Untie from an Old Life
Author's Note:
This is set pre-season one, about six months before the timeline of the show started. It's an AU take on how Merlin and Arthur could have met. It's intended as a gen fic, but deals with some sensitive topics, including threatened sexual assault.
Chapter 1
Arthur Pendragon stifles a sigh of relief when Caer Fawydd finally comes into view, trying to keep his thoughts from showing on his face where they're readable by his men. Princes do not get saddle sore, or sigh with relief.
Still, after three days of fast-paced travel on the back of a horse, only stopping for a quick camp at night, Arthur is very glad to see their destination on the horizon.
Next to him, Leon nudges his horse closer and leans in to whisper. "Tired and sore after your first official journey, sire?" His voice is nothing but respectful, but there's a slightly impertinent gleam in his eyes.
Arthur swears silently, realizing his knight has seen right through him.
"Not as tired and sore as you'll be at the next training, Leon," he mutters back.
The knight chuckles as he moves away.
It takes them another hour to travel across the valley and arrive at the gates of the small castle's keep, and another ten minutes still before they've wound through the small village and arrive at the castle proper.
Arthur is dismounting, desperately trying not to show how stiff he is, when he hears the hearty voice of Lord Iorwerth coming from the steps.
"Arthur, lad! I was expecting your father!"
He glances up and smiles. Lord Iorwerth is already down the steps and crossing the courtyard. He's a broad man, slightly older than Arthur's father, and his hair and beard are red mixed with grey. He holds out a hand as he reaches the prince and Arthur clasps it warmly in the traditional knight's grip.
"I'm sorry, Lord Iorwerth. There was a last-minute change in plans. He was looking forward to coming, but there's trouble in the seaport and he ultimately decided he didn't dare leave."
"Sent you instead, did he?" the older man says with a small laugh, patting Arthur on the back. "Your first official Inspecting of the Tithes?"
Arthur beams proudly.
"That must make you…what…eighteen years now?"
"Twenty!" Arthur corrects, trying not to sound like an insulted youth and glaring surreptitiously at Leon out of the corner of his eye to make him stop smiling.
Their host laughs again, slapping him on the arm. "I knew that, sire. I just couldn't resist. Well, Prince Arthur, official representative of the Crown of Camelot, it is our honor to welcome you to Caer Fawydd!"
"Thank you, Lord Iorwerth. I hope you know your friendship and loyalty toward the crown are of great value."
"Come," the man says. "My servants will show you and your men to your rooms. You've had a long journey and I'm sure you would like to freshen up before we celebrate with a welcome feast on the eve."
Arthur runs a hand across the scratchy stubble on his chin and has to agree – cleaning up sounds absolutely wonderful.
00000
Arthur reluctantly leaves the warmth of the hall behind, his stomach full to bursting from the rich foods that had been offered in his honor and his sides sore from laughter.
"Now, you will never tell Uther I told you that story!" Lord Iorwerth laughs from beside him, swaying slightly from the amount of ale he's put away during the feast.
"Of course not, I wouldn't dare," Arthur answers, only half jesting. Lord Iorwerth's memories had loosened considerably as the night wore on and his cup ran dry multiple times. Arthur had enjoyed himself immensely, but he wouldn't dream of letting the king know all he has learned about Uther's own past adventures.
Arthur himself had barely touched his goblet. It had been tempting, and he knew no one would blame him, but this is the first real solo responsibility his father has trusted him with – he is determined to make no mistakes. It's best he stay sober and aware.
Too sober, apparently – as he's unable to completely hide the yawn that creeps up on him suddenly, the exhaustion of the day pulling at his tired body.
"Look at me, boring one so young with tales of the good old days," the older man speaks as they walk together down the corridor, obviously having seen his struggle. "Stealing all your time. Go on, sire, turn in for the night. There will be plenty of time for catching up during the rest of the week. I just hope you aren't completely worn out." The man is smiling again, only this time there's a distinctly conspiratorial slant to it.
"Why is that, Lord Iorwerth," Arthur asks with his own small laugh. "A man can't be tired after three days on the trail?"
"You're much too tense and serious, didn't relax a bit tonight," his father's friend says, the smile growing fond as he shakes his head. "Just like your father – determined to prove your worth. All work and no play is bad for the soul, Arthur. I hope you manage to relax a bit, while you're here as my guest. I've left you a small gift in your chambers – a surprise. Hopefully it will help."
Arthur laughs again, though his sides regret it. Lord Iorwerth is quite the man. As fierce and hard a warrior as there ever has been – he has to be to hold one of Camelot's outermost fiefdoms and make it prosper. But he never does anything halfway, including his merrymaking. "Thank you," Arthur tells him, waving as he sets off down the corridor to the chambers he's been given.
The older man chuckles one last time and then weaves off to find his own rooms and bed. Arthur doesn't envy him the hangover he's certain to have come the morrow.
