A/N: This one I think I should put a warning on, for violence and non-con m/m (not explicit, though – fairly vague, and as inoffensive as I could make it). And mostly it's only this chapter, out of the three comprising this story. I've put a (*) by the section containing that mention.

Also, this begins in the gap between seasons 4 and 5, and contains sections with a somewhat unconventional style. Hope you enjoy!

Who Owns Magic

In the first year of King Arthur of Camelot (of Brytannea) a very ordinary, very innocuous young man was reported missing from the border town of Ealdor. So ordinary and innocuous that his name was never recorded, though experts cite Merlin's excellent memory and inclination toward the personal touch as proof for the theory that Merlin must have said it when he requested time off to answer the letter-for-help, written by his mother Hunith, in person.

These same experts cite the generally-accepted temperament of the king in claiming that he would have responded with teasing his manservant about time off in general, and insulted his ability to track, much less find, much much less rescue, said missing boy, before relenting to allow the benevolent mission.

It should be remembered that this territory was still contested at this point in time, following Cenred's death. The assumption that one man in peasant's clothing could do a lot more than a 'dozen red-cloaked bandit-targets', according to the council recorder's notes, is acceptably-supported as well as memorable.

Merlin was supposed to have been gone for a month. One month, if not before. At the very latest, he'd be sure to send a message requesting more time.

Records show that one month and one week later, Sir Gwaine was released from regular duty.

Records also show that two months later, Sirs Percival and Elyan were also released from regular duty. And that, six months after that, they returned to join the ranks of their fellow knights. Sir Gwaine remained on royal assignment.

King Arthur made a second trip to Ealdor, where he was informed him that the young man in question had been discovered living in a neighboring town with his very pregnant young wife. Deeper into Cenred's territory, but by no means against his will. The young man had been confused by questions about Merlin – evidently he had not even seen him.

Merlin is taken by surprise.

It's happened before, often enough. Arthur thinks he has a tendency to be naïve. Merlin trusts that giving people the benefit of the doubt is the right thing. And so he'll probably be taken by surprise again in the future.

Or maybe not ever again.

This time, as he's preparing camp, setting the wood for a small fire. And no mount to whicker or stamp nervously or swivel its ears in warning, because he told Arthur a horse would only draw the wrong attention, where he was going.

The attention of a bandit with a cudgel, say.

The involvement of a club is unexpected, while his brain is still occupied with the snapping sound of a tiny twig underfoot at some distance. The blow is hard and fast, and unconsciousness instantaneous.

Maybe it fractures his skull. Maybe it damages the brain underneath.

When he comes to, his vision is blurry. He feels sick to his stomach, and disjointed. Flickering, wavering fires-light – no daylight – he's underground, surrounded by stone. No – just the hand-hewn stone of a castle or watchtower or… tomb. Or something.

He can't move properly, and finds his wrists at least bound with twine in front of him. He cannot push himself upward to sitting, though he tries, there simply is no balance. The world whirls.

And he succumbs to the darkness.

When he wakes again, it is to a shocking splash of cold water, a figure looming in the blurry dim, and a voice that literally hurts his ears. He cringes, trying to understand without listening.

Enough words carry meaning deeply enough for him to realize what he already knew. He is captive to the whim of this man, who says more than once, I am your owner now. Initially it comforts him that no one mentions Arthur. No one knows who he is. No one will torture him to demand information he cannot give. He need only wait, for…

Slavery is a confused suggestion in the back of his mind. If it isn't to be interrogation.

Clarity returns in increments, hindered by sudden and overwhelming headaches – from which he always returns to awareness cringing in a corner and whimpering. The mere thought of magic sends him hurtling into the darkness again, and the climb back is long and hard. So he decides not to think about magic for a while. Only if he's dying anyway, maybe.

He finds food on the stone floor when he gets to hands and knees to hitch himself around in exploring his prison. Not on a plate, but scattered bits and pieces. Crumbs and chunks of hard stale bread, moldy on the bottom where they've lain on the damp filthy stone of the floor, bones with scraps of meat dried to them. He finds he's hungry enough to risk the mold, and gnaw the bones.

