11. Part 1: Defiance
("Arthur" from Renewed by Love)
"Arthur," Caerleon drawled, unlocking the iron-bar door of the subterranean cell in his fortress as his men waited, a dripping tub full of water suspended between them. "Let's talk."
He didn't answer the other king. Discretion, he told himself. Is a part of valor. Which meant that silence could be brave. Survival was worth more than pride.
"I have here," Caerleon withdrew a scroll from a pocket inside his hide jacket and unrolled it with a flourish, "an official treaty between our kingdoms. I Arthur Pendragon, king of Camelot et cetera, being of sound mind and et cetera, do hereby relinquish–"
"No," Arthur interrupted.
Caerleon paused, but he wasn't surprised. "Are you sure you want to decide so quickly? You could at least hear me out–"
"No," Arthur said again.
Caerleon shrugged. Stepped back to allow the two men to enter.
Arthur was seized and forced to kneel. His head was thrust under the water in the tub, deprived of air so long his lungs convulsed and he longed to suck water into the desperate void in his chest.
And again.
And again.
He barely noticed when they left, exhausted and half blind and deaf with the throbbing in his head and chest and the only thing in the world that meant anything was air. He lay on the floor and panted and dripped and trembled.
At least now he knew Caerleon's intentions in keeping him here after his capture – to force him to sign whatever damned treaty he'd drawn up, and of course it would be heavily in Caerleon's favor. And of course Arthur would not be released to return to his own kingdom and knights and citadel unless the old wolf was convinced that Arthur's spirit was too broken to contemplate breaking the treaty with rebellion. Even if Arthur's pride and honor could bear signing falsely and claiming coercion, admitting that he'd succumbed to the torture at least that much, lying to free himself.
But if it means you're alive and fit to rule, he argued with himself.
And what when the others – Bayard and Alined, even Godwyn and Rodor – learned that Arthur signed and reneged, no matter what the circumstances? It might even make his own council doubt his word, especially since his reign was so young and virtually untested.
Yes, but…
This was the test, and he would hold true.
It was hard to hold true, when he was so alone.
Integrity, he told himself, was what you did when no one was watching.
No one watching was unbearably lonely.
He thought of Gwen, and it helped to dwell on her sweet love and gentle sympathy and soft support. Her horror to discover his position and condition had him pushing himself up to sitting, drawing the tattered pieces of his soul and his pride together, settling in himself that he was all right and would remain all right. They could kill him but they'd never break him.
Because he also thought of the men of his patrol, men who'd sworn to him and had given their lives in his defense, that he might live to serve Camelot. He wouldn't disgrace their memory – he recited names and brought up faces in his mind's eye, this one laughing, this one fighting, this one itching his ear when he didn't think his king was looking – or their sacrifice, by giving anything to Caerleon.
Thrice more he was fed, before Caerleon came again – and Arthur's heart spiked to hear the footfalls signaling approach all three times.
This time the king carrying the torch was only followed by one man with a crossbow, not two with a tub. As Caerleon inserted the key in the lock of the cell door, Arthur pushed himself up to his feet, swallowing dryly at the sudden thought that they meant to use fire, this time.
"We have company, Majesty," Caerleon informed him, resting his hand negligently on the half-open door, making no move to enter the cell. "Two of your knights, come to see for themselves that we have you alive and well, before whoever you left in charge decides to pay your ransom or negotiate."
Hope flooded Arthur's soul – then checked. Only two, and within Caerleon's control. Caerleon, who had no honor for treaties kept or hostages attended.
"Alive and well?" he rasped, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders with an effort.
Caerleon gave him a wolfish grin. "You must make them believe it," he said. "Their lives are in your hands. If they suspect anything… their mounts can be turned loose on your side of the border. Their necks can be broken and their bodies can be found at the bottom of some treacherous cliff with the path washed away. Or something." He shrugged. "You understand me."
"Yes," Arthur spat. "Yes, I think I do."
"Come along, then."
Caerleon stood aside, reaching to take the crossbow from his warrior, who entered the cell to unlock Arthur's shackles for the first time.
