Chapter 2

"Do you have a name?" he asks quietly.

Blue eyes stare into his very soul before there's a soft answer.

"Merlin."

"Merlin?" Arthur repeats with a small, surprised snort as his eyebrows rise. That's not at all what he was expecting. "Like the bird?"

For just a moment, the boy looks vaguely offended, though he simply nods. Still, the room feels slightly lighter.

"How old are you, Merlin?"

There's less silence before an answer comes this time.

"Fifteen summers."

Curse the Triple Goddess, he's younger than Arthur had thought, barely more than a child. And he's been bound and left there to wait in terror for a man to come do…whatever he wishes to him, because Arthur can. Because Arthur is a prince and the boy is a slave and some twisted individuals think that's okay.

Arthur has to look away for a moment, collect himself again, before he can continue his reluctant questioning. He's trying to formulate a plan, one that will hopefully spare Merlin the most pain, but he needs information first.

"Are you…were you…" He stammers over his words, trying to be delicate about asking even though there is nothing remotely delicate about what had been planned for the boy that night. Finally, he just has to spit it out, no matter how distasteful. "Were you meant as a permanent gift to me, or just on loan for the night?"

For the first time, the boy looks away, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "The night," he whispers his answer.

"So someone will come in the morning to release you?"

Merlin nods. "I have chores," he says, now looking anywhere but Arthur's eyes.

This is good. It means that Merlin isn't going to be stuck chained up in his chambers for the entire length of Arthur's visit, and most likely no one will know that the prince hasn't partaken of Lord Iorwerth's offered gift. Hopefully, it won't earn the boy another punishment to add to his impressive collection of scars.

"And is…is this your usual…um…chore?"

"No!" Merlin whispers, and it sounds dangerously close to a sob again as a tear once more runs down his face and drips into his ear. "I just scrub the dishes and fireplaces and floors," he cries brokenly. "I don't want to…I tried to hide…I…please, please…!" His breath is starting to hitch again with panic and so Arthur leans forward and grips his shoulder once more.

"Sh, Merlin, stop. Just breath," he says while squeezing gently. "I believe you and you have done nothing wrong."

Merlin calms down slightly faster this time, finally allowing his body to sag into the mattress instead of remain stiff like a board. He blinks his eyes blearily in the flickering candle light and Arthur knows he must be even more exhausted than the prince is himself.

When the boy's no longer in danger of hyperventilating, Arthur stands and returns the chair to its place. "Be right back," he assures the young slave, then goes into his bedchamber. He grabs the softest looking pillow and warmest blanket, then pads tiredly back.

Merlin is still watching him, fear ever alive even as it now wars with weariness. Arthur comes up to the bed and reaches with the pillow toward the boy's head, but Merlin jerks away just as violently as ever, and the prince freezes.

"Merlin," he says, sadness washing through him. "I just wanted to give you a pillow and a blanket. I'm exhausted. You're exhausted. We both just need to sleep. I can't release you, or really ease what must be an incredibly uncomfortable position, but I thought I could at least do this."

The boy keeps his head turned, still pulling away.

"Merlin, look at me," Arthur urges in his gentlest voice. He waits, with more patience than he ever would have thought he could have, until finally the slave meets his eyes. "I promise you, on my honor as a knight of Camelot, that I will not hurt you. You have my word."

"Okay," Merlin finally whispers.

Arthur nods at him, then reaches forward with the pillow again. He carefully lifts the boy's head, mindful of the chain from the collar. The last thing he wants is for the boy to choke to death in the night. He quickly slides the pillow under and eases the boy's head back into it. Merlin doesn't say anything, but then his eyes are half-lidded by this point from exhaustion. The prince throws the blanket over the boy, covering him up to his chin, hating the relief he feels when the chains are hidden from view. Merlin will get no relief from them during the night, even if they are hidden.

"I'll be sleeping in the other room. Call out if you need anything."

