A/N: This first one is a bit of a segue from last chapter, as it begins with the element of that prompt, "Waking Up Restrained".

2. Part 1: Kidnapped

("Collected" from The Artorius Blade)

Arthur was aware first, of pain and voices. He blinked at his lap, and felt a pulling soreness in his arms, in his neck. He shook his head to clear his senses.

He was seated in one of his dining room chairs – tied to the chair. As clarity sharpened, he lifted his head – he'd been unconscious minutes only, it seemed.

Long enough, damn it all. Long enough.

Gwen – it hurt to swing his head around, but that wasn't important. Gwen was seated at the end of the couch in the connected living room facing him. Her face was calm – but her eyes spat fire, and Freya was next to her. A black-clad figure stood behind them, barrel-chested and with his feet far apart, pistol at the ready.

Arthur met Gwen's eyes and the messages telegraphed instantly. Are you all right? – Yeah, I'm fine.

Gwaine was motionless facedown on the living room carpet, hands and feet zip-tied. Percival stood near him, a trickle of blood descending his stony face as he allowed a much smaller figure in disguising black – boots, trousers, shirt, gloves, ski mask – to fasten the same plastic binding strips on his own limbs.

Next to his foot was a palm-sized canister Arthur recognized. A flash-bang. The last thing he'd heard before losing consciousness had been the windows breaking, then, as the sense-destroying device was shot inside the room. Probably several of them.

He turned his head further at the sound of a groan. Elyan was already bound to a chair as Arthur was, dragged back against the far wall of the dining room behind him. Another black-clad figure was fastening a zip-tie around Leon's ankles in a similar position.

That's all of us, he thought. Where's Merlin?

Something hard and small jammed under the edge of his jaw on his right, forcing his head almost all the way over to his left shoulder.

"Arthur Drake," said an unfamiliar male voice.

"What do you want?" he said.

The intruder beside Leon left him seated and bound, to take a position near the women, pistol pointed. Percival was pushed to his knees beside Gwaine's feet, then down to a completely prone position. His attacker stepped back, re-arming himself to cover both knights on the floor.

"I have plenty of hostages here," the unseen intruder at Arthur's immediate right said. "I didn't come to play games. Nor, I assure you, did I come to kill anyone. But if you do not do as we say quickly, and courteously, we will shoot – someone. It does not matter to us who."

"So tell me what you want," Arthur said. He had no guarantee that this man would keep his word, but so far his actions had been to subdue and restrain. The knights would not act without Arthur's signal, and he could see only one course of action was open to him now – cooperate. And wait. And where the hell was–

"Three things. Your signature, your sword, and–"

"I've got him," someone else said, another male voice from the corridor to the bedrooms.

The barrel of the gun under the edge of Arthur's jaw retreated as the one who was clearly the leader turned. Arthur turned as well, as the biggest of the five intruders staggered into the room, leaning forward against the weight of something he was dragging. When they reached the polished-wood floor of the dining room, it was easier going, and the big man slung his burden forward.

In his gloved hand, a zip-tie binding a pair of boots together – boots at the end of jean-clad legs, pale skin showing at the torso where the faded red t-shirt had been rucked up by the trip down the hallway carpeting – and the shaggy mop of black hair. His face was turned away. In the sudden absolute silent of the room, the tumble of Merlin's limp body on the wood flooring was obscene. One of the women gasped – probably Freya.

Arthur's hands were wrenched painfully as he instinctively reacted – but the leader cocked his pistol in a clear warning that needed no words.

"Any trouble?" the leader addressed the big man, who shrugged, leaning down to pinch something away from Merlin's neck.

Damn. There went plans B through F.

The leader turned back to Arthur, eyes and teeth gleaming through his ski mask. "Three things," he repeated pleasantly. "Your signature, your sword, and your sorcerer."

Arthur opened his mouth to say, think of that all by yourself, did you? and thought better. He couldn't take the chance that they would be in the least bit careless of their bullets. "What do you mean, sorcerer?" he said instead, keeping his voice even. The room was vibrating with tension – either that or Arthur had been hit harder than he'd thought.

