Chapter 3
Everything seems different to Arthur as he moves through the small castle that morning – muted, changed, stripped of its luster and beauty.
Or maybe it's just himself who is different – changed in an instant by a trauma that wasn't even his own. He finds himself looking at everything with new, jaded eyes.
Lord Iorwerth's wife – Lady Imogene – looks thin. Does she know of her husband's ideas of pleasure? Is she treated well?
Is there a bruise on that servant's face? Is he deferential because Arthur is a prince, or because he's afraid?
Are the lads in the stables who help Arthur saddle his mount really servants who earn coin, or are they slaves who have no say? He sees no other slave collars, but Arthur finds his newly opened eyes no longer trust anything.
The hour is early and Lord Iorwerth not yet roused after his copious amount of drink the night before, so Arthur feels no guilt about slipping out for a ride around the valley to clear his head. Leon would scold him for going unaccompanied, but Arthur's not in any sort of mood for company.
An hour later when he returns, his emotions are back under control. He's the prince – here as an official representative of the crown. He must maintain diplomacy and decorum.
Which proves spectacularly difficult as he sits with Lord Iorwerth for a late breakfast.
"Good drink is both a pleasure and a pain," the man says with a slight wince as he sits beside Arthur in the private room that has been prepared for them to break their fast. Lady Imogene does not join them; the prince assumes she ate hours earlier when she rose to attend to the household.
Arthur laughs. It sounds hollow to him, but the lord doesn't seem to notice. "One of life's mixed blessings, I suppose," he answers carefully.
"That it is, sire. That it is." Lord Iorwerth takes a large drink from his goblet of water, then starts in on his sausages.
The prince finds himself only picking at his food, pushing it around on his plate, unable to rid the image of the slave boy's emaciated chest – every rib visible – from his mind.
"Speaking of pleasure, lad," the lord speaks again, licking the sausage juices from his fingers and giving Arthur a knowing wink, "how was your night?"
Arthur blushes. He can't help it. He'd tried to plan for this moment on his early morning ride, fathom out what to say. All he really wants to do is call the man to task, express his disgust at the assumption he would enjoy harming another, reprimand the lord's horrible lack of concern for human life – but he can't. He might be royalty, but he is only a prince, not yet even of age. His father is the real power, and he would want this relationship preserved.
Thankfully, the man beside him interprets his unspoken reaction as answer enough, laughing heartily and clapping him on the back. "I knew it! Knew he was just what you needed!"
Arthur gulps some water, gripping the goblet tightly to keep from saying something he'll regret. "Where…ah…did he come from, if you don't mind my asking?" he ventures, trying to sound bored.
"I picked him up about five years ago off a witchfinder. Scrawny little thing, but those twig-like arms have always been good at scrubbing hard to reach places, and it's not like it takes much to feed him, so the investment was worth it." It's as if he's speaking of the sheep he trades at market and not the life of a boy, a mere child, that he's purchased. As he speaks, the man eats heartily, his appetite apparently not affected by either his hangover or the debasing topic of conversation. "Still, I've been watching him for a while, watching him grow, and I soon realized he'd be good for other things too, once he was old enough." He gives another conspiratorial laugh.
The prince pushes his food away, knowing he'll be sick if he tries to eat anything else. The man is peddling in slavery and the flesh – breaking the law. He can't sit silent.
"My father –" he starts to say, about to express how disappointed the king will be if he knows Lord Iorwerth is bending the laws to his whims, but again his intention is mistaken as the man interrupts.
"Oh, your father would have loved him!"
Arthur's jaw hits the floor as he gapes at the man beside him, completely unable to hide his reaction.
"Come now, sire. Don't looked so shocked! All lads think their fathers old and boring, the fun of youth firmly in the past, but your father is a man just like any other. He still knows how to make merry and enjoy life!" He takes a bite of cheese, chewing and swallowing before continuing more thoughtfully. "When Uther sent word he would be making the Journey of the Tithes himself this year, I just knew the gift would be perfect. Just your father's type - young, untouched, for him to open himself…"
Only years and years of diplomacy training keep Arthur from gagging on the spot as more of the truths he's built his young life around shatter.
His father? The slave had been meant for his father? And he would have…have done it? And enjoyed it?
Lord Iorwerth continues, obviously to his guest's distress. "When you arrived in place of the king, I figured if Uther thought you old enough to send in his stead, you were old enough to partake of the gift as well. And I knew you needed it! So serious and uptight! You must relax sometimes, sire! As knights, we lead dangerous, often bloody lives, Arthur. We must do our duty, serve and protect kingdom and crown, with honor and dignity. But life is too short to forgo all adventure and merrymaking. Remember that, lad."