Back to being silent, the boy just looks at him again. Arthur runs hands through his hair and over his face, something he has done almost as much as sighing this night, and then turns to put out the wall sconces. He is reaching for the candle on the side table when a thought occurs.

"Would you like me to leave it lit?"

Merlin nods.

"Okay," Arthur agrees. "Try to sleep, Merlin. Nothing will harm you tonight."

He turns and leaves, because he knows he's going to lose it if he has to look into those fearful, blue eyes for one more moment.

In the other room, he hurriedly changes into his sleeping clothes and climbs into bed, leaving his own candle burning as well. Despite his exhaustion, though, sleep eludes him, his mind whirling.

As if from the very darkness, Merlin's terror blown eyes stare back at him from inside his own head.

He suddenly sees them on the face of every servant he's ever had, every one he's teased and poked at and tormented. Every peasant he's looked down on, encouraged in his attitude by his father the king. The very king who must have known his friend Lord Iorwerth was dabbling in slavery, and turned a blind eye.

It repulses Arthur to the core.

He wonders if it's possibly for a person to change completely in an instant, to be shocked and sickened into someone new? It must be, because he suddenly finds that with Merlin's frightened eyes burned into his skull, he has absolutely no desire to ever make another human being look at him with such powerless terror again.

00000

Merlin swallows a whimper when the candle on the side table burns out. It can't be more than an hour until dawn now, he will be fine, and he doesn't want to make any noise that will remind the man in the other room about his existence. He lies completely still under the blanket and wills his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he listened to the sounds from the adjoining chamber. The prince – he'd said his name was Arthur – isn't sleeping either. Merlin can tell by the creaking of the bed's ropes and the rustling of the linens as he tosses and turns. Maybe he'll get frustrated…change his mind…come back into the room…

But he hasn't reappeared.

Hasn't touched him.

Hasn't grabbed him or pulled at his breeches or…or…

Merlin's chest constricts and his breathing turns erratic as the terror sucks him in again.

He can't move. Can't even feel his hands anymore. He's spread out and exposed and anyone could hurt him or touch him or…

The boy heaves silent breaths and swallows thickly several times, fighting down the bile that has flared up at his spiraling thoughts. If he throws up now, he'll probably suffocate. That would be a fine way to die – trussed up like a pig on some prince's bed while he chokes on his own spit.

He breathes through his nose until he fights back the panic caused by crushing darkness and immobility once more, forcing himself away from the vile thoughts of what he'd been put there for…

When he's sure he won't be sick, he turns his head toward the window, willing the curtains to lighten with the first hints of the new day. Tears crawls down his cheeks again and with his hands cuffed, he just has to let them fall. He hadn't thought he had enough moisture left in him for tears, but somehow, they've started flowing once more as he waits for the light to return.

Since the day the bandits had raided his village, slaughtered his mother and neighbors, and dragged him away, his life has been one long path of misery. The witchfinder, losing his magic, being sold as a slave, toiling day and night in this unforgiving place where not one soul cares about him… He's endured it all, but he's never felt as trapped as he has on this dark, endless night.

He hasn't cried or pleaded for mercy in years. It never makes one bit of difference so why bother? He thought he'd locked away his tears for good.

Guess he was wrong.

The bed in the other room creaks and Merlin hears an agitated sigh, then the rustle of bedding and sound of bare feet landing on the stone floor.

Terror claws back to life in Merlin's chest, like a caged and injured bird trying to tear loose from his sallow skin.

The man had said he wouldn't hurt Merlin. Swore some kind of oath. Made a promise.

And he hasn't come in – not once since he put the pillow under Merlin's head and threw the blanket over him, giving him at least a thin layer of dignity.

Hasn't touched…hasn't hurt…when he could have. Oh, he could have hurt Merlin so much…

He had promised Merlin would be safe…

But promises and oaths – trust – mean nothing to a slave. Merlin has never met a man who wasn't willing to break them when it suits his purposes.

Barely daring to breathe, he listens to the prince pull open his curtains, splash water around, open doors and get dressed.