The fire is roaring when Arthur steps into his rooms, the bed turned down and his clothes neatly put away in the wardrobe. The chambers are large – the best in the castle and obviously reserved for entertaining royalty. He'd explored them earlier, noting that there were actually two connected bedchambers – a second, smaller one that could be used for a servant or spouse attached to a main one by a small alcove hall. Arthur has no use for it, though, so he ignores it now as he unbuckles his belt and lays his sword on the table. A flagon of wine and tray of expensive fruit rests on it, and Arthur shakes his head again at the antics of his host. The feast would have been more than enough, without the extra gift of the delicacies left for him to snack on. Absently, he pops a grape into his mouth and then sits on the edge of his bed.
More than anything now, he just wants to fall into the soft covers and sleep for a dozen hours or more. He's just finished tugging his second boot off when he hears faint clanking coming from the connected bedchamber.
Instantly alert, his sword is in one hand while he holds the candle in the other even as he edges on sock-clad feet through the connecting doorway and the other room comes fully into view. What he sees at the edge of the candlelight stops him completely in his tracks as his mind struggles to process the images his eyes are sending him.
There, lying on the extra bed, is a boy.
He wears nothing but ragged breeches - every rib and bone in his skinny chest and shoulders on sickening display. A leather collar – a slave collar, the prince notes with growing disgust – wraps around his tense throat, a chain connected to the head of the bed pulling it painfully tight. Metal cuffs circle his stick-like ankles, separate chains leading from each one to the posts at the foot of the bed. His hands are hidden, but the way his arms disappear beneath him in what looks like a very uncomfortable way, Arthur has no doubt they are cuffed securely behind his back and pressed achingly into the bed by his weight. He is making no sound, but it wouldn't have mattered as a cloth gag is tied through his mouth. Worst of all is the blindfold around the boy's eyes – the prince can tell it's damp. It might be wet from sweat, but Arthur suspects the cause is tears.
This is his gift? A slave boy who can't be over seventeen summers? Bound to his bed, presented by one of his father's oldest friends?
It is sickeningly obvious what he's expected to do with such a gift, and the idea that Arthur would be willing – even excited – to force himself on anyone, much less a slave who is literally blindfolded, gagged, and tied up… The prince fights the urge to empty his stomach in the corner. Instead, he lets out a string of curses in disgust and anger, his sword clanging to the stone floor as he tosses it aside before moving to light the wall sconces.
The boy's head turns sharply at the sounds and it's as if a spell has been broken. He instantly starts moving violently, shaking his head as garbled cries come through the gag, pushing himself as far from Arthur as he can, his feet scrambling desperately within the few inches of give the chains allow, trying for purchase against the bedding even as the collar tightens more, choking him.
"No, stop!" Arthur cries, cursing himself this time as he sets the candle on a side table and rushes to the bed. He tries to lay a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, but the panicked, desperate struggles increase tenfold and Arthur knows without a doubt that it's tears that are soaking the blindfold. The boy's gaunt frame is now wracked with sobs even as he still tries to twist away.
With no idea what to do, Arthur grabs both bony shoulders and pulls the boy back to the center of the bed, allowing the tension on the slave collar to release, then gently pushes the boy down into the mattress to stop his thrashing. Again, it's as if some string has been cut and the boy suddenly freezes, though his chest still heaves with muffled sobs.
"Sh, sh," Arthur tries to sooth, not letting go of his hold on the kid's shoulders. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just breathe, okay? Sh…"
They stay like that for several long minutes, neither moving. The boy does not relax under his hold, not that Arthur expects him to, but he doesn't struggle to get away either. Gradually, his sobbing calms to just tears and muted whimpers.
"I'm going to remove the blindfold" Arthur tells him, using the voice he reserves for working with a spooked, young colt. "And the gag. I promise I won't hurt you."
Slowly, gently, Arthur lets go with his right hand and moves it up to the boy's head. He carefully tugs the blindfold off, wincing in sympathy as more than a few strands of black hair come with it, caught in the knot. Red-rimmed, terrified blue eyes are revealed, their pupils blown wide with fear, and Arthur bites back another angry curse. Without the blindfold, the boy looks even younger and his heart clenches. The prince shakes his head and quickly goes to work on the knot at the back of the gag.
A minute later, he pulls the soggy rag from the boy's mouth and throws it aside. The boy sputters and coughs, sucking in a few gulps of air before turning his face to the side and spitting on the sheets. Arthur notes with more rage that there are specks of blood in the spital.
Again, no one moves for what feels like an eternity, Arthur fighting fury and uncertainty, the boy still completely caught up in his dread. Eventually, the prince takes his hand from the boy's other shoulder and stands up, backing quietly away.
The boy still doesn't move, but his eyes never once leave Arthur, staring in a way that reminds him of a mouse who never looks away from the cat that has it cornered. He sighs, running frustrated hands through his hair.
So much for a nice relaxing evening before a day of politics.