The leader didn't answer, instead busying himself extracting a sheaf of folded papers from a zipped breast pocket. "Here's the deal," he said pleasantly. "You're going to sign all control of your company over to my boss. You're going to give the sword to us, and then we'll go. Any hint of trouble after we're out the door, any whisper of retaliation and he –" the leader nodded significantly at Merlin on the floor – "will have a very rough time."

He spread the paper on the table with one hand, holding his gun in the other, produced a pen, and then a knife that he flicked open. "Now," he said. "Your sorcerer here is the most valuable of these three to my boss. Which is why I haven't bludgeoned him repeatedly over the head. He needs to be able to think, eventually. And I'm not going to be careless about injuring him, because the magic is in the blood, I understand. But…" he paused and sent a glance around the room, making sure he had everyone's attention… "the boy has ten toes. Which he will not need at all to fulfill our plans for him. I trust I've made myself clear." He looked back at Arthur. "No tricks, please. Are you ready to sign?"

Arthur took a deep breath. "Not yet," he said. A calculated risk.

"Pardon?"

"The women," he said, his heart pounding, not from fear, but from adrenalin. "Lock them in the kitchen, or something. Somewhere safe, out of the way."

The leader leaned closer. "Do you think I'm stupid?" he said. "In the kitchen? With knives, and appliances, and–"

"In the pantry, then," Arthur said. Food, and water – the women could stay there for days, if they had to. The door was solid – they could barricade themselves in. And if things went wrong out here…

"A show of good faith," the leader said. "Fine." He turned and quirked one black-gloved finger. "Ladies. Empty your pockets, please. Then follow my associate, and do recall that the safety of your lovers depends on your good behavior."

Gwen was the first to obey, her eyes on Arthur, once again passing messages. I love you. Take care of Andrew. Freya stayed close to her, obeying their captors as they retreated past Arthur and Leon into the kitchen. He held the leader's gaze until he heard the pantry door shut, and lock, and the two black-clad men returned.

The leader circled behind Arthur's chair, slid the cold blade of the knife between his hands to snap the plastic zip-tie. Then slammed the pen down on the stack of papers. "Sign." Arthur made a show of rubbing his wrists where the ties had constricted the blood flow. Then he moved the pen and started to read. It worked for half a minute, then the leader snapped, "What are you doing? You initial each page at the bottom, then sign the last page."

"I'm going to read it first," Arthur stated, with as much dignity as he could gather. He could feel the knights' tension and concentration as if they were his own, but without a workable plan… he could see no way of successful resistance that did not involve someone getting shot.

"The hell you are," the leader said. "It doesn't matter if you find something you disagree with, does it? It's not going to change, and you're going to sign anyway. Do it."

Arthur reluctantly put pen to paper, and initialed. Then he turned the page over, and repeated it. There were only six pages of documentation, and when he reached the final page, he scrawled his signature slowly, looking up into the expressionless black ski mask of the leader.

The man's stare was broken by a muffled moan from Merlin on the floor. He twitched, and the dining room light dimmed suddenly, then flared brighter. The big man who'd dragged Merlin down the hall stepped back, pointing his handgun down at the sorcerer on the floor.

"Is that him doing that?" he said uncertainly. In the gathering room, the stereo fuzzed static softly, and in the china cabinet a goblet tipped over and cracked.

Arthur didn't know whether to be exultant or terrified. An opportunity? Wait, he told himself. Wait.

"Don't shoot him again," the leader said, hopping off his seat on the table and peering at Merlin on the floor.

He twitched again, and the light over Arthur's head flickered twice. Arthur didn't think he was the only one holding his breath.

"One more," the big man suggested, aiming his pistol.

The leader shook his head, reaching quickly to physically readjust the other's grip on the weapon. "No," he decided. "I was told, a double dose could send him into cardiac arrest."

