finding it increasingly difficult to combine the monstrous sorcerer Emrys with the very human-seeming Merlin.

"Was that why you studied magic? Did you see your father practice it?" Arthur asked instead.

"No," Merlin said, his mouth curving into an odd little smile. "My father was a Dragonlord, not a sorcerer. And I never learned magic, I was born with it. It was a… unusual gift to be born with, but there was nothing I could do about it growing up."

"That's not possible," Arthur accused, furrowing his brow. "Sorcerers aren't born with magic."

"Warlocks are," Merlin countered. "It's not impossible, just rare."

Arthur didn't say so out loud, but the admission made him uneasy once more. Merlin was sounding increasingly innocent.

"You told me once you would rather die than stay down here. Is that because…" Arthur trailed off briefly, unsure exactly how to word his question, before continuing- "Is that because no one came to get you?"

For the first time, Merlin balked at the question. "Not exactly," he said shortly, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I- I don't have much of a life down here, you see, and I can't ever leave. Sometimes death seems easier."

"Maybe one day you will leave," Arthur suggested, barely realizing the treasonous implications even as the words left his mouth. "If you were banished or something, you could start a life far away from Camelot in safety. It'd be better than prison."

"No, you don't understand," Merlin pleaded, looking frantic suddenly. "I can't leave. I have to stay here. I- I just…" Merlin trailed off and took a deep breath. "I really don't want to talk about it, actually." Arthur could tell the man had closed up. Why, he wasn't sure, but it looked like he wouldn't find out today.

He felt a conflicting mix of confusion and relief at the development. While he was curious about the warlock, he still had never been good at dealing with emotions. Besides, pressing the matter felt like a betrayal to his father, so he let Merlin change the subject without protest.

"You never actually told me why you were hiding," Merlin tried after a beat of silence. "Someone named Garvin?"

"Ah, yes, Garvin," Arthur groaned, letting his head fall back against the wooden door. "He's probably up there looking for me right now."

"Who is he?" Merlin asked, slowly beginning to relax again now that the spotlight seemed to be passing away from him.

"He's a noble's son, visiting for political reasons. He's an extreme bore, and rarely offers any conversation worth having," Arthur grumbled. Merlin grinned.

"So you came to talk to me? Why Arthur, I'm flattered!" Merlin teased cheerfully.

"Shut up Merlin," the prince retorted. "Don't look so pleased. He just can't follow me down here, that's all."

"Uh-huh," Merlin said. He looked unconvinced, much to Arthur's chagrin. "Sure, your highness."

"You know, you have a talent for making my titles sound like insults," Arthur commented irritably, shooting Merlin a look.

"Just doing the kingdom a favor," Merlin replied cheekily. Arthur suddenly wished he had something to throw at the warlock.

"Whatever," the prince grumbled, climbing to his feet. "I have better things to do."

As he opened the door, Merlin seemed to decide he still had one last thing to say.

"Hey, Arthur?"

"Yes?" The prince asked, looking over his shoulder at the smaller man.

"You're gonna come back, right?" Merlin asked quickly, looking both embarrassed and hopeful at once. Arthur suddenly pictured ten year old Merlin, chained and beaten, with no company or hope.

"Yeah, Merlin. I'll be back."