He goes to where he tossed his sword and picks it up. The boy on the bed flinches powerfully.
"What…no…no!" Arthur says hastily, sighing again. "Just…I'll be right back."
He hurries into his bedchamber and throws the sword onto the table where no one can see it and draw the wrong ideas, then lets his hands sink to the polished surface, back slumping as he hangs his head.
There is a frightened – justifiably – slave boy chained up in his quarters, offered up to him for pleasure by a man he's always thought of like a jovial uncle.
This is Camelot.
Slavery is supposedly illegal in his kingdom!
The man had laughed and slapped his back and told him to enjoy his night!
Arthur again fights back his urge to vomit.
He has no idea what to do, how to handle this, if he will ever erase the sight of such unadulterated terror from his mind. All he knows is that he would never do what Lord Iorwerth is blatantly encouraging, and that he can't just leave the boy there like that.
Arthur pushes away and grabs a goblet. He fills it with cool water from the pewter pitcher that has been left, then quietly returns to the other room.
The boy hasn't moved or relaxed in the slightest.
"Here," he says, walking to the side of the bed. He slips a hand under the boy's head – ignoring another flinch – and raises it slightly. The boy tries to turn his head away as he brings the goblet to his lips but Arthur doesn't let him. "It's just water, I swear it," he assures softly. Reluctantly, the boy drinks, though his gulps turn desperate as he realizes the truth of Arthur's words. The prince lets him drain the goblet, then sets it aside and gently lowers the boy's head back to the mattress.
Then he steps away again, giving the boy space which is the only thing he can right now.
"My name's Arthur," he says quietly, even as he begins searching the room. He'd thoroughly searched both rooms when he'd first arrived earlier that afternoon – a habit born out of battle training – but obviously things have been added since he left for the feast and then returned. He just hopes one of them is the key to the boy's chains.
Ten minutes later he's starting to guess the answer is no. He's looked everywhere, even searching the main room - well, everywhere except around the bed where the boy lies, always watching him with a fear Arthur had no idea one skinny person could sustain for so long.
"What are you looking for?" a voice suddenly breaks the silence when Arthur is digging behind the curtains one more time. It's hoarse and barely more than a whisper.
The prince pulls his head back out of the drapes in surprise.
"The key," he says quickly. "For your…for the…" He can't finish the sentence and instead just gestures toward the boy, feeling ashamed.
"Oh," the boy replies, and for the first time Arthur thinks he sees confusion mingling with the fear in his eyes. "The guards have it," he whispers.
Arthur swears again, letting his hands drop to his sides. Out of desperation, he goes back through the main chamber and sticks his head out into the hall, looking up and down.
It's empty.
Right, he thinks with nausea. To give him privacy as he enjoys his gift.
Maybe wine isn't such a bad idea. Arthur drains half a goblet to steady his stomach and mind before returning once again to the other room.
The boy may be marginally less tense this time, though he can't really tell because he stiffens up the moment Arthur is back in the chamber. The prince sighs for the twenty-fifth time as he approaches the bed, grabbing a chair and bringing it with him. The gods know he doesn't want to sit there, staring at the boy while he's trussed up on the bed like prey, but it's better than standing over him and there's no way in the five kingdoms he'll touch the bed unless he has to.
He sits, purposefully in the boy's line of sight.
"I'm sorry I can't release you," he says, trying to show he means it.
"Why?" the boy asks quietly after the silence in the room has stretched immeasurably.
Thoughts rush through Arthur's mind.
Because I don't want you here! Because I didn't ask for this! Because you look hurt and frightened and uncomfortable! Because having power doesn't justify abuse!
"Because this is wrong," is what comes from his lips.
The boy blinks, the confusion on his face deepening.
Arthur shifts awkwardly in the chair, tiredness hitting him like a wave. It has been a very long day and he's traveled many miles in just a few short days. He'd been much looking forward to a night of deep sleep.
Wearily, he glances up and down the boy's still-trembling form. It's blatantly obvious he isn't being well cared for. His pale skin stretches over his bones, and scars cover his chest – marks of slavery that don't need any imagination to fill in the blanks. Arthur thinks about offering food – there's still fruit in the other room – but quickly shoves that idea aside. Trying to feed his un-asked for guest grapes while said boy is bound to the prince's bed would bring the terror raging back, no matter how hungry the kid must be. He lets the thought go and continues his quick appraisal.
One scar on the boy's chest stands out from the rest – a strange mark Arthur doesn't recognize about the size of a closed fist that's branded into the skin above the boy's breastbone. He wants to study it, try to figure out its meaning, but he forces himself not to stare. Finally, his eyes climb to the boy's neck.
"The collar," he says, meeting the boy's eyes again. "Could I undo – "
"No," the boy interrupts, quickly shaking his head.
Arthur leans forward, resting his fists on his legs.
"Do you have a name?" he asks quietly.
Blue eyes stare into his very soul before there's a soft answer.
"Merlin."