"But he's fighting the first," the big man objected. "What'll we do if–"

The leader snapped his fingers at one of the others. "Tape," he said. A roll of silvery duct tape was tossed to him, and he passed it over to the other. "Shut his mouth, and cover his eyes," he said.

The big man knelt to slice a length off and plaster it across Merlin's mouth, then unwound the roll, wrapping the sticky gray tape several times around the sorcerer's head to seal off his sight.

The leader gave Arthur a sidelong glance. "You," he said, "are answerable for his conduct. You get through to him, you make sure he behaves. Or else."

Arthur noticed that each of the black-dressed intruders had their weapons pointed at the head or the heart of one of his men. It sent ice sheeting through his heart - I can't lose any of them. He nodded. "Fine."

The man made a preemptory gesture and Arthur realized that he had no intention of releasing his ankles, so instead of hopping, Arthur merely knelt from his chair to the floor, stretched himself out next to his friend.

"Hey," he said softly near Merlin's ear. Merlin twitched again, then began to move, slowly and without coordination. Arthur hoped his words would be understood. "Hey, you have to stop doing magic," he said again. "You hear me in there? Someone's going to get hurt – they'll hurt someone if you keep trying to fight. No more magic right now."

Merlin flinched, mumbling against the tape over his face. The leader leaned down and said, "Any magic, and Arthur dies. Got that?" His glance included Arthur, then he nodded a signal to the biggest intruder.

He knelt next to Merlin, taking a small plastic case from his pocket, and shaking out two small bright orange objects – foam earplugs. Squeezing them small, he inserted them into Merlin's ear canals; once they'd expanded back into shape, they'd block almost all sound completely from the sorcerer's hearing.

"Now for the sword," the leader hinted.

"Cut my feet loose," Arthur returned.

The man pointed his pistol at Leon's chest; there was three feet between the barrel and the knight's heart.

Arthur protested swiftly, "I can't very well go get it if–"

"Just tell me where it is," the leader suggested.

Leon looked right into Arthur's eyes and shook his head no.

Arthur hesitated, and the leader took two steps to his left, pointed the pistol at Merlin, and fired. The bullet tore into the floorboards between Merlin and Arthur, scoring Merlin's face and Arthur's right forearm with tiny splinters. Both of them jerked away from each other.

"The game room," Arthur said in disgust, pointing in the right direction. Merlin was trembling, but whether from shock, fear, or anger, Arthur couldn't tell. "It's on the pool table."

He reached to touch his friend, soothe him or reassure him, but the leader jerked his pistol to command Arthur to return to his chair, produced another zip-tie to bind his hands. He recognized eagerness and impatience vying with the caution in the leader – it made the man more dangerous, the closer he got to achieving his goal, not less.

One of the black-clothed men returned carrying the rifle case where Merlin had hidden Excalibur, and the leader cracked it open to check its contents. "Well, that's it for us," he said brightly, stuffing the folded papers back into his pocket. "And remember – even though no one died here tonight, they could have. You all have your lives. As for your friend…" He glanced at Merlin and shrugged. "If he cooperates, he'll be well-treated."

An agonizing pang shot through Arthur's chest. Merlin never cooperated. They wouldn't know that, wouldn't understand – He couldn't let them take his friend, had to do something, even at this last minute – but what? What in hell what?

"Who knows?" The leader shrugged. "You may even see him again some day."

The big man reached again for a grip on the zip-tie binding Merlin's feet, started to drag him through the gathering-room toward the door, though Merlin, it seemed, could not go without struggling. Arthur was not the only one who pulled against the zip-ties, then, but the other three intruders retreated silently, cautiously, pistols ready yet to make sure their prisoners could not try anything.

The leader's teeth flashed at Arthur through the ski mask, and he added, "Although, he may not know who you are by then…"

The sounds of their departure faded, down the hall to the front door, outside. Outside, the sound of engines, starting, shifting gear, fading.

Arthur let his body fall forward as far as it was able, resting his chest on his knees as the back of the chair and the zip-tie cutting into his wrists pulled painfully.

