Things That Merlin Isn't Allowed To Do (According to Prince Arthur)
16: Go Outside Camelot Unescorted
There's no wood sorrel left in Gaius' stores and Merlin has just run out of duties for Arthur, so the court physician – too old to do it himself; his back aching terribly, he complains – pushes a basket into an indignant Merlin's hands and sends him out to gather more. With a sigh, Merlin does as he's told, well, after Gaius promises there'll be chicken for dinner once he's back.
Of course, this particular herb grows two hours' ride from Camelot, and he can only hope that Arthur doesn't come up with a whole list of new tedious chores he has to catch up with as soon as he returns.
Actually, gathering herbs is quite nice. It's calming; he can think and reflect unhurriedly, away from the stress back in Camelot, away from all demands: he can do things at his own pace, without lots of scrutinizing eyes on him all the time. He also gets a chance to use his magic a little, unseen and unheard. Merlin locates the now rather familiar plant easily enough, dismounts and fastens his horse by a nearby tree so that the mare can graze the grass unhurriedly, and starts picking while humming a song his mother taught him as a child. The forest is peaceful, birds a chirping – it's unusual to meet anyone here, part for the odd traveler, as this is quite near a road crossing.
Except today when he hears footfalls behind him and looks up, surprised, he doesn't see an ordinary, friendly traveler, but a group of rough-looking men (some in worn, rusty broken chainmail) and one of them is holding an axe very visibly in front of him, smirking widely, and before Merlin can react or cry out one of them leaps forward, striking the back of his head, and the servant falls into blackness.
()()()
When the ransom letter arrives, the whole court is shocked into stillness. Then there are angry mutterings and curious glances ('How has this happened?' and 'How can the bandits know that the boy is the prince's manservant?' and most of all, 'Should he be rescued?') and endless movement, nobody in accord, because whereas the king is calmly stating they will not pay such a large sum demanded, or any sum, for a mere servant, the prince seems like he might explode. Yet, his face is set in stone, jaw tense. There's a cold air of fury about him that's terrifying to witness, and none but the king dares look him in the eye.
The knights understand at once. Sir Leon, who is at best foot with the king, is the one who agrees with Arthur's protests, saying that the kidnapped servant carries valuable information that the bandits shouldn't know about; that Merlin deserves to be saved, to live; that Merlin is important, but neither Uther nor the old grubby councilors will listen. In the end the knights and prince must give in, bow and apologize, but once the meeting is over they gather in the corridor, the knights' anxious faces turning to the prince: they'll take his orders without question.
"We ride tonight, two hours before nightfall. I'll make sure we are let through the gates without fuss," Arthur murmurs once the meeting is over, his hands clenched into tight fists, his jaw set. Wordlessly, the knights nod. Sir Gareth considers putting a hand on his shoulder, a calming gesture, but refrains at seeing the tenseness of the prince's frame, like a bowstring; Arthur would only shrug the hand away.
As Arthur is in his chambers packing, his heart aches with longing of mindless chatter and wonderful smiles, and at the same time his chest cramping with pure anger; there's a knock on the door and he hopes for a moment that it'll be Merlin who comes in, chipper and carefree and happy, but as he lifts his gaze he's greeted by Morgana's somber face.
"If you're going to try and stop me, or tell my father about this-" he begins heatedly, but she interrupts him calmly.
"I won't, Arthur. I understand. Merlin is dear to all of us."
He exhales heavily, breathing through his nose. He doesn't apologize for shouting at her: he can't, not yet, not until he knows that Merlin is safe.
Morgana seems to understand. "Bring him home," she says, and Arthur has no other intent.
()()()
Finding the clearing where the letter states the bandits will meet them takes them less than an hour, there are traces, broken branches and finally, the smell of smoke, a campfire: but Arthur's eyesight feel strangely sharp, his senses heightened. At the slightest rustle he'll turn around with his sword steady in his hand.
His chest is burning, a steady fire, quiet but ominous. He shares few words with the knights. He simply cannot speak; if he does, he might crumble, all defenses crashing down, unable to get up again.
The bandits, a dozen of them visible, are mostly masked. Five are armed with crossbows, the rest with swords and Arthur senses, although he cannot see them, at least half a dozen more thugs hiding among the trees.
And then he sees Merlin.
Arthur's chest tightens, the flame rising higher, his breath sharp, hitching in his throat. Merlin, who is pale and has a red gash across his cheek, looks up at him with eyes wide in surprise. Something twists painfully in Arthur's stomach at receiving that look. Almost like fear. Did he think Arthur would abandon him? Has Merlin so little faith in him?
Arthur struggles to keep focus and not simply draw his sword and run the nearest bandit through.
"All right, hand the money over," grunts one of the thugs. He's holding Merlin by the scruff of his neck, a knife dangerously close to the skin. A warning: one step wrong and they'll cut his throat. Arthur nods silently, and two of the knights (no weapons visible) starts walking over calmly, a small chest between them. The bandits' eyes seem glued onto it. Leon and Percival place it on the ground two feet away from Merlin, close enough to hear the sound his nervous breathing, and they glance at him with a slight affirmative nod. The warlock stares back fearfully, disbelieving. Arthur can almost hear Merlin's chiding voice in his head: 'What are you doing, you dollophead, why the hell are you giving them that?'