How dare the man speak of honor, dignity, and protection even as he casually offers up a young boy to be a royal's plaything!
Arthur is enraged and revolted. He needs to leave, get out of the room, or he's going to do something he'll regret. His hand strays to his side, seeking his sword, and he's both grateful and upset to remember he left it in his chambers that morning.
"Still, now that you've had your turn, I think I'll have him tonight. He must be good, to bring that blush of red to your cheeks, Arthur," the Lord says, pushing back from his empty plate with a satisfied smile.
The prince freezes.
But…but he'd spared him that! Kept the boy safe! Tried to calm and assure him, do what was right so maybe someday he could erase those terror-filled eyes from his mind and conscience!
With a jolt, Arthur realizes how naïve and stupid he's been.
Merlin is a slave.
Owned by an apparent monster masquerading as a noble man.
There is no safety or assurance in his life.
Arthur has saved him from one night of pain and horror, but the boy has an entire life-time more to survive, with no one to protect him or stop it from happening again and again.
"Lord Iorwerth," he suddenly finds himself blurting, with no real plan, no real thought. Nothing in his mind other than the memory of those terrified blue eyes. "If you don't mind, I think I'd like to…erm…keep him, while I'm here. You're right – I need to relax more and…" He trails off, unable to even pretend to say more.
For just a moment there's a flash of disappointment on the lord's face, but it's quickly replaced by a hearty laugh. "Oh, Arthur, to be young again and have such stamina! Of course, that's fine. I can wait a little longer. Just don't use him up completely, all right, lad?" He slaps Arthur joyfully on the back once more. "Now come, finish your breakfast. We ride to the north fields today. The grain harvest has been plentiful this year and Uther will want a full report."
Relief washes through the prince, but it's short-lived. He isn't sure what he's just impulsively done, what stupid ledge he's perched on, but he does know that teetering in the balance is the very real life of a young slave who has no protection when it all crashes spectacularly down in the end.
00000
Arthur spends the day in the saddle, inspecting the fiefdom's bountiful north fields and tabulating the harvest. With Sirs Leon and Royce alongside and Lord Iorwerth focused on his duties, the prince finds he can slip into a façade of normalcy, pretend the morning's conversation had never happened. The men laugh and joke while admiring the prosperity of the holdings and updating the royal logs. The early autumn weather is perfect, and the fields and scattered homesteads are well cared for. It reminds Arthur why he is proud to call Camelot his home. He can almost forget the whole awful experience had even happened.
Until he returns to his rooms that night, claiming to be tired and wishing to dine alone in his chambers, only to be met with the same pitiful jangling coming from the spare room as last night. One glance through the connecting doorway shows him Merlin in exactly the same degrading position as the evening before, blindfold and gag firmly back in place.
"Oh, by all that's holy, no! Just no!" Arthur growls in frustration, throwing his riding gloves on the table next to the waiting meal and turning right back around to stalk out.
They are not doing this again. Not tonight.
He'd passed a servant and a guard not two corners away. They must have just finished "preparing" his rooms for the night. The castle isn't that large and Arthur is a very good hunter.
He finds the two easily by the loud, lewd conversation they're having about Merlin only three corridors away from his door. They both have the good sense to look slightly guilty when they notice him marching toward them.
"I want the keys," he snaps, letting out all the anger he hasn't been able to show in the presence of Lord Iorwerth. "For my toy," he spits the word the guard has just used to describe the boy still trapped on his spare bed.
"But my lord," the guard stammers. "Lord Iorwerth said to –"
Arthur draws himself up tall, letting every arrogant, uncaring moment from his past fill him. "Are you questioning the wishes of your prince?" he demands coldly.
"Of course not, sire," the man says in a rush, blanching as he digs in his uniform to produce a small set of keys.
Angrily, Arthur snatches them away, then turns and stomps off. The whispers behind him start up again as soon as his back is turned, the two men drawing even more disgusting assumptions for him wanting the keys, but Arthur doesn't stop to correct them. He clenches his fist around the small bits of metal and walks away. Let them think what they will – his concern is for Merlin, whom he knows will be completely re-traumatized and that he's just left alone in the dark.
And he doesn't know when that happened exactly – being concerned for Merlin, not just upset by what had been assumed of him. But it did, and he is, and he can no longer deny to himself that this isn't just a journey to inspect the tithes and prove himself as a prince anymore. It's a rescue mission with far greater stakes at play than his father's approval, especially for one ragged slave boy. He just doesn't know how he's going to pull it off yet.
Merlin is shaking when he returns. He'd obviously heard his loud cursing and then listened as he stomped off, leaving him confused, terrified, and vulnerable.
