A Good Man is Hard to Find

Two

Morning was the colour of ashes in Ealdor. Merlin scarcely had the energy to be horrified at what Agravaine's dogs had done to his home. A few houses were still standing, but nothing close to his mother's house. He approached uncertainly and found her sitting on their old hearth stone, surrounded by crumbling ruins. He closed his eyes and blew out a long sigh of relief.

"Mother," he whispered. She glanced up sharply and staggered to her feet at the sight of her exhausted, grey-faced son, and the young woman trailing behind him.

"Merlin! We saw the soldiers – we thought you were lost."

Merlin watched his mother falter as she took in his expression. "They took Arthur, mother," he choked, reaching clumsily to grip her arm. "They took him, and I couldn't do anything." He glanced cautiously over his shoulder at Gwen, and repeated, "I couldn't do anything."

Hunith wrapped her arms around her son, feeling the trembling of his thin frame. She shushed him gently. "You'll make this right. I know you will."

Merlin felt a sob building in his stomach, so heavy he could scarcely breathe. How, he wondered, could he possibly make this right? He had stood and let his best friend deliver himself into the jaws of death; he had felt the deep well of magic inside him and still just stood by, crippled by doubt. If he had put his trust in Arthur – if he had used his magic openly, and thrown himself upon the king's mercy, they might still have him. Angry, probably, and hating Merlin for the years of lies, but at least he would be safe. Or if Merlin had not gambled on nobody but himself knowing the mountain, and made them so vulnerable by leading them into the tunnels. He felt like a fool, a coward and a traitor.

He wriggled away from his mother's comfort. The two women were looking at him like he might shatter at any moment. He felt like he might, indeed – the adrenaline of the headlong flight had faded in the long, despairing walk home. His instincts, usually so proactive, were fully in favour of curling into a ball and wallowing in self-accusation.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Merlin," Gwen said, as though she'd read his mind, but she sounded like the words were wrenched from her with a crow bar.

He closed his fingers into fists at his sides and forced himself to take a deep breath and think, shoving aside despair and regret and self-loathing and striving for some sort of clarity.

Right: allies – who was left? Arthur, taken; Gaius, maybe dead. Leon and Percival had escaped the castle, though, and perhaps other refugees from Camelot were still living, and loyal to Arthur. Gwen was here, and his mother, and the two mercenaries, Tristan and Isolde, had not yet abandoned him. Kilgharra remained his most powerful ally, albeit one he had to use with caution.

They didn't have a lot of time.

~/~/~/~

They took him straight to the throne room.

Morgana sprawled idly in his father's – his – throne, unkempt and angry and as beautiful as ever. Arthur walked as upright as he could between the guards. The long ride had left his ribs burning, and he knew he must look a wreck. He met her eyes instantly across the full length of the room. She looked like a cat with a mouse pinned by the tail.

"My lady," Agravaine began, "I bring you-"

"I see that." She cut him off imperiously. Arthur smiled half-heartedly. He had missed her. She leaped gracefully to her feet and stood a few feet in front of him. "Welcome, brother."

Arthur inclined his head courteously, as though he'd met her at a feast rather than in chains on a cold morning.

"You've looked better."

"I would hope so."

"I'm sorry we could not meet on better terms. Your soldiers were less than welcoming when I arrived."

"Yours were less than courteous when they invited me back."

"So I see." She reached up and brushed a thumb against the cut on his eyebrow, dislodging flakes of dried blood. He winced, at the tenderness of the gesture more than the pain. It made his heart ache to see her so close, and abruptly he dropped the pretence.

"Why do this, Morgana? I never meant to wound you." His voice was barely more than a whisper now. She signalled abruptly, and a soldier kicked him in the back of the leg, forcing him to his knees.

"Never meant to?" she hissed down at him. "Then I have suffered greatly from your negligence, Arthur Pendragon."

Arthur said nothing.

Morgana stalked away and stood with her back to him. She seemed to be trembling. She waved a hand at Agravaine, who picked up a document from the council table. His voice was dry and impassive. "You will publicly acknowledge Morgana Pendragon as your elder sister, and the rightful heir of the late Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot. You will confess to your crimes against the druids and magicked peoples. You will confess to treason against Queen Morgana, and formally name your accomplices in that treason, to whit: Gaius the healer, false knights Sir Elyan, Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival. Disgraced former knight Sir Leon. The serving man known as Merlin. The serving girl known as Guinevere. You will give your consent that the above named also be brought to the queen's justice at the earliest opportunity."

Arthur gave him a wry look, but stayed silent. His eyes ranged around the room. Most of those present were strangers to him: Morgana's men, or those of her southron ally. Not all, though. A few opportunists had sworn fealty to Morgana when Arthur seemed unlikely to return. Of these, some looked wretched and uncomfortable faced with their battle-scarred king. But some had already learned to look on their erstwhile ruler with scorn and derision. He calmly met their eyes, committing each face to memory. It was gratifying to see them squirm just a tiny bit under his gaze.