One of the bandits step forward and opens the chest, smirking wide at seeing the contents gleam silver and gold in the torchlight. Satisfied he grabs it and steps back, and finally, finally Merlin is brought forward. His hands are bound, Arthur now notices, his wrists raw. His clothes are torn and dirty. As he's pushed in the knights' direction, Arthur stops thinking and rushes forward to catch him. Merlin trembles in his arms, and whispers something that sounds like an apology – Arthur wants to shake him and yell at him, tell him it's not his fault. He wants to shout at him to be more careful, damn it! and never do something so stupid; he has to defend himself if he's attacked! But Arthur doesn't do it. Merlin is clearly afraid and needs safety, reassurance; the prince holds him to his chest ignoring they're being looked at, murmuring that he's safe now, while sharing a glance with the knights. A nod. There's the same ire on their faces.
They linger on the same spot for a few minutes after the bandits have withdrawn southeast. Arthur gently undoes the bindings on Merlin's wrists and helps him onto his horse; the servant's legs are a bit wobbly, and he hisses in pain as the prince's hand presses against his back, clearly there must be a wound there. There's a flash behind his eyelids: Merlin, pale and bleeding lying in a still pile on the forest floor, surrounded by dark shadows who are laughing at him. The imagine disappears as he blinks, but Arthur has little self-restraint left now and inside he's boiling. Those damned foul thugs hurt his Merlin. They have to pay – he can't let them just walk away. He can't. He can't…
Merlin is worrying his lower lip again. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he mumbles, "I really am. I didn't think that - not while I was just gathering herbs! I'm sorry."
"I know. Hold onto the reins." The servant obeys, holding onto them tightly, knuckles whitening. The steed neighs impatiently.
Arthur can't bear himself to meet Merlin's gaze yet. He doesn't want the innocent warlock to see his soul, bare with emotions so foul and strong.
"Sire," sir Bors murmur and the prince nods in his direction.
"I'm taking him back to Camelot."
"We'll meet you there later, sire."
They part ways: the prince mounting behind Merlin, wrapping a warm arm securely around his waist, knights following the trail the bandits have left behind. As he realizes what's going on, the servant turns his head to look at him disbelievingly. "Arthur, they've let me go. I'm fine. You don't have to-"
"I know. But they have broken our laws, they…They hurt you, Merlin. They'll be taken to Camelot for trial, I'm not going to have them killed out of cold blood." Making that decision wasn't easy, forcing him to rein his emotions: but he's not a cruel man, and he fears Merlin's reaction if he does otherwise, because Merlin is so goodhearted he wouldn't ever wish his captors death or even pain.
Arthur kicks the horse's sides, urging him into a gentle trot; it's obvious Merlin is in discomfort and the prince doesn't want to cause him any more pain. "Did – are you hurt?" he asks, quietly. It's a fear deep in his stomach which is difficult to voice, he almost doesn't dare ask, but he has to know. There doesn't appear to be any signs, Merlin isn't in tears, though he seems shaken, but Arthur must know. The tears might come later, like a flood, and Arthur holds him tighter. The servant leans into the protective embrace.
"Just a couple of bruises and scratches. And my right wrist," Merlin admits quietly. "It aches."
The prince gently reaches for the wrist, takes it in his hand; it's covered with bruises. "Can you move your hand, your fingers?"
"Yeah, but it hurts."
"Be careful, try to be still," Arthur advises. "It might be sprained; I'm not taking any chances. Gaius is waiting to examine you once we're back in Camelot."
Merlin nods tiredly, surprisingly not protesting.
"Did any of them…did they…" Arthur swallows harshly, blood cold. "Did any of them...did they touch you?"
Merlin stares at him bewildered and scared and shakes his head.
Arthur exhales deeply. They haven't...Thank god. Thank god. But Merlin is still covered with bruises and scratches and there are bloodstains on his clothing, and Arthur will never forgive those who did this, never. The memory will forever be burned into his mind, his eyelids, and for months to come he'll see it all over again every time he closes his eyes, his sleep uneasy, and he'll spend restless hours sitting by the servant's bedside, unable to go, leave his side for a single minute.
"I'm all right," Merlin murmurs, sensing the man's distress.
"I'll be the judge of that," the prince replies and that's final. He wraps an arm around Merlin, presses him close to his chest, and holds him there; he can't get close enough. Can't get close enough to know that Merlin really is here now and nothing will take him away from Arthur. Nothing.
"... Arthur," Merlin says after a pause, and glances at him. Arthur could drown in those blue eyes, and it takes a moment to focus on Merlin's soft voice, barely registering he's being addressed. When he does, Arthur notices that Merlin's smiling slightly, and it's a wonderful beautiful smile that Arthur loves, and he's so grateful he can see that smile again. "Thank you."