When Arthur awoke, it was a less than pleasant experience. As soon as he moved even slightly, his entire left side erupted into pain with an agonizing burn that blazed through his muscles. Even with his many years of training, he couldn't help the slight groan that escaped him; he quickly silenced himself by biting his lip.

It was almost a minute before he could summon the strength and courage to open his eyes, and when he did, he wished he hadn't. The light burned, sending more pain through the centre of his skull but he gritted his teeth and tried to get a bearing on his surroundings. There was fabric above his head that swayed with the wind.

'A tent? I was... Where was I?' The sudden disorientation terrified the prince, and he jolted, only to be rewarded with agony. Once the waves of pain had subsided, Arthur tried to reach out with his senses. He could hear the tell tale sounds of movement not far away and he could smell wood smoke. 'A camp site then. But whose?'

Flashes of memories hit him. Nameless faces, weapons draw, a clearing, fallen comrades and through it all that inescapable pain in his shoulder. Gathering more courage, the prince was able to turn his head slightly, giving him a slightly wider range of vision, though the dimness of the tent made focusing difficult. A small part of his mind was buzzing and he was overwhelmed with the feeling that something – someone – was missing.

"Merlin!" The word was a strangled gasp on too dry lips but amid his panic the prince found that it didn't matter. Where was his servant? More memories wormed their way through the fog of his mind and he recalled his servant's desperate cry. 'When I turned around, he wasn't there. Why wasn't he there?' Mustering the years of mental and physical training, he forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting against the agony across his chest and tried to remain calm.

Arthur had always been practical – someone who acted rather than thought. Sitting here, unable to move, was something that he couldn't stand and the knowledge that his... friend – he had to admit that to himself now – could be in danger only made the feeling ten times worse.

'The knights will come. You're the crown prince. They will not abandon you.' A small voice told him, one that sounded disturbing like his missing manservant. Since when did Merlin become someone who offered him useful advice? It hardly mattered at this stage in time though, Arthur could feel the walls of his consciousness beginning to fuzz again and he realised that he was going to have to relinquish his hold on reality. This time, the darkness was almost a comfort.

Merlin was trembling. He was unsure at this point whether it was from cold, fear or concussion, though he was starting to believe that it was a combination of the three. Despite what Arthur may think, the warlock was no coward and he had long since accepted that with a destiny like his, it was wishful thinking to believe that anything would go without a hitch. Despite that he couldn't help but wonder if it was really too much to ask to go on one trip that didn't end in disaster. Apparently so. And so thanks to destiny, Arthur and the ever present ban of magic, here he was, freezing cold, tied to a post in the bandits' camp.

In truth, the warlock had very little idea what was happening. He was aware that he was being held by bandits. He was also aware that these bandits had formed a plan that revolved around the prince. This plan in turn revolved around Merlin spilling his guts about said prince's weaknesses. Every few minutes a bandit would walk over to him, probably stopping to kick him in the ribs or some other unpleasant action, before asking him once again to tell them everything he knew about Arthur. So far, he had told them nothing. It wasn't like he was going to give up on his destiny now, just to save himself some fairly insubstantial pain.

Merlin wasn't sure though why any of what he said mattered. The prince, from what he had gleaned by overheard conversations, was too badly injured to be doing much at this moment in time. When the warlock had first learned that Arthur was injured he had panicked so badly that a glass pitcher on the other side of the camp had shattered under the force of his magic. It had taken all his self control to beat his powers back down, just long enough to realise that the prince was going to be alright in the long run.

'Maybe that's why they want me to talk. When Arthur recovers I can't imagine him just sitting around and waiting to be rescued.' Merlin thought to himself. The idea was in fact laughable.

"Oi, you!" One of his captors broke away from the congregation by the fire (on the other side of the camp, so Merlin felt nothing of the warming flames). "You ready to talk yet?" As he spoke, his foot pressed down harshly onto the warlock's outstretched fingers, causing two distinctive snaps. Holding back the tears of pain that leapt to his eyes, he was unable to stop the small cry that escaped him. The man laughed viciously and a deep hatred flared within the warlock as adrenaline shot through him at the presentation of danger.

"Go to hell," he spat, grasping at his inner courage. The man brought his hand down onto the side of his face and Merlin's head snapped round sharply, white spots dancing before his eyes. When his vision cleared again, the bandit was crouched down next to him, his vile breath wafting into the warlock's face.

"Look, I have no quarrel with you. It is the prince and his king that I take issue with. Tell me what I want to know and you walk free." There was an earnest note in the man's voice that Merlin hadn't heard from the others - this man genuinely cared about the answer. It was more important to him somehow.

"You can promise me that, can you?" It wasn't like Merlin had any intention of giving him what he wanted but the bandit's face lifted with hope.

"I swear it. My word." The hope was there in his words too. Merlin had to resist the urge to laugh in his face at the thought that he would betray Arthur.

"The word of a bandit, who has kidnapped my master and I, broken my fingers and is now threatening me. Maybe I'll take my chances and stay silent," the last few words were hissed through tight lips. This was obviously not what Bad Breath – as Merlin had now christened him – had wanted to hear, and all he got was another blow to the face.

"You will regret that decision, servant." With that, he stood up and marched away, his posture tense. The warlock let out the breath he'd been holding, attempting to blink away the new coloured spots that twirled in his vision. They were red this time.

As soon as Merlin was sure that no one was concentrating on him, he began to look around for anything he could use to free himself. There was probably a spell that would release the ropes but he couldn't think of one that didn't involve setting them – and by extension himself – on fire. He quickly made a mental promise to learn one from his spell book whenever he got home. His search however was interrupted by a commotion from within one of the tents.

Throughout the time that he had been tied to the post, Merlin had been trying to work out where everything was in the camp. And he was fairly sure the tent that now had bandits streaming into it was the one that housed his master and friend.

His suspicions were confirmed when a semi conscious prince was dragged out into the clearing and deposited four or five metres away. Straining violently against his bindings, Merlin desperately checked Arthur over, having to fight nausea when he caught sight of the shoulder wound. Though it was bound, the bandages were covered in blood and had been loosened with the movement.

'He must be in agony,' the warlock mentally sympathised. As soon as the thought crossed into his mind, the prince looked around him with pain filled but sharp eyes. As soon as the blue orbs landed on Merlin they stilled and the warlock saw a flicker of outrage cross his features. For a moment the prince just stared at him, his forehead creased. Then:

"Merlin, what happened to you?"