The only water he gets is tossed over him, once in a while. He has to be ready for it, catch it in his hands, suck it from his clothing – lick it off the floor, if he doesn't want to die.

And he doesn't want to die. He wants to escape.

The headaches clear a bit, and he finds the walls of his cell are wooden planks, solid but ill-fitting, and arrayed in a circle around him, with space – his fingers tell him – for a door. He works himself to his feet and finds this wall chest-high – but narrow. With his feet tied together – his boots are gone and his socks and his shirt – he doesn't have the purchase or the strength to get himself over, even by jumping.

Trying to hurl himself over the wall causes more headaches, and the dim space beyond the wall blurs as he slides to the floor.

Light is brought.

And along with it, loud, coarse laughter that makes him cringe involuntarily. Men fill the space around him, shouting and jeering til the words blend together and their eyes gleam and roll maniacally and their faces and hair sweat and Merlin reaches for his magic, though it is far and dim. A struggle, like reaching into a fish-trap (he remembers from his peasant childhood) – easy enough to reach in, nearly impossible to draw out.

One man enters his circular wooden cell, a fat man with rotten teeth and no hair on his head, clad in leather breeches and bracers, and carrying a knife. Merlin struggles when the man reaches him, but he only cuts the twine at his wrists and ankles.

Merlin drags himself to his feet, rubbing the bruised, chafed flesh and watching the fat man and all the others jostling each other in rows around his ring. His head hurts, but he warily plans for surreptitious magic – it might be best to try when he is alone, especially if it doesn't work, or immediately, but –

What are they doing, now?

The crowd stills a moment, all attention on a man with sleek dark hair down to his shoulders, and too many teeth showing between dark beard and mustache. He speaks of rules and odds – and Merlin recognizes his voice for the Owner – and it seems Merlin is to fight the fat man.

He is tremblingly nervous – he knows exactly what he's not capable of – but fairly sure he can evade and trick and outlast. He remembers a certain man named Jarl, Arthur taking his place to fight Gwaine, and a sudden fire that puts an end to everything but freedom and his own secrets.

The man who calls himself the Owner finishes with a flourish, and the crowd roars. The fat man gathers himself eagerly, bunching meaty fists and plowing forward to plant them in Merlin's face or body.

He ducks, though it makes the world spin briefly, and aims magic at the fat man's feet, intending to trip him up as he lunges forward with his target abruptly missing. Maybe the fat man will knock himself out, hitting his head on the wooden walls.

But the magic.

Whooshes right out of Merlin in a rush – curving away from the fat man, back toward the surprised Owner. (Water through the sharpened reeds of the fish-trap.)

Who is holding a strange rod negligently in his hands. Stone-ivory-bone, wrapped with wire of an uncertain metal, copper-silver-gold, in an intricate pattern. It glows briefly of blue, then gold –

And the silence is deafening. The Owner looks at Merlin in realization, and Merlin panics.

Tries to snatch the rod, push back the fat man and the Owner, flare the torches at the back and top of the wall, drop the candelabra suspended over his cell, any-damn-something –

The rod glows, and Merlin's magic vanishes. (Oil on water.)

The Owner laughs in disbelief.

Magic, he says, and the word is echoed through the chamber, through Merlin's blood thundering frantically around his veins. Everyone chants, over and over, Magic.

The Owner cackles in unrestrained glee.

And the fat man's fist slams into the side of Merlin's face, so hard he tumbles down to the floor and to darkness, not even thinking to put out his hands to stop himself.

He awakens to the slosh of water, scrambling for every drop that lingers within reach, til he realizes he's not alone. The Owner crouches next to him, with too many teeth and that strange rod.

I can't use magic, the Owner explains, delighted to do so. And this, can't store it. Just gathers any used in its vicinity, channeling it back to the earth.

Merlin's magic bursts out of him almost unintentionally, attacking the man, screaming for freedom – and disappears into the cool unconcerned glow of the rod.

The Owner is no longer delighted. Even a fool would realize what Merlin just tried, and the Owner is, tragically, not a fool. Let's play a new game, he suggests. Let's see if a person can expend all their magic – or whether it comes back, like energy or health.