2. Part 2: Kidnapped

("MisDirection"and "Dinner and Company" from The Towers of Lionys)

Dust and flakes of stone gritted under Freya's bare feet as she crossed the roof to the stair at the back of her home, and she considered that she'd have to gather new lengths of willow, whenever she could make it out to the forest, for a new broom. Stepping over the parapet to the stair, she gave the descent the care and attention necessary to keep from slipping and bumping every block on the way down, even as familiar as she was with the short, narrow steps.

The daisies were up, tiny feathery green beginning to show in the center of the dark earth in the pots, placed on one of the weathered plank tables that formed her rooftop garden. The thyme and hawk-weed were up as well, soaking in the afternoon sunlight. Perhaps the sorrel would come back this year, that way she wouldn't have to dig another series of plants on her day in the woods, and then she'd have to dip a bucketful of water from the barrel at the corner of the building that caught the drainage of rainwater to moisten the soil of the plants that were on the roof. Oh, and the daffodils should be done today, she couldn't forget the dry bulbs she'd been saving wrapped in cloth.

As she reached the ground and put her hand against the door of the house to push it open, thinking the threshold needed sweeping also, there was a whisper of sound behind her, the soft scrape of a boot on the dirt floor of the alley.

She turned with a smile for whatever neighbor it might be, and froze, her reaction and recognition immediate. The cloaked figure loomed, eyes blazing from the depths of his hood, and she gasped his name. Scant hours earlier she'd seen him use magic to attack visitors to their city in the main street; she'd seen one of the visitors defend the party with obvious magic, before giving chase.

But Thomas had managed to shake the black-haired man, after all, and he'd seen her give the stranger-sorcerer directions in the pursuit.

"I'm very sorry, Freya," he said. "But he's too persistent. I hoped you hadn't recognized me, but…"

His arms lifted in swift menace, his body slammed hers into the doorframe. His eyes glowed golden, and then–

She woke in a small room that wasn't much larger than a closet. Windowless, and airless. There was a fat candle stuck on a dusty rotting crate with its own wax, smoking slightly as it burned. She sat up slowly, her head feeling thick and dizzy. A smell lingered, of filthy gutters and the worst of sickrooms, and though the floor was dry, she found she did not want to remain sitting on it.

Managing to gain her feet, she tried the door. There was a fraction of give in the thick planking, but it remained secure against her best efforts.

There was an ache in the pit of her stomach that first she identified as anxiety. But after a few calming breaths – she wasn't hurt, after all, and currently wasn't being threatened – it didn't ease. She ought not to be hungry, either, there had been the last of the chicken stew for a noon meal, and some dried pear… She pressed experimentally on her middle with her fingers and the ache intensified like that of a bruise. Like she'd been kicked while unconscious, but - she ran her hands quickly over ribs, sides, arms – it was only the one place, in the middle of her belly.

That teased a memory. Years ago, when she and her older brother had been fooling around, he'd snatched her to throw her over his shoulder, his bones and hard muscles bruising the tender softness of her abdomen. She'd kicked him and beat on his back with her fists and finally her brother had been forced to put her down again.

Well. That made sense, she supposed. Thomas had used magic on her, had carried her unconscious over his shoulder, to – wherever here was. Some place she did not want to be.

An indefinable panic rose in her throat.

But she forced it down. And investigated the door to see if there was any gap she could see through, or hear through…

There were footsteps, loud careless footsteps, that had her retreating to the back of the closet-room. Scattered around the clumping footfalls was the sharper jangle of metal – keys. The noises stopped just outside the room, metal scraped, and the door opened outward.

The man was fat and coarse, his skin unpleasantly shiny where it wasn't obscured by the bristle of gray hair on head and chin. He lounged in the doorway, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood, casually perusing her from head to bare feet.

"Well," he drawled inexplicably, "you better be worth it." She took an involuntary step back. "Take off your dress," he added.

She crossed her arms, wondering if she was awake at all, and not simply caught in a nightmare. "I will not," she said, lifting her chin.

