blah. that is all.
No, not really. Sorry it's so late - Christmas and whatnot. Still. Blah.
Still owning nothing. Santa clearly doesn't love me enough.
A low, constant thumping echoed in the distance.
Merlin ignored it, content in staying in the wavering state between sleep and wake.
The sound grew louder, less easy to ignore.
A grimace curls over his lips, annoyed and confused by whatever could be causing the sound. Sighing, he decides it's not worth his current attention and nuzzles closer into Arthur's side. The arm around him tightens comfortably, warming Merlin. He turns and stretches, his muscles and joints popping from the movement, before curling back into the prince's arms. He could get used to this.
The sound became louder, became many sounds at once, before stopping entirely and much too suddenly.
Merlin's eyes snap open only a moment before a pair of unfamiliar hands snatch around his arms and yank him upwards.
Bandits. Of all the things to find them, it would have to be bandits. Just their luck.
Startled, his eyes search frantically around him for Arthur. He sees him, throwing punches towards the men and trying quickly to grab his sword resting nearby. Always the hero. It's going to get him killed someday. And that'll kill them both. But the warlock can tell Arthur's fighting is useless; there are just too many of them. Merlin wants to send a spell to help him, but he couldn't - wouldn't - risk it. He might miss, hitting Arthur instead.
One of the men finally manages to pin Arthur down, keeping him there only by throwing his whole weight onto the prince's back. The prince who despite this is still struggling furiously. Making sure he's thoroughly incapacitated, two of the men hoist the prince up, keeping his arms pinned tight against his back. Arthur's face is red and already bruises are forming from where the men hit him. Still his eyes frantically meet Merlin's, desperate.
The hands that grabbed him have pinned the warlock's own arms harshly against his back. They tighten their grip and Merlin can't help but give a faint cry of pain - for heaven's sake, it hurt. A hard object smacks him round the back of his head, sending him tumbling down to the groud. Spots of light cloud his vision and his head rings, drowning out almost all other sound.
"Merlin!" the warlock hears Arthur yell, panic evident in the voice. That wasn't right, Arthur couldn't be panicked - Arthur doesn't panic. Doesn't get nervous, doesn't lose hope. They would get out of this, they always did.
"Arthur," he murmurs, trying in vain to calm the other man down. Merlin brings a hand to his head and it comes back red. Clutching the wound, he tries to stand but is forced back into the grip of one of the men.
"What's going on, what do you wa-" Arthur stops his shouts suddenly, finally taking the men's uniforms into account. The disgust, anger and ultimately fear edge into his eyes. They were guards of Camelot. Uther's men.
Arthur's tone turns quiet, pleading, "Please. I don't know what my father has told you, but please, let us go. We will leave, never to return, what trouble is that!" his eyes meet each of the guards in turn, but all of them are empty. Hollow. Soulless.
"M'lady was very specific in her orders. You are to come with us." One of the guards spoke, his voice cold and distant. Merlin's stomach gave a lurch as he recognized the man. He had seen him, spoken to him only days before - he was a kind man, if not a little slow. But kind, none the less, his voice had been light with laughter when he spoke. But not now.
"M'lady," Arthur muttered, confused. He had only a moment to mull over the word before being forced to his feet towards the horses. After a few paces, he realized that despite the soldiers gripping his arms, he was alone.
Merlin was being pulled the other way.
"MERLIN!" Arthur yelled, forcing himself towards the other man. Another guard was brought over just to keep the prince in place. They push back and fight, Arthur's arms lashing out, smashing into anything in his way.
"Arthur," Merlin cried, fear edging into his voice, as he is dragged away from the prince.
They struggle and reach until they are nearly together, hands outstretched, searching - but the guards are too strong, and they are forced apart once again.
Arthur just keeps yelling, his voice growing more ragged and raw with each frantic scream, until a sharp smack meets the back of his head. He hears Merlin yell for him in the distance, but hears it as though listening through a great tunnel. The world seems to fade aroundh him. Arthur desparately tries to hold onto something, something real, anything -
Then it all went black.
Merlin could only look on helplessly as Arthur's limp body is thrown onto the horse and taken away from him.
The arms grabbing his slacken their grip slightly - clearly, the only major threat was being carried far away from them. The scrawny manservant was nothing to worry about, just tie him up and take him to god knows where.
A little over half the guards leave along with Arthur, the prince's unconcious body hanging over the back of one of the horses. He looked so defeated, so unlike the man he knew, Merlin could hardly take it. He wouldn't.
The fear that had seemed to overtaken Merlin slowly edged away. Pure, untempered fury is replacing it. Burning red through his veins, it flows through him and taints his vision red. Merlin forces himself to calm down, pushes back the anger - he doesn't want to kill anyone. Well, maybe he does, but he would probably regret it in the morning. Seriously maim or injure, on the other hand...
A sharp tug pulls him from behind, "Hurry up, boy," a guard grunts, trying to pull Merlin towards the horses once again. He hears the guards muttering to each other, seemingly attempting to be subtle and quiet, but failing miserably. Merlin hears some mention of Cenred's kingdom and castle before he snaps.
Wrenching himself from the captor's grasp, he spins around and mutters, "Forbærnen firgenholt" - a spell to break the branch off the old tree above most of the men gathered by the horses. It falls quickly with a pounding crash, the men falling to the ground unconcious before they could even utter a word. The horses rear, squealing in surprise from the sudden movement, and charge away from the camp.
Wind whistles past his left ear and Merlin ducks swiftly to narrowly avoid the fist aimed at his head. Dodging another attempt, his eyes glow a molten gold and he outstretches his hand, "Hleap on bæc!" The two guards go flying and Merlin hears in the distance a satisfying crunch as they land.
A sword cuts past him, grazing his arm. The warlock turns and glares at the last guard left, practically growling out the spell, "Hætende". He watches with satisfaction as the sword glows red and hot, forcing the guard to let go with a yell before falling back and smacking his head on a tree. Not particuarily graceful, but effective. The guard slumps down the tree, unconcious. Merlin nods once and glaces around him.
Maybe helpless wasn't the right word.
The warlock stood tall, panting, his eyes fading back to their natural blue, as he surveyed his work around him. Bodies laid strewn and mangled, but only slightly. The men would recover, just not anytime soon. Merlin sighed. It would have to do. Afterall, these were still men of Camelot - these were still Arthur's men. Or they would be.
As soon as Merlin figured out what was going on. The guards had said Lady, not King - what had happened to Uther? Hell, what had happened to Camelot?
A sinking, churning feeling stirred inside him, an edge returning to his system. Merlin would figure this out, one way or another. First things first, though - towards Camelot. Towards Arthur. The warlock turned on his heels, sparing no glance for the unconcious men behind him, and ran into the depths of the woods. Alone once again.