Merlin tells him to go to hell.

The Owner hits him very hard, with the rod.

He wakens again to a bucketful of water – and a crowd of strange rough men jeering as he tries to get some of it inside his body.

The Owner shows too many teeth, and taps the rod in his fingers suggestively. Merlin claws his way unsteadily to his feet and determines that he will not lose any more magic to the strange artifact – and turns into the fists of a very tall dark-skinned man.

He manages to avoid some of the blows the man throws – he's fast and efficient and brutal; Percival, without hesitation or compassion or morals – but does not manage anything that could be termed self-defense. The dark-skinned man pursues him around the wooden-walled area, fists and boots, on his feet, then on his knees, then Merlin curls into a protective ball, exhausted and confused and humiliated and angry and-

It doesn't stop. The man hangs onto the arena wall – under his grip it shudders against Merlin's bruised back – and boots Merlin again and again and Merlin's sobbing and gagging and pain pain pain pain –

magic.

He feels it leave him in a rush, and the kicking stops and through the throbbing agony he hopes –

But the rod's glow is fading, and the Owner is showing pleased teeth and the crowd is hollering and coin is changing hands. The dark-skinned man heaves his fists into the air and accepts his acclaim, turning in a circle and roaring back at the others, exultant.

Merlin bleeds and aches and passes out.

"Gaius!"

"Sire. Was… there something you needed?"

"No… yes. No, I just wanted to… remind you of the council meeting, this afternoon."

"I was not aware that I'd missed any in the past… but thank you, my lord, for thinking of an old man's failing memory. It's a good thing I don't have a job where I'd need… Is there something I can help you find, sire?"

"Hm? No, no, just…"

"He's not back yet, Arthur. You know I'd send word – he'd come himself to tell you."

"To brag on his success finding one lost farmer. And staying out of trouble in the meantime… Gaius, do you think he's in trouble? I know he said a month, but… It's almost five weeks, now, and no word like he promised."

"Merlin does tend to lose track of time, sire."

"Merlin does tend to keep his promises, Gaius. I've had Gwaine hinting around me all week and Gwen being very pensive, and the others…"

"He is capable of taking care of himself, Arthur –"

"Is he?"

"But if it eases your mind to send someone like Gwaine, at least to Ealdor. Then, by all means."

"Yes. Right. Well, I'll see you at the meeting, then."

"Of course, sire."

(*)

Merlin dreams of a mouthful of cool liquid sliding down his throat, and wakens to reality. If he's alone, he searches the floor of his cage for food thrown by spectators. Always hoping for more. Sometimes accepting the second time over, what he has already passed by.

If he's not alone, he's beaten til he uses magic, or passes out. He has a vague idea that they're betting on how long it takes. Maybe how many blows. Sometimes he gets in a swing or two, before going down.

They don't give him enough time to recover. The constant light is dim, but he can tell there are layers of bruising. When his ribs are broken badly enough for the ends to grind together, a scared silent girl appears to bind them up; the water continues – never enough – but he's ravenous and half-crazed with hunger by the time there's another match, and more food thrown.

He's kicked in the belly as he's trying to stuff crumbs in his mouth, and vomits in reaction. In fury and desperation he tries to stab his opponent with a sharp piece of bone – the Owner nods and Merlin's hand is deliberately broken, stomped several times, til he blacks out still screaming.

The pain wakes him before the water, that time. He manages to tear shreds off the ragged bottoms of his trousers to wrap around the mess of his hand like new skin. He doesn't really examine why he does this – hope that he'll need the use of his fingers, someday?

It occurs to him that he's accepted the impossibility of escape, as he cringes from a new presence in the cell, rather than attempting to face the man. (Are they men, though, really?) He curls and tries to protect his hand, his ribs, his head. He allows himself to be beaten into oblivion. And his last thought is to wonder if anyone is ever going to come for him.

He dreams of Arthur and Gwen at a fantastic feast, the knights toasting so energetically that foam sloshes from their tankards.

He wakes to stray scattered drops and licking the floor where he bleeds and relieves himself, and is never cleaned.