He snorted. "So you're one of those." He slouched forward until he was inside the room, still leaning casually on the doorframe. He left the sliver of wood dangling from the corner of his mouth and hitched his wide leather belt a little higher on his sagging paunch. "You know the name Halig?" he said.

She did. Halig was a slave-trader. But that was illegal in Lionys.

"Then you know you're not here for ransom, and I didn't buy you for my own use." He was not being sympathetic, just roughly reasonable. "Take off the dress."

Freya shook her head.

He moved swiftly for a fat man. Before she could so much as flinch, he had one hand fisted in the hair at the back of her head, and one hand clamped around her wrist so tightly she could feel her bones shift.

"I don't mind bruising you none," he said. Several of his teeth were rotting in spite of the pick, and his breath carried the stench. "Bruises don't matter much to a buyer, but the attitude…" He gave her a brutal shake, yanking her head back so far she would have lost her balance but for his grip on her arm, a grip white-hot with pain. "We'll sell you with bruises, but not the attitude," he reassured her. "How many – is up to you. Hm?" He shook her again, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, overwhelmed by his bulk, his strength, his stench. The pain. "Be a good girl. The cooperative ones, the pretty ones, the smart ones – I can ask a higher price. That gets you a better class of owner, you see? Take off your dress."

He released her in a shove against the back wall. He'd broken the cord she used to bind her hair, and it spilled down over her shoulders.

She couldn't run. She couldn't scream, with no assurance of anyone hearing or helping, and his threat hanging so heavily in the tiny room. She could only wait for an opportunity better than this one.

Freya turned her back to him, and he snickered, but otherwise made no attempt to touch her or continue the conversation. Her right wrist was throbbing, her fingers numb and clumsy, sometimes sending little splinters of pain shooting from fingertips to elbow, but she managed to unfasten the row of buttons down the bodice of the dress, collar to belt, and peeled it off her shoulders, sliding one arm out and then the other.

Humiliation brought tears to her eyes, but she pretended it was the discomfort of her wrist. She leaned over to step out of the top of the dress without losing her balance, one foot, then the other.

She didn't want to, but she turned to face Halig, clutching her dress to the front of her. He stretched out his hand, making an impatient gesture of command for her to give him the dress. She didn't, and he stepped forward to snatch it from her anyway, tossing it over his arm.

"Nothing personal," he informed her. "The clothes is sold separately. This way, they stay clean, and I've found it makes my merchandise easier to handle–" he leered at her – "for me and the customer, both. Less likely to run, easier to retrieve if so happens. Which isn't often." He looked her over again, the thin white shift that fell mid-calf and had only inch-wide straps over her shoulders in place of sleeves. "Doesn't cost much to feed you, see, so if we have to wait out some… bruising… til I can get good money for you, it's profit for me in the end anyway. C'mon."

He reached for her and she lifted her arms defensively. He chose to grab her right forearm, through carelessness or design, and she stumbled quickly after him, doing her best to keep up. She would not cry out, she would not beg or bargain or even ask him to switch his grip to the other arm.

Down a dim stinking hallway to a larger room, smelling more strongly of damp and mold and fear. There were cages, though currently unoccupied. Two larger ones like prison cells, and a row of others not much larger than a clothes trunk, held about three feet off the ground by a sturdy shelf that formed the top of a line of storage cupboards.

"You can't," she said, raising her arm in his hand soothe pressure moved off her wrist to her forearm. "Do you know that I was kidnapped? Whatever he told you, the man who brought me here–"

"I've done business with him before," Halig said, taking little notice of her struggles or her surprise. He pulled her to the row of smaller cages and selected the one in the middle, swinging the door open. "We have an arrangement. In you get."

"I have a brother," she protested, "we have some money–"

He snorted. Probably it was something he heard before, maybe a lot, maybe it didn't matter to him if she told the truth or not – she was his, and to him that was a sure thing.

