You are really going to hate me at the end of this chapter. I seem to be good at cliffies.
By the way, this song I made up in about four minutes, and it scares even me. Sometimes I wonder about myself...
Sadly, one of the nice doctors speaks Swahili and read my A/N last chapter. So now I'm back in this curious white room, and am annoyed all over again with how nobody will believe me when i tell them I OWN MERLIN, DAMMIT!
On the bright side, all your lovely reviews have crafted a truce between the brain and fingers, reuniting them in the common goal of milking all the reviews possible from you loyal readers. RESPOND ON!
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By the time the group came across what Bedivere explained were the 'strings' (which, in fact, were a group of trees indistinguishable from any other and looked nothing like strings at all), Gwaine was devoutly thankful the tiny boy had come along.
The knights knew their way around a forest, as it was practically a condition to being a knight. They even knew their way around the forest around Camelot reasonably well, and it was a practical skill.
However, it was clear Bedivere was not functioning under the rules of practicality. His route was comprised of a meandering, looping path, abrupt turns, unclear markers and overall appeared to have been drawn by a blind, mentally afflicted drunkard.
Then it struck Gwaine that that was what the woodsman most likely had intended. He would hardly have wanted anyone casually strolling through the woods stumbling over his sanctuary.
Somewhere after the third sharp turn in four minutes, Bedivere began to sing to himself in a quiet but clear voice. Gwaine tuned him out at first, but found himself listening after a few minutes when he saw Elyan staring at the boy with an odd expression on his face.
- dance up high
This is the battle of the mind
Only the strong will survive
Will you keep from insanity
Time will tell and you will see
Woodsman's waiting with his knife
If you fail, it's your life
Lose yourself up in the sky
Rope will make you dance up high
Chains will hold you deep in hell
No soul left, nothing to sell
He's a demon, not a man
End it now if you can
Woodsman's waiting with his knife
If you fail, it's your life -
"Hey, why did we stop?"
Gwaine realized with a start that he, Leon, Elyan and Arthur had stopped their horses and were gaping openly at the kitchen boy. Bedivere twisted around on the saddle to look at Arthur. "Why did we stop?"
"Ah..." Arthur stared at him for a few seconds, then glanced at the knights. He shook himself and spurred the horse into motion again.
Gwaine followed and tried to make his voice casual as he asked, "Where'd you learn that song?"
Bedivere craned his head to look at Gwaine. "One of the others. He was a poet. He taught me the song and he told me to sing it as much as I could in Camelot."
"I...see."
One of the others.
Other captives, most likely. Other 'sick people'.
People who, it could be inferred, were not breathing anymore.
Gwaine realized the poet had apparently tried to get the woodsman's activities noticed. A small child singing of death and captivity would be asked why they were doing so, which would have prompted the child to explain about the 'sick people'.
Obviously, though, that hadn't happened.
"Did anyone ever ask you about the song?" Leon said, his thought train apparently running on a similar track.
Bedivere blinked. "No. They just look at me funny, like you did. But I promised the poet. He made me promise six times. Over and over."
Gwaine's gut churned. The other men looked faintly nauseous as well.
Arthur cleared his throat and said, "Well, you've kept your promise. That's a good thing."
Bedivere didn't speak for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Turn left here."
They weaved through the trees as quickly as possible, while Gwaine tried unsuccessfully to keep his thoughts from poisoning him.
The nameless, dead poet had painted a terrifying picture. The woodsman was clearly an assassin. From the bits and pieces the boy had implied, he was an amoral psychopathic killer, and a prolific one at that.
And he had Merlin.
Gwaine twisted the reins around his hands so tightly they bit into his flesh. He imagined them tightening around the woodsman's neck, cutting off his air and watching him turn purple in the face until he stopped twitching. Or running him through with a sword, a swift stab in the center of the chest, more than he deserved, and seeing the look of shock on his face at the protruding piece of metal.
Then there were the far, far darker fates he imagined he would dole out if they found Merlin had been hurt. He refused to think of a situation where Merlin was -
No. No, Merlin would be fine. They would find the blasted cabin, they would rescue Merlin unharmed, they would take turns stabbing the woodsman until he died in agony, and Merlin would come home to Camelot safe and sound.
Woodsman's waiting with his knife
If you fail, it's your life
Lose yourself up in the sky
Rope will make you dance up high
Days filled up with endless pain
Only demon is to blame
When you forget your wife's face
Then you welcome rope's embrace
Woodsman's waiting with his knife
If you fail, it's your life
Lose yourself up in the sky
Rope will make you dance up high
Blood enough to make you sick
Better hope he kills you qui-
"Stop."
Arthur's voice was sharp and abrupt, breaking the song's hypnotic melody. He was rigid on the horse, grasping the reins, if possible, more tightly than Gwaine.