"It's me. Arthur," the prince says, walking directly to the bed this time.
The boy tenses, and Arthur can literally see his heart racing beneath the dirt and bruises on his thin chest, but he doesn't completely throw himself into a panic, fighting like one possessed to get away.
Taking a few deep breathes, Arthur forced himself to calm down, move slow and soft. Merlin will not understand his anger, only assume it is directed at him and expect pain to follow.
"I'm so sorry, Merlin," he says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Now the boy does shy away, breath quickening.
"No, stay still," Arthur urges, watching the collar's merciless pull. "Let me get these off." He squeezes the bony shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring way, then quickly tugs off the blindfold, not at all surprised it's damp. He throws it away with disgust then makes short work of the gag as well.
Only then does he allow himself to look Merlin in the eyes.
They hold exactly what he'd been afraid of – terror, hurt, humiliation, and…betrayal.
You promised! they whisper at him, more powerfully than any scream.
Arthur hangs his head and glances away. Instead, he turns the boy's head gently to the side, seeking the lock that connects his collar with the chain. It takes a few moments of testing keys before he finds the right one, but finally he's able to pull the metal leash away.
Merlin lets out a small breath of relief but otherwise stays silent, so Arthur goes to his feet. He quickly unlocks the cuffs from both legs, gently easing the skinny ankles free. His eyes narrow with anger at the ring of bruises and chaffed skin that's revealed on each – the boy had struggled hard to try and get away – but he doesn't mention it.
"Here," he says instead, helping Merlin up so he's sitting on the edge of the bed.
The young slave is calmer now, his breathing under control and his shaking has mostly stopped. Still, his eyes are wary and he leaves at least two feet between them on the edge of the bed.
"Thanks," he finally mutters, his toes curling against the cold floor. He doesn't look at the prince.
Arthur nods. "I swore I will not hurt you. I meant that promise."
The boy tilts his head, barely gazing at Arthur's face from under his fringe of dark hair, then glances back at his dirty toes again. "Bryon and Eddie said…" he whispers after a long moment. "When Bryon chained me here again…they said you ordered it," Merlin finally says, and the prince hears the sting of broken trust in the words.
"And I promised you'd be safe but here you are again…" Arthur finishes the unspoken thoughts for him.
Merlin nods.
Arthur sighs and runs his hands through his hair, not even bothering to fight the habit. This is a conversation he doesn't want to have, but Merlin deserves to know the truth just the same.
"Lord Iorwerth was going to take you tonight, now that I'm supposedly done with my gift. The only thing I could think to do was demand your…um…services for the rest of the nights I'm here." Just saying the words brings back Arthur's need to gag.
Merlin's head jerks up, his eyes going impossibly wide as Arthur explains. The boy says nothing for what feels like a lifetime, and the room grows dark around them as they sit there. "Oh," he finally breathes out, looking away.
Arthur stands abruptly, making his way into the main chamber where he lights a taper at the hearth. He goes from sconce to sconce, letting the small flames push back the darkness, releasing pent up anger through movement in a way he can't when trying to sit so calm and carefully.
And Merlin needs a moment of space.
He can see it when he re-enters the smaller room. See it in the boy's shattered expression, hunching shoulders, stuttering breath. The certainty of what his life will become the moment Arthur leaves the castle is hitting the boy full force.
If the slave had looked haunted the night before it's nothing to the utter – brokenness – that fills his eyes now.
"How many nights?" he chokes out as Arthur comes back to the bed, abandoning the spent taper in the unlit fireplace as he passes.
"Two after this," he replies softly, hating his inability to assure anything more.
Merlin sucks in a terrified breath and then nods in resignation, turning his face away to hide the sheen of fresh tears.
"May I uncuff your hands, now?" Arthur asks gently, trying to change the subject and knowing instinctively that he must ask. Releasing Merlin's hands requires the boy willing turn his back on the prince, something Arthur knows is tantamount to an act of faith and trust on the young slave's part. Finally, Merlin nods again and shifts around on the edge of the bed, presenting both his back and his bound hands.
Arthur swallows his gasp of shock when he sees the scars. He shouldn't be shocked – should have known they'd be there. And staring at more evidence of the boy's abuse is not what he's supposed to be doing.
Quickly, Arthur finds the correct key and unlocks the cuffs on his wrists. He discards them on the bed with the rest while Merlin twists around again, wincing as he rolls his shoulders and pulls his hands forward. His thin wrists are raw but in better shape than his ankles, though the white scars that ring them tell Arthur that this is far from the first time his hands have been bound. Self-consciously, Merlin wipes at the wetness on his cheeks.