He will come now; the boy knows it. He's less sure what the man will do when he comes, but he knows he will come back into the room.

Merlin stares at the doorway between the rooms until the man finally appears, just as he knew he would.

He looks exhausted and he carries another goblet.

"I guess you didn't sleep either," he says, pausing for just a moment to look Merlin over before approaching the bed. The boy tries not to shudder or pull away.

"Here," the man says, and his hand slips under Merlin's head and raises it again, bringing the goblet to his lips just like the night before. "Drink. Only water, on my word."

And it is. Cool water that sooths the burn that has lodged in the slave's throat.

"Thank you," Merlin whispers once he's drunk it all and the prince has stepped away.

The pre-dawn light is starting to seep through the drapes at the windows and the man walks over, throwing them open and letting it filter into the room, making it easier for them both to see.

Something Merlin hasn't realized was caught up in a tight ball inside his chest loosens slightly as the darkness gives way to the tepid light.

"Are you hungry?" the man asks, standing awkwardly and apparently fighting the urge to run hands through his newly combed hair. "There's…there's some fruit. Left from…last night."

Starving, Merlin thinks, but he shakes his head no. Food would be a mistake in his already agitated stomach.

The prince – Prince Arthur, he reminds himself – nods back, then comes up beside the bed.

"I should…" He pauses and looks away, teeth clenching in anger and frustration, though for the first time Merlin's thoughts are calm enough to realize it isn't directed at him. "Merlin," he starts again – and oh how strange it is to hear someone use his name instead of slave or boy. The man purposefully meets his eyes. "I'm so sorry this was done to you. I'm so sorry for my part in your terror and new nightmares. And I'm sorry I must now take back the pillow and blanket, but for your safety, I fear it must appear like I…I harmed you last night. Do you understand?"

Merlin stares at the man, his thoughts once more tumbling.

The man is apologizing to him? For something he hasn't even done?

The man is angry, but not because of his own pride or reputation or at the inconvenience, but because Merlin has been hurt and frightened?

He is worried over Merlin's continued safety?

But he's a slave – a thing – worth less than the dirt and ashes he scrubs at each day. Not once in five years has anyone looked at him like this – like he…matters…

"I'm sorry," Prince Arthur repeats. He gently pulls the blanket that covers Merlin away and tosses it on the floor. His bare skin instantly prickles with gooseflesh as the early morning air washes over shoulders and chest, and he feels suddenly so much more exposed and vulnerable. The prince reaches for the pillow and Merlin, still staring at the prince in open confusion, lifts his head voluntarily this time, ignoring the tightening of his collar as the chain pulls it against his throat, until the softness is gone and he lets his head fall back against the mattress.

The man throws the pillow into a corner and then forgets himself, running hands through his hair and mussing it up. Merlin almost smiles at the way it makes him look like a grumpy, disobedient little boy. This prince is not that old, he realizes with a start. Not much older than Merlin is.

Hope that there might still be good people in the world suddenly flares painfully bright through the abused young slave's heart, catching him completely off guard and making him look away.

There is nothing good for him – not in his lowly life – but at least good is still out there, somewhere, for others.

"I've got to leave now," Prince Arthur says, gesturing toward the door. "I'll find a guard, tell him to come let you go. It shouldn't be long."

Merlin nods again and the man turns to leave.

"Thank you," he suddenly blurts, in a louder voice than he's used all night except for when he'd been screaming. "For not…for not hurting…for –"

Prince Arthur raises a hand, cutting off his stammering, and his face is hard with an almost righteous determination when he speaks. "Merlin, do not ever thank me for doing what is right."

He leaves the room and then Merlin hears the outer door of the chambers shut.

Breath thready again, though the boy has no idea exactly which emotions are causing it this time, the young slave just lies there and stares at the ceiling, so many confusing thoughts rolling around in his head as he prays the guards really will come and release him soon. He never wants to live through another night like this one in his life.

Thank you so much for reading! If you have time, I'd love to know what you think.