He rubbed his wrists and considered his chances of killing Caerleon right here and now – no, probably not. No matter that it seemed they didn't intend to use a form of torture that wouldn't leave any lasting evidence upon his person, he was too weak from lack of proper nourishment. One fist to the gut would lay him out, right now, and only delay the meeting with his knights.
Caerleon seemed to read his thoughts. Sneering, he turned his back to saunter away, arrogantly confident that Arthur couldn't and therefore wouldn't, attack him.
The warrior nudged him and gestured, and Arthur padded after the king on filthy stockinged feet.
Down the row of cells, around a corner and up a stair that made Arthur's legs ache and his breath spark pain throughout his chest. He was noticeably slower, ascending, than either of the other two men, and wondered if it was entirely a physical effect. At the top of the stair was a little room with a table and a set of backless chairs, an empty weapons rack on the wall. A pile of folded clothing lay next to a pair of boots on the table – and Arthur couldn't quite help startling at the sight of the water-filled washtub on the floor.
Caerleon bared his teeth in a grin. "Wash yourself thoroughly, Majesty. Company for dinner, after all, and you reek like swine."
"Privacy," Arthur demanded, not pointing out that his state of squalor was Caerleon's own fault.
"That's what this is." The king gestured between himself and his guard. "If you're going to be rude about it, I'll call the others. How many attendants do you require, Majesty?"
"Oh, just a few loyal ones," Arthur shot back.
Caerleon stared at him, unamused. Also uncaring – and Arthur knew why. His knights couldn't stay, couldn't take him with them, couldn't even suspect that he needed…
Well, would he have his men besiege Caerleon's castle and die by the dozens, for him?
And he'd already decided that he couldn't feign brokenness and cooperation, for the sake of freedom. So what was there left? Just endurance, maybe.
Ignoring his enemies – mumble, snicker, mock – he stripped to his skin and scrubbed it, scalp to toes. His hair felt a bit long in his fingers as he combed it, smoothing it as best he could. His face bristled with whiskers and his nails could stand with paring, and if they didn't think they could trust him with the sharp implements necessary for those particulars of personal hygiene, he wouldn't beg.
Perhaps his knights could read into the details.
But the clothes were clean, and of fine material that felt uncomfortably delightful on his skin – it bothered him to be thankful for anything Caerleon gave him. The tunic that covered his white shirt was unadorned black, the collar high, the shirt cuffs too tight to shift and betray bruising.
"He's pretty when he's clean, isn't he?" Caerleon jeered coarsely, and his guard muffled a snicker.
Arthur was still buttoning the tunic when a knock sounded on the door. Caerleon nodded to his guard to open it, revealing another turbaned warrior, with a crust of bread balanced on the side of a steaming bowl, and a carved wooden goblet in his other hand. Arthur straightened under the man's glance – though he looked almost immediately to his king for permission to complete his chore – trying to hide the way his stomach twisted on itself with hunger at the rich smell of beef broth. His mouth was salivating involuntarily. Caerleon jerked his head, and the guard deposited the cup and bowl – stew, not just broth – on the table before exiting, leaving the door standing open, as if in invitation, or temptation.
Arthur pretended to fuss indifferently with his cuffs. "What's that for? I thought I was invited to dinner – proof of wellbeing, and so on."
"Can't let deprivation overcome your manners, can we?" Caerleon returned condescendingly. "Think of it as your own personal opening course."
Arthur dearly wished to wipe the smug look off the other king's face with his knuckles. Instead he kept his gait slow, sauntering to the table. His fingers trembled with the desire to grab and ravage – thick broth soaking fresh bread. He forced his chin up, meeting Caerleon's eyes.
"Is this really the best your kitchen can produce?" he said sardonically. "I think I'll pass." His stomach cramped in protest, but he held his expression even.
Caerleon let out a hoarse laugh, pushing himself up from his perch on the edge of the table. "Not broken yet, by damn. That's good, it means you won't slip up and make killing your knights necessary. Have it your way, Majesty – follow me."