Arthur pretends not to notice as he reaches for the collar next, turning it to look for the lock, but a trembling hand firmly pushes his own aside.
"No," Merlin says urgently – sadly – his voice resigned.
The prince gets the message – the collar is not to be touched; a fact Merlin probably learned in a very painful way.
"Come on, then," Arthur says, drawing the boy to his feet. "I don't want to stay in this room. Do you?"
Merlin shakes his head fervently, glancing at the bed with all its abandoned restraints and suppressing a shudder.
They enter the main chamber and Merlin just stands there, looking lost and unsure of what to do or where to go, but Arthur strides purposefully toward the wardrobe. He paws through the clothes he brought with him for a moment before he finds what he's looking for – his spare red tunic, old and soft from wear.
"Here," he says, tossing it at the boy. It lands on his head and Merlin actually gives him an annoyed glare as he pulls it off. "Put that on. I can see you shivering from here."
The slave hesitates for a moment, but then quickly complies.
The tunic fits him like an over-large sack, gaping open at the neck and the sleeves swallowing most of his hands. The boy is so thin Arthur's sure he could fit in it twice and still have room to spare, but at least he's mostly covered. It adds a sense of normalcy to their interactions, now that there's a thin layer of clothing between them and the memories of why Merlin was brought there.
Arthur grabs him by the shoulder – carefully, lightly – and steers him to the table, pushing him down into a chair. The food that was left has chilled, but the prince highly doubts Merlin is going to mind. He fills a plate with a little of everything then sets it in front of the boy, adding a goblet of water.
"Eat," he orders kindly.
And for once the boy doesn't need to be told twice.
Arthur rounds the corner of the table and takes his own chair, filling a second plate for himself.
"Slowly," he urges, when the kid tries to put a roll and half a carrot in his mouth at the same time. "You'll make yourself sick."
Merlin pauses, then actually listens - maybe he knows from past experiences that Arthur is right – continuing with his meal in a less frantic way.
Arthur picks at his own food again. He's hungry, but his stomach is still clenched and nauseous, roiling from continued disgust as well as the uncertainty of everything he's learned in the past two days. His whole world – his sure sense of himself – has flipped over-night. It's unsettling at the very least.
He watches the boy instead, his thoughts conflicted. More and more he realizes that he cannot leave him here, abandon him to this fate now that he knows what it will be. Merlin did something to him – changed him in an instant – when their lives were thrown together in that terror-filled moment against their will. Arthur can't walk away now. How could he ever live with himself, safe at home in his comfortable bed at night, knowing the hell this young boy would be living.
But saving him – it won't be easy. He'd traveled light and fast, on a journey of good-will and tradition. He hasn't come equipped to bargain for another's life.
Merlin's plate is empty now. He looks at Arthur questioningly, eyeing the honey cakes that are left on the table as he distractedly pulls the neck of the tunic that keeps slipping down back up his bony shoulder.
"Go ahead," Arthur laughs. He snags a cake for himself, then pushes the other two toward the boy, whose eyes light up with something like real happiness for the first time.
It's amazing the transformation a smile makes on the young slave's face.
That's what he should look like, Arthur thinks to himself. Not this beaten, terrified, shell of a boy.
The tunic slips again as the boy reaches for a cake and Arthur glimpses the brand on his chest before Merlin tugs the cloth back into place.
"I always wondered what these tasted like," the boy says, eyes closing as he slowly chews his first bite.
"What does it taste like?" the prince asks, intrigued.
Merlin thinks for a moment. "Home," he replies softly.
He eats half the cake, savoring each mouthful, but sets it down before he's finished, his shrunken stomach obviously at its limit.
"Merlin, what's the brand from?" Arthur asks, leaning back in his chair with his water goblet and nodding at the scar that is once again peeking through the gaping tunic. "I know Lord Iorwerth's sigil and that's not it." If Merlin remembers a home, he can't have been a slave for long before he ended up where he is now.
The slave literally freezes at the question, the hand that was reaching to once more fix his borrowed shirt stopping in mid-air. His face drains of any color – Arthur hadn't realized it was possible for it to get paler than it already is – and his eyes are instantly wide with panic again.
Arthur realizes he's touched a memory that's just too painful and instantly feels regret for asking. He's trying to help the boy, not constantly retraumatize him. It's just…he has no idea what he's doing, or how he's supposed to act. There's been no training in his life for how to deal with having his world shattered in an instant, for having the mental pedestals he's put his mentors and heroes on crack, for –
"It binds my magic," a soft voice, one he's decided isn't going to answer, suddenly interrupts his thoughts.
And the words halt everything, like a slap to the face.
Thank you to everyone who is reading this, and a huge thank you to those who have taken the time to review. It makes my day!