Something won't let him give up. Destiny is a word he still thinks, and wonders why it hasn't worked out, this time, to return him to his king, the reason for the magic that sometimes leaps out of him into his Owner's hand.

But he stops thinking about maintaining any standards, or what his friends will think when they find him. He stops thinking about their hurt, to realize – he stops thinking of his hurt.

It is dark and solitary, with his eyes closed. He exists, and the pain inflicted is distant.

One day he wakens to water being poured more deliberately down his gullet. He gulps – chokes and vomits – gulps some more.

There are voices, and he hears the Owner. Something about a broken toy, and whether whips or blades will rouse him. Someone else's voice disagrees. A rough hand pushes his hair back from his eyes – he cringes in his defensive ball on the floor – the hand holds him still with a grip on his hair and turns his face to the light.

The other wing.

You really think so?

Well, the other boy is a pathetic scrap of worthlessness, a day from dead and the customers know it. Maybe that will rouse this one to earn his keep.

He's lifted to his feet. It takes some time; he can't remember the last time his soles touched ground to hold his weight, or his legs straightened. His head throbs at every wincing step, and he sees nothing but dirty stone and dirty torchlight. He's taken to a small room, like a supply closet.

There's a narrow bed – why is he being given a bed? – and a table with no chairs. Why is he being given a table with no chairs. There is a bucket in the corner, and a grimy plate with weevilly bread on the table, a dented cup of scummy water.

He has to strip out of his trousers before they'll let him have the meal – how long has it been since he's had a meal? – but he barely notices. Maybe they're going to give him clothes, too.

It's cold but not freezing, and with his cramped stomach full of half a cup of water and a fist-sized chunk of bread, he curls onto his bed and falls into a stupor that is better than any unconscious sleep he's gotten for… since…

This time he wakes to someone's hands, not a bucket of water. All over him, deliberate rather than careless but it's immediately worse than fists and boots and he fights.

This man isn't stripped and oiled and muscular – in the light of the new torch on the wall his clothing looks neither peasant nor mercenary. Still, Merlin is weak and his flailings seem to excite the man, who slaps his broken hand.

And in the helpless spark-shower of pain, he slams Merlin's head down on the table – how did he get from the bed to the –

He's almost unconscious enough not to feel what the man begins to do. Almost. He's almost strong enough, then, to free himself, to throw off his... attacker…

Almost. And he almost doesn't remember the humiliating conclusion of the man's gratification.

Was he a man, though, really.

Or just an animal.

Merlin knows he prefers the violence of his previous cell, and stays curled under the table when they bring him another plate and cup.

He flinches when someone crouches down next to him, and the Owner shows all his teeth. Is the magic gone, then? he asks, moving Merlin's hair with the rod so he can see him better.

Merlin pulls back. The hair in his eyes seems protective and safe, somehow, a veil to hide his soul behind.

He hugs his knees and hears himself keening, pleading – with what? with whom? no one hears and no one cares – and doesn't feel like himself. Not a man, if men can do these things to each other. Not human, anymore. Not magic. He hasn't thought of rescue in a long time.

He loses count of how many times the padlock on the outside of the door clicks open and a torch is placed in a bracket on the wall, and someone enters. And someone enters.

It never changes anything, his desperate attempts at self-defense. Only delays, and strengthens the monsters who dissect him, body and soul, with such filthy glee. Sometimes someone enters to wash his body, shave his face, and it's not as humiliating. Sometimes he thinks about turning too quickly when they hold his chin and scrape his jaw, in hopes that he'll kill himself on the blade – but he doesn't.

Once he feels hands, and realizes he didn't even hear the door.

Once he wakes, facedown on the bed and listening to the rustle of clothing re-adjusted, and realizes he never tensed a single muscle in resistance.

He feels sick of himself, and loses all interest in the plate and cup.

The Owner is there, and talking and talking but all the words buzz in his ears and he ignores the meaning. There is more significance and comfort in the furniture because they don't feel what happens on them, it doesn't concern them. If they're marked or scarred or damaged, it doesn't hurt. They exist, not waiting for anything particularly, and he has taken his lesson from them.