Arthur thought of three ways he could have killed the other king – if he had his full strength and the guard behind him not armed with a crossbow – but still memorized as much of the stronghold as he could see or guess at, along their route. The smells in the air were almost torturous – if he hadn't been assured of partaking in their meal – and he couldn't stop thinking incongruously how clean everything was.
And following on Caerleon's heels into a dining hall – impression of set table and ready chair, other guests including warriors wearing indigo and at least one woman – Arthur was paralyzed at the sight of his two men, struggling not to show the myriad emotions suddenly warring inside him.
Relief. And at the same time, worry because he must not let them suspect the truth; if Caerleon thought they'd guessed – it would mean their lives.
Pride, to see the polished and chainmail and bold scarlet tunics, the gold embroidered dragon he hadn't realized he'd missed til that moment. And a dreadful empty homesickness – he wasn't wearing his own colors, and might never again.
But recognition brought the greatest turmoil. Sir Brenner – well and good, he was level-headed and could be honorably courteous to a monster; he'd have to, tonight. Arthur also thought, he'd take his king's word for the situation, and believe anything he said.
But the other. Ah, hells – Sir Leon.
His keen perception stemmed from genuine concern for Arthur as a friend as well as his king – and he'd be far harder to fool. It made Arthur wonder – dangerously – if it would be possible to send a message of the truth of his situation without Caerleon noticing. But Leon was also his heir, though that was information restricted to the two of them, and the council. If anything happened to Leon while Arthur was captive, Camelot would be leaderless and vulnerable – internal warfare probably inevitable as the lords and knights quarreled over who else they'd swear allegiance to as king. And if the kingdom didn't split, it would be helpless before any invasion – and meanwhile the people suffered the very real effects of destabilization.
"My lord!" Leon exclaimed immediately.
And Sir Brenner, at the same time, "Sire! Are you all right?"
Arthur couldn't move; they began to come to him, and he panicked to think they would begin to discover, and to question. Bruises, strength decreased, muscle weight lost – maybe even the desperation he felt visible in his eyes.
"Ah!" Caerleon warned sharply.
Both knights halted as if they'd been given instructions on allowed behavior beforehand. Then returned their attention from their host to Arthur.
"You are all right, sire, aren't you?" Leon questioned.
"I wasn't injured when I was taken," Arthur said. Deliberately raising his chin and adopting a certain attitude from his youth, when facing his father for displeased scrutiny and censure. Royal arrogance allowed for little else to show.
Leon moved his eyes to Caerleon, and back again. "And now?" They weren't close enough to speak without being overheard – a precaution Caerleon had undoubtedly required for the meeting.
Arthur pasted a sarcastic half-smile on. "It would be rude to complain in front of my hostess."
The tension at Leon's eyes eased, as if Arthur's attitude reassured him. Caerleon snorted, and a woman said, "Sir Knights, my lord Kings – dinner is served. Would it please you to be seated?"
Leon tried to catch Arthur' eye as they moved for the table, but Arthur didn't allow it, even though both his knights were placed across from him. He didn't want Leon to wonder at his reaction to the sight of the table – platters piled high with food steaming and aromatic – dishes and silverware and damn, everything was so clean. Caerleon couldn't suspect that they suspected anything, and he'd be watching for it.
He distracted himself by surreptitiously studying Caerleon's queen. Annis, though they hadn't been formally introduced. She was sharp, though not ungracious; their position as his hostage-holders gave her confidence in the situation, though that was probably not lacking, else. She had the poise of a consummate hostess and the manner of a queen; Arthur almost respected her, and couldn't help wondering what her husband had told her of his care.
It didn't matter, probably. Unlikely that she'd wield any real authority to challenge his successfully.
Annis led the conversation skillfully, touching on mild and common topics like the weather and the condition of the roads. She asked general questions about Camelot, and Brenner left the responses to Leon, who gave away nothing significant, but was distracted in that duty, from his inspection of his king.