She struggled then, she couldn't help it. Not even a dog would be put in a kennel that small. He merely tossed her dress over the top of the row of cages and used both hands to stuff her unceremoniously into the opening. The back of her head banged on the edge of the top of the cage, and in the second of blinking away the disorienting sting, he also kicked her shin sharply. She drew her leg up instinctively, and he shoved her, releasing her arms as she fell backward onto the bars that formed the floor of the cage. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle and forced her leg to bend, as he closed the door of the cage.

Then, with another jangle of keys, he locked it, retrieved her dress, and sauntered from the room, slamming the door again. Another key, another lock.

Freya took one deep breath after another, trying to stay calm, then pushed herself up off her back, to a sitting position against the back of the cage. She didn't have to extend her arms all the way to touch both sides, or the top, and if the gaps between the bars had been wider, she could have stuck her feet through the front of the cage. Instead she drew her knees up and tucked the skirt of her shift around her legs, hugging her arms to keep as much warmth to herself as possible, cradling her throbbing right arm.

It was quiet. Too quiet, almost.

Wherever they were, it was remote from townspeople, business, daily routines. It made a depressing sort of sense. She pushed against each bar with her left hand, tried to twist them to test for any give, unable to simply yield and accept, but there was no purchase for hope of accomplishing freedom on her own. The metal felt grimy, and she tried not to think about what might be coating the bars of this sort of prison.

She shifted her position, trying for more comfort, and a nauseating twinge shot through her wrist.

Disbelief. How had this happened? It couldn't be happening, not to her. It was laughable, she was nobody. Insignificant and innocuous. Yet she was undeniably caged, unclothed, injured, hungry and thirsty and tired.

And scared. She blinked deliberately, several times.

So there was nothing to be done, here and now. It didn't mean she had to start imagining the details of a journey to some distant auction block, the terrible uncertainty of a new owner, a new home, new tasks. She would not allow herself to hope for kindness or any sort of appreciation of her abilities or skills, that meant she'd accepted a change in status.

No. She was Freya, she was a gardener. She lived in Lionys with her brother–

She lifted her head, dimly aware that time had passed and light had been lost from the pit of a room she was in. She could hear water dripping somewhere and her own breathing, quickened now that she'd thought of–

The keys and bolt scraped, and her muscles tensed involuntarily. She recognized Halig by his shape, before the light from the lamp he carried in one hand fell on his features. He sauntered over to her and set the lamp down on the top of the next crate before shoving a crust of bread through the bars of the one she was in, showering crumbs.

"Dinner," Halig said in his brusque dispassionate way. "Thirsty?"

He tipped the water-skin he held in his other hand, tepid water splashing over her legs, giving her the immediate choice of trying to drink as he poured, or catch the stream in her hands. She did both and ended up damp and breathless and unsatisfied.

"Eat that," Halig said, pointing to the chunk of bread by her ankle. "We'll be leaving at first light, and it'll be a few hours after that when you get anything else."

"Please can you," she tried desperately, "at least give my brother the option of paying your price?"

He grimaced at her with every one of his rotting teeth, the light of the lamp reflected in his greasy skin. " 'Fraid I can't, love," he said. "It's no good for a business like mine, to sell merchandise in the same city where I bought them. Just creates more problems for me."

She'd have to wait it out, then. Wait and watch for someone with a spark of sympathy who could and would get word back to her brother.

Halig left the lamp, at least. She made the bread last, taking small bites, chewing slowly, as much to give her something to pass the time, as to make her body believe it was more. Then she sat, alone, with no expectation of rescue or escape.

She tried to distract and amuse her mind, thinking of the strangers visiting the palace, what they would wear and do and say… and eat.

Her stomach rumbled unpleasantly, and she thought instead of the black-haired man chasing Thomas, wondering how such a mild, soft-spoken man could be capable of such violence, and why, and who he was trying to kill and whether he'd try again. Whether he'd done this sort of thing before, and how he knew Halig… who'd hurt her wrist and taken her clothes and kicked her into a cage like a dog.

Her throat ached with a sense of humiliation and helplessness. That wasn't helping.