His arms are gripped and he is lifted to his feet and held in place. He keeps his eyes on the floor to maintain the barrier of his imperviousness. (That is a very big word for a thing like him to remember.)

He doesn't look too bad. We could clean him up, dress him up, sell him as a slave in one of the southern markets.

If anyone would buy him. No, I don't believe I want to bother. I don't want to give up one of my toys if someone else can get any use out of him, anymore. Dump him on the midden heap.

Yes, master. Shall I kill him first?

Don't bother with that, either. If he crawls off to die in the woods… so much the better. It'll spare us his stench, at least.

Two hands are iron bars around his arms, and the world is the ground a step ahead of his filthy cracked feet dragging along. He had the vague idea he's going back to the wooden-walled cell.

He wakes gradually to a sensation of heat on his skin. And blinks at a blazing torch very far away, behind what appears to be a tattered cloth, moving always moving. A chill of air raises hair along his arms and legs, and he pushes himself up to sitting.

Small, strange noises intrude, repeated softly, but no one comes near him.

He sits so still and so long, he notices grass grows from the dirt on the floor. There are ants, too, and beetles, that take no note of him. He leaves them alone, too.

It smells clean.

The walls are very far away – his head aches to look for them – the columns that hold up the tattered cloth of the ceiling with the blazing torches beyond, are rough and warm and living.

He blinks and remembers. Trees, leaves, grass. He's alone.

What does that mean? But it's good. Without knowing why – without thinking that he does not know why – he turns and gets his knees under him, then his feet. He moves one in front of him, then the other.

His feet are unsteady, and his head bobbles on his neck. It has been so long since most of him did not throb with pain, that it does not occur to him that he hurts all over.

He finds berries and eats them. He discovers nuts underfoot, and when he stops to smash them open between two stones, he finds more and eats them all.

There is a trickle of water, and his legs give out at the sound, so he pulls his body toward it with his arms. He puts his face into it, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat – this is more heaven than he deserves – til he's full, and sleeps.

When he wakes, the innocent trickle of the world's water still wets his lips and part of one hand, and no one else is touching him.

He works his way to his feet again, reluctantly leaving the trickle, though he couldn't have explained why. And he would have avoided anyone who could possibly have posed the question. Instinct, though he doesn't consciously realize it. He moves forward, though he has no direction, and eats when it occurs to him that he's come across something edible. It's been a long time since his thoughts have risen above bare physical sustenance, and so he doesn't notice that they still don't – but always he finds his feet under him, again.

It doesn't rain, but it doesn't occur to him to notice that. There's only the sun through the leaves, and the dark. Larger predators leave him alone, and he doesn't notice; he avoids the occasional two-legged ones successfully by being very slow and very still.

Until one day a hand wakes him again. He is curled at the foot of a tree, and a man crouches above him, his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

His clothing is shiny silver and eye-watering scarlet and his hair catches the sunlight. His eyes are cloudy sky, and his voice is too loud, insistent and scared – avoidance is impossible, so Merlin surrenders without moving a muscle – his words hold too many questions.

Where were you what happened are you all right why are you naked Merlin what happened where were you…

It doesn't matter. He is the tree, the earth, the fallen leaves and scattered sunlight.

Then the man kneels, wriggles his arm into the crook of Merlin's neck where he rests on the ground, head and shoulder, and lifts him.

If Merlin has objections to the shift, they don't matter anyway, and the man's will is easily accomplished. Merlin's arms fall away from his chest and the man is exclaiming and poking at him and he doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand when the man gathers him to his hard metal chest and buries his face in Merlin's shoulder. Or when the man's shoulders shake, or when moisture begins to trickle down his back. It tickles, and it's warm, then cool. The two of them sit this way for a long time.

Finally, when the sun glows across from them, lower than the leaves of the trees, the man shifts back, and Merlin opens his eyes to watch him.

Keeping his arms around Merlin's chest – some of his ribs ache; some of them have been cracked at one time or another – the man rocks back, pulling Merlin's weight with him, pulling him up to his feet.