A boot in his ribs shattered his composure, and he collapsed forward onto his elbows with a pained cry. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself very slowly upright. His ribs were incandescent with pain.

"You will publicly acknowledge..." Agravaine began again.

"This is madness, Morgana," he croaked, ignoring his uncle.

"I am your elder sister," she pointed out dryly.

"You're a girl." He shrugged. "I don't make the rules. Not to mention you're, you know, illegitimate."

She stepped closer, incensed. "Do I need to remind you of your position, brother?" she hissed. A blade was prickling the skin between his shoulder blades.

"Not at all. I do not deny your right of conquest. But you cannot hope to present your claim as rightful."

He tried to steel himself, but he knew his ribs would not endure further punishment. The ringing slap across his face came almost as a relief.

"I do not ask for your counsel, brother. You will do as I say, or you will die."

Arthur almost laughed, but his lungs prohibited it. He expected no less than death at her hand, confession or no confession. Forcing himself to keep an impassive face, he gazed up at her. "I do not doubt that I will die," he said simply.

He was unprepared for the blow which caught him in his side and sent him sprawling on the cold flagstones. He coughed and pressed his bound arms as hard as he could against his ribs. He tasted blood on his tongue.

"Take him to the cells. We will speak further, brother." Her voice was distant, but he didn't miss the threat.

~/~/~/~/~

Gwaine awoke with a shudder, and felt the harsh realities of the cold cell and his bruised body return to him in a rush. He glanced around and met Elyan's eyes. The other knight raised a finger to his lips. "They're coming," he mouthed.

The rattle of keys and the scrape of boots on stone heralded the guards' arrival. Close to the bars, Gwaine could make out three soldiers and a fourth, limp figure between them. He glimpsed pale hair and mud-spattered boots before the next cell was unlocked and the prisoner thrown in, obscured from sight by the angle of the wall. A muffled thump signalled the guards' usual measure of care and courtesy, but even Gwaine was startled by the rawness of the answering cry of pain.

Sniggering and grunting, the guards locked up and departed. Elyan shook Gaius gently by the shoulder. "They've brought someone in." The old man's eyes slid open. Gwaine sat up straighter against the bars.

"Hello?" he called uncertainly, conscious that his own voice was harsh with thirst and discomfort. "Can you hear me?"

The only answer was a quiet shuffling, as if the newcomer was moving with some difficulty.

"Hello?" Gwaine repeated.

A soft cough. Then – "Gwaine?"

Gwaine froze. That voice, and the pale hair he had glimpsed earlier made dread build up in his stomach, but he pushed it away. "Who are you?" he demanded. There was a pause before his fears were confirmed.

"Arthur."

"No..." Elyan moaned softly. Gaius' eyes fell closed again in silent defeat.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not too happy to be hearing your voice here," Gwaine volunteered.

A quiet snort of laughter. "I'm glad you're alive."

"What of Merlin? And Leon... Percival?"

"Merlin lives. The others, I don't know."

Gwaine allowed himself a tiny spark of relief – at least one of his friends had found better fortune.

"And you?"

Arthur snorted again. "Alive."

Gwaine scowled in irritation. The healer's thin voice cut in abruptly. "Are you injured, Arthur?"

Arthur gasped. "Gaius..." His voice had gone hollow with emotion. "You sound terrible."

"As do you. Are you injured?" The old man's impatient voice, even as weak as it had become, was invested with an authority that Arthur had learned to respect as a mischievous child in the healer's care.

"My ribs..." he admitted.

"Broken?"

"I don't know. Probably."

Silence fell as Gaius fumed silently over his impotence to help with the wall separating them. Arthur rolled onto his back and twisted his hands in their bindings in order to gently probe his side. He noticed, to his annoyance, that his wrists were bleeding under the coarse ropes. On his left side, bruising and swelling made his flesh feel strange and uneven through his thin shirt. Gingerly, he edged his fingers closer to the epicentre of the pain. He couldn't help letting out a soft whimper.

"Arthur?" Gwaine's voice was sharp.

"A moment." He gritted his teeth and finally found the spot where an unnatural lump jutted out of him. Broken, then. He very slowly settled his fingers for a firm hold on the protruding rib, took a shaky breath and, before he could second-guess himself, pushed it in, hard.

~/~

He was aware of darkness, and voices calling his name. It took a while longer to remember where he was and what he'd just done. The pain was still vicious, but breathing was, perhaps, a little easier.

Somebody was beating frantically on the wall. "Arthur? Arthur."

"I am... here," he grated out.

A sigh issued from the other side of the wall.

"What happened?" he croaked.

"You screamed like a girl, and then you went quiet for three or four minutes. What did you do?"

"At least one of my ribs is broken," Arthur offered, weakly.

"Is that all?" grumbled the knight. "Princess."