She thought of home, tried to picture herself in her garden, wondered what time of day it was – still warm afternoon, or brilliant sunset, or comfortable twilight, quiet night. The air fresh and clean, the breeze soft on her face, the scent of her garden, green and alive and safe.

Wilting in the sunlight as days passed and she was not there to water or shade the plants.

No.

Back to the comfort and perfection of the daydream, the garden lush and productive around her, and her brother's boots scraping on the narrow back stair before his lively dark eyes and devilish grin came into sight, and she'd say, you need a haircut, and he'd say, I need something to eat.

He wouldn't be back until tomorrow at the earliest. And she wouldn't be home when he got there. She thought of his breezy good-natured greeting meeting emptiness, thought how he'd wait for her for a while. Until a mealtime, probably, before he wondered seriously about her whereabouts. And he might assume that she'd decided to eat elsewhere – with a friend, or something in passing a street-vendor while busy with errands, or that she'd packed herself a meal to spend the day in the woods outside the city.

How long before he began to worry? He'd ask the older couple whose home connected to theirs first. Then who?

Nobody knew anything, she was sure of that. Whatever reason Thomas had for attacking foreigners – or collaborating with the likes of slave traders! – the fact that he'd returned to deal with her recognition of him so decisively and cruelly made her guess that he would not leave any evidence for her brother to follow.

Halig had said, tomorrow morning. She'd be out of Lionys before he entered it again. Hours and hours, and not a clue for him to find, not a trail to follow… He'd be frantic. He'd be angry and scared, and…

Her heart swelled in her chest until it hurt to breathe. I'm so sorry.

She hugged her legs to her chest and put her head down on her knees. Taking deep shaky breaths, she squeezed her eyes so tightly shut she saw bursts of color against the back of her eyelids.

Someone said, "Hey."

Just outside her cage. No rusty squeak at the door for warning. Not Halig's voice.

She'd been too involved in not crying to notice that anyone had entered the room, and she jumped back as much as possible in the tiny cage, jerking her head up from her knees.

It was him. She recognized him in the lamp's flicker, so startled she thought for a moment she was dreaming or imagining him.

The black-haired man, in a red shirt and brown jacket, bending to look inside the cage at her, his face shadowed by the angle of his body in relation to the lamp, but his eyes alight with concern and resolve.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"You," she said, blankly. Her mind was too surprised for anything so useful as asking him for help. Him? Here? But–

"Can you walk?" he asked swiftly, quietly, keeping his eyes mostly on the door.

She considered. How long had she been confined? "I don't know," she answered honestly.

"Can you run?" He ducked his head to meet her gaze again, and she understood, hope flaming bright at the center of her chest.

"Yes," she said firmly.

He put his hand on the lock and whispered a single word. The door sprang open and he put one hand inside the cage to help her. She extended her uninjured left, though it would have been less awkward to meet his right hand with hers, allowing him to pull her forward with the grip.

She bent her head to avoid banging it on the cage again, set her bare feet on the floor, and – ye gods, she was stiff – hobbled after him trying to straighten. He didn't let go of her hand, opening the door of the room just enough to slip through. He paused to look both ways down the corridor and listen; she wondered if he could hear her heartbeat, clamoring for freedom but so afraid –

He pulled her through the doorway and turned to close it behind them, his eyes gleaming briefly gold as the door swung into place. The bolt rasped across and the lock on it clicked shut – and all without a single word from him. Not only were his reflexes fast, but his magic was powerful, also.

"Go!" he whispered, nodding down the corridor and she took off, though not so quickly that he couldn't catch up and take the lead.

The hall ended in another, and he turned to the right, once stopping dead to look behind them as though he'd heard something, then running lightly forward again. She followed, and when they came to another door, it proved the exit to freedom.

It was dark, outside. Well past sunset, and stars were already showing. The air smelled wonderfully clean, and so cool that she shivered immediately. Someone shouted behind them, sending alarm skittering along her nerves, and the black-haired man shut the door with a swift gesture.

"That way," he said to her, pointing. She ran, following him instinctively, trusting him in the same way he'd trusted her, earlier in the day.