You're stark naked, Merlin, and skinny as a starving sparrow.

The man leads – encourages, guides (strange) – him over the dirt and grass and twigs and stones – step after step til they reach a massive, patient animal, gently nibbling grass and trailing –

Reins, the word comes to Merlin. Horse. Saddled mount.

The man reaches for another length of bright red cloth on the back of the saddle, unfurling it to wrap around Merlin's shoulders.

You're lucky I'm alone. The others will be furious, you should hear Gwen complain when I give my manservant the slip – ah, my new… Anyway, we can camp here tonight and be home in the morning.

Home.

Or maybe you'd rather sneak in, late tonight. I haven't got any extra clothes we can put on you…

He registers uncertainty in the man's tone and expression, before remembering to drop his eyes to the ground and become an object again. Discarded… but reclaimed now by a new owner?

He's pressed down to sitting, again – the red cloth rearranged around his body – and the man is busy with the camp. A leather pouch is dropped in his lap, and sloshes.

Have something to drink. Go ahead, it's all right, it's only water.

He obeys, and it's warm and leathery. A dream come true. He's given bread, then, that isn't stale or moldy – and he's more surprised than hungry, turning it over in his fingers til he's told to stop playing with his food and eat it. He obeys.

The man kneels before him again, and talks. More questions, though the insistency is muted.

Merlin, I need to know what happened. Are you hurt, or… sick. Did they use magic on you.

(Magic, they all chanted, eager for his blood to spill, for his bones to break. Magic-magic-magic-)

Okay, the man says, disturbed, reaching to wipe Merlin's face roughly. Never mind, we'll leave that for Gaius if you'd rather. You can take your time – though I really do need to know, what happened to you. We'll find the men who did this, we'll make sure they pay –

Coins clinking, glittering, changing hands and they're such a ridiculous reason for this to have been done to him.

Gwaine has never stopped looking, and I… Merlin, I swear I tried to find you. I tried…

Something of the man's anguish touches Merlin uncomfortably, it's so unusual to see in someone else. It makes him vaguely uneasy, and he wants to make it stop. He tries to speak, and it's a croak. He clears his throat – and the man focuses on him with an intensity that is almost frightening – and he manages. It's all right. Don't be…

Words fail.

But the man's anguish turns to something else. Determination, maybe. It's not all right, Merlin. It's not. Only you would…

The golden-haired man pauses, and Merlin remembers to drop his eyes, and not to feel either of their feelings. Feelings are painful. Objects don't have them.

Merlin – do you even know who I am?

Because, he realizes, the man knows what to call him. No one in that place ever knew his name. So this man is from – before?

It's Arthur. Merlin… it's Arthur.

Something about the way the man says his name, makes Merlin think he wants him to look up again – so he dares.

Arthur is a dangerous thought. A dead hope. A failed responsibility. (A friend.)

Merlin begins to shake, and can't stop. An anxious look springs onto the man's face as he reaches for him again, and it hurts Merlin and he doesn't understand it and he doesn't want to understand because death is a bliss denied him and dying is an eternity of agony and if he comes to life again like a leaf-bud in spring it will only mean he'll hurt again and it will be possible to die again.

(Yes, he does want to. Understand. And live.)

The world tips and tilts and leaps up to cradle him as he dives willingly into darkness.

He wakes to the feeling of hands on him. He knows he's naked, though there seems to be some sort of cloth draped across his hips. The hands are gentle, though they linger on some of the worst injuries he remembers. There is wet, and rubbing, like… washing?

He opens his eyes and sees that he's indoors. Stone and rafters – dusty golden color, light and clean and he feels a vague embarrassment to be there, like he's not supposed to be in such a place.

Gaius, he's awake.

Movement draws his eyes. A girl's face, round with smooth brown skin, haloed with black curls. And she's clean and he knows she smells wonderful, too. She's smiling, though tears run down her face and he's distressed that she's distressed.

He tells her, You're so beautiful.

She sobs, Oh, Merlin. Leaning down on his chest and gripping him. Hair and tears, and he rocks slightly with her emotion on whatever he's lying on and he allows it.