Gwaine struggled to hold down the rising bile in his throat.
Bedivere froze, as if he'd been turned to granite. Gwaine saw his eyes darting left and right in rapid, jerky movements, and he seemed to suddenly be breathing twice as fast and half as deep as a few moments ago.
Tension, Gwaine thought, he feels the tension.
No, he corrected himself a half-second later, he feels Arthur's tension.
Gwaine knew Arthur wasn't reacting to the boy specifically. It was the situation he was furious with, that he was seething at. The tiny boy had just said - sung - the exact wrong thing to exacerbate the emotions, and the prince was obviously trying to hold himself in check.
Except it didn't seem as if the boy knew that.
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Bedivere scrambled to remember what he should do when this happened. The prince was angry at him, the kind of angry he had seen in his p - the woodsman that meant he was dangerous and close, very very close to hurting him.
He remembered when he would be talking too much, asking too many questions and forget about the warnings, until the woodsman would tell him, order him to go get water, get out of the cabin because he was growing angry.
And there was that one time, that last time when he had grabbed Bedivere's wrist and held him, his face was cold and scary and he said very very quietly to Get. Out. Now.
Then Bedivere had, because the woodsman hadn't ever grabbed him like that before and it had hurt, it hurt and it scared him how close he had been to being hurt a lot more and he had run and run until he reached Camelot and slipped away in the crowds until the woodsman couldn't find him, so he could never be found ever again.
But the prince was angry at him because he had been singing that song, the song the woodsman hated too, and he sounded sharp and scary and holding onto himself but what if he broke, if he was angry enough to break control and he was so close -
"Bedi-" There was a touch on his shoulder and he flinched violently away, and he saw rather than felt the world turn as he fell off the horse.
He hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and let out a yell more of shock than pain. There was a shouting above him, but was too mixed up to tell what they were saying as he tried to breathe right again.
Then there was a low, calming voice right next to him, and he recognized the Knight, his Knight he had found, say, "Bedivere, are you alright?"
The Knight didn't try to touch him, which was good. Bedivere concentrated on bringing his focus back, and he blinked at the Knights and prince, who were all off their horses.
He shakily sat up, and winced. It didn't hurt too bad, but it wasn't nice. "My foot hurts."
Sir Gwaine nodded, and bit his lip. He looked around the forest and, after several seconds, asked, "Do you think you'll be able to go on?"
Bedivere swallowed. The sick man needed his help, he reminded himself. He carefully didn't look at the prince as he nodded and said, very quietly so that only the Knight could hear him, "Can I ride with you?"
WIthout a word, Sir Gwaine lifted Bedivere onto his feet and let him lean on him as he tested his left foot on the ground and winced again.
Bedivere glanced up at the Knight, and then did a double take as he saw the trees around them. "We're here!"
It was like he had dumped the blood bucket over their heads. They immediately straightened, and the prince put his hand on his sword.
Bedivere pointed. "It's just over that rise. When you get to the top you see it."
They looked between themselves and then at the tiny boy. Sir Gwaine bent over and said, his eyes glued to the slight hill ahead, "Bedivere, can you wait here?"
Bedivere nodded, his terror from a few moments ago dissolving in a rush of triumph. He had done it! He had saved the sick man, and he would get help, and he wouldn't die! He would be okay!
He sat himself down against a tree, and watched as the Knights and prince moved away and crept over the hill.
Would they have to fight the woodsman? Would they kill him? Certainly, the woodsman would fight them, so they would most likely fight him back. It would be scary, because the Bedivere could tell the prince was still angry, still keeping control, but he probably wouldn't be able to if the sick man was hurt. It was hard to imagine what would happen if the woodsman was angry too, which he would be. Bedivere shuddered and hugged himself.
There was a sudden burst of yelling and loud noises from over the hill, and he jerked his head to face it, eyes wide. Were they fighting? He couldn't tell, but there wasn't the sound of swords hitting each other, something he had learned to know from his time in Camelot.
Then the prince came charging over the hill, and Bedivere could tell he was even angrier.
"It's empty," there was so much in his voice it almost made Bedivere miss the actual words as the rest of the Knights came back. The prince looked at him, and he saw tears shining in his eyes. "It's empty."
With no warning, the prince spun around and slammed his fist into the nearest tree.
Bedivere stared at him. "Empty?"
"Yes." Sir Gwaine sounded clogged, like he was talking through a big ball of rage and terror in his throat. He looked at Bedivere and asked, "What does that mean?"
Bedivere tried to swallow, but couldn't.
The poet's words danced through his head.
When your throat has run red
And the demon's dug your bed
When your soul is his to keep
They you finally may sleep
Bedivere felt the tears run down his face as he said, "It means he's burying him."