He was quite a bit taller than she, which meant his legs were longer, and he seemed tireless in running. A stitch opened in her side, and she slowed, and after another intersection, her bare foot came down on something hard. A stone maybe, not sharp, but at the pace they were going it hurt, and she couldn't help a cry of pain, limping to a stop. He threw a look over his shoulder and immediately reversed himself, jogging back to her.

There was a street-lamp at the end of the alley, which meant they were close to the main street, but it also meant he could see her more clearly now than he had been able to, before, and she was dressed in nothing but her shift. Embarrassed, she avoided looking at him, leaning against the wall of one of the buildings forming the alley. She lifted her foot onto her other knee to rub the bruised sole, making sure she wasn't bleeding, gulping for breath, and from there it seemed like a good idea to let herself slump to her knees at the base of the wall.

For one moment, she wished he'd leave her there.

Leave her to collect her thoughts and her dignity, find her way home. And pretend this never happened. She was trembling, and she told herself it was the cold; she ducked her head, so that he remained in her field of vision, but not the focus of it. At least he could quit looking at her.

Then he moved so abruptly that she couldn't help flinching rather badly, and he froze for an instant with his jacket caught at his elbows.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just thought you might be cold." He finished removing the garment more slowly, and knelt about two feet away to hold it out. Not with it clenched in one hand to simply pass to her, but spread open in readiness.

She warily pushed away from the wall, and he settled the jacket over her shoulders. It wasn't new, but comfortably worn, and warm from his body. She clutched the edges together with her left hand, not wanting the intimacy or discomfort of fitting her arms in the sleeves.

"You haven't caught him, then," she said.

The street-lamp was behind him, his face in shadow but for the gleam of his eyes. "What?"

"Why else did you come to Halig's?"

"You saw what happened," he guessed, but it wasn't really a question. "The attack, the sorcerer. I've been tracking him. That can get complicated, when the person you're following is a sorcerer, and aware that you're following, and determined not to let you catch up."

"He said you were persistent," she said, and he shifted.

"He circled back around to you," he commented. "I wonder why…"

"Because I recognized him," she said. "I know him."

He absorbed that. "And he sold you to a slave-trader so there wouldn't be a witness." There was something about the way he said it, as if he were stating only half the answer.

She couldn't even nod. Her throat was threatening to close, but she managed to croak, "Thank you. I didn't think… I didn't expect anyone… to be able to…" She shivered again, her mind seemed to be disconnected from the rest of her. Her mouth refused to explain, the rest of her to calm down.

He studied her for a moment, then wordlessly opened his arms and spread them in compassionate suggestion. Propriety and shy self-consciousness raised an immediate barrier – no, thank you, that won't be necessary – but relief and a wild unexpected need for comfort on a purely physical level crashed right through that barrier. It was the sort of thing her brother did, when he didn't know what to say to make her feel better, just offering a wordless assurance of brotherly protection and care.

She raised up on her knees and shuffled forward, slipping her arms beneath his to circle his ribs, laying her head down on his shoulder.

He was leaner than her brother, but strong. All bone, and muscle. He smelled like horse, like sweat, like pine. She felt his hands gentle and unassuming on her back and wondered what she smelled like to him.

And it was all so humiliating and she'd been so scared and helpless and even though her rational mind knew she was safe and it was over and there was no reason to cry, she was crying. Making a right mess of the shoulder of a stranger's shirt. Gripping him far tighter than she ought, and she couldn't seem to care.

Gradually she became aware of the fact that he was speaking, murmuring as he smoothed her hair and rocked her a little. It's all right and I'm sorry and It's okay and You're okay now and It's over I promise. She realized she was clenching a fistful of his shirt in her left hand at his back, and let go, trying to even her breathing.

"Well," he said, and there was a rumble of amusement in his voice. "That was a first. I've never hugged my own jacket."

She released the last of her breath in an almost-laugh, and sat back away from him. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping the last of the moisture from her face onto her hand, and then on the skirt of her shift.

"All right now?" he said.

She nodded.