Arthur focused on his fork and knife, cutting deliberately and chewing slowly and keeping his eyes down, though he felt both his men watching him periodically. The knowledge that Leon at least would almost certainly deal with Caerleon, maybe Annis also, after he was removed from the room, was like an itch between his shoulder-blades where he couldn't scratch.
Now that you've seen for yourself… what is Camelot's response to our demands.
Negotiation that concerned Arthur intimately, which he would not be part of. No, he'd be returned to… He repressed that thought, so emotion wouldn't overflow, dragging Brenner and Leon down with him.
And then his plate was empty – he forced himself to stop scraping it and licking his silverware – and the food being removed by servants out of the room's single back door. His stomach was almost uncomfortably full, though he hadn't eaten more than he would have at dinner in Camelot, and inclined to cramp in the confusion of so much and so rich, after so little. He stood when the others stood, trying with all his strength to betray no reluctance.
"You must be tired from your journey," Annis was saying to the two knights of Camelot. "And of course you'll want to start upon your return as soon as possible in the morning. I will have wine sent to your room, and bid you good evening, now."
Both Brenner and Leon bowed and murmured properly. Caerleon and two of his warriors moved toward Arthur – who avoided looking at the other king.
"My lord?" Leon said softly; the table was still between them. Arthur lifted his head but couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Have you any message for anyone in Camelot, that I could carry?"
Arthur could hardly breathe around the lump in his throat. Anyone in Camelot… Fewer friends now, than last season, and he couldn't possibly say anything as obvious as Send to Nemeth for Merlin, or anything as suspicious as, Tell my manservant. Or anything as private as, Give Guinevere my love…
Instead he shook his head – and then connected his gaze to Leon's. "Your strength is mine," he said.
There was an uncertain wrinkle between his friend's brows, but he bowed, understanding what Arthur meant. Give them nothing.
Arthur barely heard Caerleon's more brusque leave-taking of his guests, as he was herded back the way they'd come, with increasing roughness, once they were out of sight of the dining hall. And he denied the urge to look over his shoulder for one last glimpse, if his knights had stepped to the hall to watch him being taken away.
Down the first stair, and through the door to the little guard-room. Where he was ordered to strip off the clothing he'd been given.
"You don't want your borrowed finery ruined, do you?" Caerleon drawled.
Arthur bit his tongue on desperate and ill-advised rudeness. They could force him, after all.
He was given only his trousers back – filthy and worn toward ragged. Apparently his shirt had gone missing in his absence; Caerleon mockingly promised to search for the thief and have the garment returned, if Arthur valued it. He didn't bother mentioning socks, choosing instead to remain silent. He also kept his chin up and his eyes level, so he couldn't see the bruising on his chest that ached every time he breathed.
His bare feet slid in the damp grime, down the second flight of stone steps, and just that quickly, the comfort of cleanliness was gone as surely as the comfort of adequate clothing. He was marched to his cell, where he didn't bother resisting the guard who shackled him to the wall once again with the cuffs padded so they would leave no marks.
Caerleon intended, Arthur knew, to scar and deform his heart and soul and spirit so thoroughly he need never fear Arthur revealing this torture – and no one could ever prove it, then.
Arthur twisted his arms and the chains that held them around so he could face Caerleon, lounging in the open doorway of the cell. "If you named a sum, Camelot would pay you. If you met me under truce, I would treat with you as an equal. But–"
"As an equal," Caerleon snarled, his sarcasm slipping to something more like genuine malice. "Treaties, and pretty words all twisted round, from a snot-nosed boy with clean hands and fancy clothes, who believes he's better than me. Ha! – no. I will prove to you that you are less than nothing, and when I'm finished, you will thank me for allowing you to swear yourself and your kingdom as my vassal."
Arthur was furious. And maybe a little terrified. But he glared at Caerleon and said deliberately, "Don't hold your breath."
11. Defiance
("The Emrys Strain")
In the steady stream of marathoners dressed in shorts, t-shirts, tights, wind-jackets, flowing down the Baltimore street around them like water around a pair of rocks in a stream, , one person in a suit and tie was making his way against the flow
He walked slowly and steadily toward Arthur and Merlin, and stopped just far enough away that they could not reach him in a full-length dive. Arthur recognized him from the pictures they'd discovered online – his employee photo, press conferences and awards ceremonies, even the odd classroom lecture.
"Dr. Andrew Spell," Arthur said, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the shuffle and panting of the race. How many runners? he wondered. How long would it take for them all to pass and the spectators to disperse? "Or should I call you Xander?" That was the chosen moniker of the mad bomber-terrorist they were here to stop.
"Xander, if you please, Arthur Drake," the other said. "I left Dr. Andrew Spell behind when your father ended my career and ruined my life."
Hellfire and damnation. How many times, Arthur wondered, was he going to have to listen to the same evil-villain shit? This lifetime, too?
Close up, Arthur could see that the suit and neat haircut and clean shave was only a shell; the eyes blazed black with a terrible, homicidal rage. Beside him, Merlin shivered to hear the voice of the man who'd abducted and tortured him with mind-altering drugs.
"Good morning, Merlin," Xander continued, turning to face the younger man, who was pale and taut as a guitar string. "I am pleased to see you somehow managed to find your way home after our time together. And they have trusted you with a weapon today. Interesting. I rather regret testing our cure on you – Emrys the First, you could say – but dear boy, supra omnem scientiam. Progress is progress, you know. Do you suppose Camelot will be sorry to say goodbye to the lab's newest pet?"
The terrorist's casual threat made Arthur's blood run cold. "You're mistaken," he said. "My father really couldn't care less what happens to him. If you think to spite my father, send Merlin home without a scratch on him. Why bother with the project when you could have the son?" he goaded the man.
"Shut up, Arthur," Merlin warned him.
With Xander's eyes on him, on Merlin beside him, Arthur could give no surreptitious signals to the rest of their team, scattered through the oblivious crowd – but Leon had worked with and for him so long he didn't always need the signals to know what Arthur wanted and needed. And Percival had the intelligence and training to take his cue from the older knight. They began to edge to each side, almost as if they were being buffeted and moved by the bodies of the runners.
"Ah, ah, ah," Xander chided, and raised one hand to show them a small black boxlike device. Leon and Percival froze, and Merlin hissed. "Tell your men to back up and keep going," Xander told Arthur. "If my thumb comes off this button…" He shook it warningly.
Arthur didn't have to give the two knights any orders, they began to retreat cautiously but definitely.
"Those first responders," the terrorist sighed. "Such heroes, aren't they? Even knowing the possibility – probability, should we say at this point in history? – of a secondary detonation, they still come. Thanks to you, there was no primary explosion this morning for them to respond to, was there?" Xander's lips drew back, revealing crooked, yellow-stained teeth. "Don't despair, gentlemen – the day is young."
He turned, his thumb moving off the button in the center of the small black device.
Beside Arthur, Merlin's gasp of "No!" shifted into a rumble-roar of detonated explosive. The air shivered – warmed – the ground trembled, and the bank building next to them mushroomed in a cloud of fire and brick…
And froze. Everything – everyone – froze. His body unable to move, Arthur's eyes tracked Merlin as the young sorcerer stepped forward, empty hands raised, voice rough with strain, throaty with commanding fury, pronouncing words Arthur did not understand, but recognized from his sixth century lifetime.
Another wall of air slammed into the left side of Arthur's body from a second explosion – chunks of concrete and brick flew into the air from the post office, closed on the weekend as the bank was, tucked between two taller buildings.
Merlin half-turned, closing his left hand into a fist without pausing. The debris slowed – and stopped as though embedded in the clear gel of the air. Merlin continued speaking, but Arthur heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing. His younger friend turned his head, and the broken wreckage of the bank retreated, settled, onto its foundation, into the empty parking lot, away from the road and the people. He made a pushing gesture with both arms, clearing the air of car-sized masses of masonry and rock, skimming the shrapnel and shards of brick and metal back into piles of rubble as easily as a child pushing and shaping his castle in a sandbox.
Fires ignited in the ruins of both buildings, dancing and twisting upward, snarling to be free, but finding no fuel to spread.
Arthur found he could move – slowly and with difficulty, as though he was under-water, but he pushed forward, step by step, til he could catch the remote detonator from Xander's motionless hand.
Xander turned, slow as Arthur, to fix him with a malevolent glare, then faced Merlin again. He lifted his hand – Arthur watched it rise, inch by inch in sick fascination, palm toward the teenager's back, fingers splayed. Dread washed over him to suspect Xander had magic to use against them as well as explosives, and he opened his mouth to scream a warning.
"MER –" as a thick bolt of light sprang from Xander's outstretched hand, crossed the distance to Arthur's friend – "LIN!"
The bolt hit Merlin, splashing so widely the young man was obscured for an instant, before he was knocked flying, and slid several feet along the street before coming to a motionless stop. The sniper rifle he'd slung over his shoulder clattered on a few feet without him.
Time resumed. People screamed, smoke billowed to the left and to the right, the flames licked upward. Rubble shifted, fragments pattering down.
Arthur took one step toward Merlin, grimly halted the movement – I can't help him – and swung around as Xander's hand emerged from under the opposite side of his suit coat, pointing a machine pistol at Arthur's chest.
Around them, chaos. Runners continued on the course, some swerving around them without taking in the reality of the situation, some shrieking and running for the sidewalk. Spectators scurried up the street, down the street, cowered for cover against the buildings that remained intact. Arthur wondered if he imagined the sound of sirens. He wondered if it would do any good to try for his own handgun strapped just under his left arm.
"I was going to give you a message to take to your father," Xander told him, clearly and calmly, then shrugged. "I guess you'll just have to be the message." The barrel lifted an inch, aiming, as Arthur understood, at the base of his neck, above the protection of the vest armor.
Xander's finger tightened. Arthur looked evenly into the man's eyes.
The pistol sputtered out five or six shots.
Arthur never felt them.
He saw them, however, stopped impossibly – magically - in midair. He swallowed, and the skin of his throat brushed the first round. Xander's eyes widened in horror, shifted over Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur pivoted as Merlin stepped up beside him. The jeans had several more holes scraped in them, the blue wind-jacket was shredded, revealing the flak vest beneath. There was a road-blackened graze down the left side of his face, dripping blood down onto his collar. Smoke rose in twists and tendrils over his shoulders from his back. His hair was spiky with sweat and gray with plaster dust.
And there was golden fire in his eyes.
"I am not Emrys the First," Merlin said to Xander, quietly and oh-so dangerously. "I am Emrys. You thought you could steal my magic. You thought you could use my magic. You thought you could hurt my king." There was a brief moment when Merlin deliberately drew breath into his lungs, the length of time it took an indication of his struggle. Arthur hardly dared breathe, himself. Xander swallowed, his eyes flicking to Arthur, comprehension beginning to dawn.
"You were wrong," Merlin said.
He jerked his chin upward slightly – and the pistol rounds hovering before Arthur disappeared.
Xander jerked and stumbled, his right arm dropping as though the machine pistol was suddenly too heavy. He brushed his suit coat to the side with his free hand. Red splotches bloomed on the white field of his collared shirt to either side of his tie. He coughed, choked, and red spilled over his chin.
Somewhere in the near distance, a baby cried. The sirens crescendoed.
Merlin reached out and took hold of Arthur's sleeve near his elbow. Not his arm, just the sleeve.
Xander knelt, slowly, leaning forward to put one hand down on the pavement of the road. He lowered himself, laid his head down. Arthur watched his body shrink slightly as his last breath was expelled.
Arthur's jacket pulled at his shoulder and neck as Merlin's grip tightened. Arthur turned in time to catch his friend under the arms and ease him down also. "Merlin!"
"I'm all right, I'm all right," the sorcerer repeated softly, his voice catching. "Just tired. Let me rest a minute."