There's someone else – the person she spoke to. An old man with white hair to his shoulders, stooped under a shapeless blue robe with an embroidered frontispiece. The old man leans over him, scowling ferociously –

But there are tears in his eyes too, and the tracks of others over and between the wrinkles on his face. My boy, he says.

So is this the new owner?

How do you feel? the old man continues. More questions, just like the other man. Are you in pain? Can you tell me what happened? And, Merlin – where have you been? The girl sits up, trying to compose herself, and the questions repeat silently across her face.

Just like that other man. Arthur.

And he says the name.

Arthur. Arthur?

He was here before, the girl answers, trying to smile. He brought you home. Don't you remember? He'll be back soon – Gaius, should I run and get him?

Wait and see if Merlin stays awake.

He lies still and looks at the ceiling and it is the best he's felt in a long time. The dust motes drift and the rays of sunlight stretch lazily and the old man and the girl touch him gently, all over. He realizes distantly that they are doing more than just cleaning him. Sometimes it stings, but he thinks they might be watching him for signs of pain, so he contains any reaction. It isn't difficult.

"You sent for me, my lord?"

"Gaius. Yes…"

"I assume you wish to ask after the condition of my patient – but I should get back to him if you're not going to –"

"No! No, it's… I'm… Gwen went to sleep, finally, she was crying and trying to tell me…"

"So you sat up waiting for my report, with a pitcher of wine for company. Tsst. That won't help Merlin, Arthur."

"It'll help get the sight of him out of my head, at least! You didn't – Gaius, I might've rode right past him if I hadn't turned my head just at that moment. He was just lying there – I don't know, sleeping. And then when he - He didn't even recognize me!"

"Nor any of us, I don't think. As Gwen was washing his hair, she found… evidence of an old, rather bad blow he'd taken to his head. I believe that explains some memory loss, and change in behavior."

"Some. And the rest? The rest of him? He was naked, Gaius – and Merlin is usually shy as a girl – and I saw… what I saw... Damn it all, I want to forget…"

"Considerable damage to his right hand. I believe we can rebreak some of the bones – carefully, of course – and reset them to give him back some use of that hand. His ribs are healed over – if he wasn't so skinny, it might be more difficult to ascertain the location of previous cracks by the lump of knitted bone. As for the rest…"

(Grunt.) "He's a patchwork of scars and bruises. I've never seen anything like it... What were they doing to him. Even here, the punishments aren't any worse than imprisonment, or a few hours in the stocks. Aside from – y'know – execution, or if the offense is really bad."

"I imagine he was caught by slavers, or some such men. Cenred's land is lawless, now, and we've heard rumors of the far north. And you know Merlin would never accept that, he'd never stop trying to escape and return to us. I only wonder why he…"

"Didn't make better plans, and actually accomplish something sooner?!... I'm sorry, Gaius, I know this isn't his fault. It isn't…"

"It isn't your fault, either."

"No? Feels like it. It feels like I let my skinny, uncoordinated manservant wander off by himself –"

"He asked you to –"

"Into a land where might is right, and Merlin hasn't got any might, to be captured and beaten daily, it looks like, and then leave him there for a year."

"Arthur, you tried to find him –"

"I could've gone myself."

"No, you couldn't, and you know it. Those few trips to Ealdor to speak to Merlin's mother –"

"Weren't enough!"

"Were risky enough as it was, especially if your council or the other kings had gotten wind of it. You are king now, Arthur, and you know that means you can't simply choose to do as you please – or disobey yourself to sneak out! Now… I have been drawn into your half-drunken self-pity enough for one night, I have a patient who needs me."

"Do you think he'll recover, Gaius."

(Pause.) "I hope so. Some of the marks may still fade –"

"Some won't."

"And I'm sure we can improve the state of his hand."

"What about…"

"What about what, Arthur."

"Don't – say it like that, dammit. I know I'm not imagining things. He stank like a privy, sure, but there was – that other smell. I know you know what I mean."

(Pause.)

(Pause.)

"As a physician, I can tell you that there was no lasting harm done. As Merlin's friend…"

"I don't see how anyone can possibly recover from – what I can't stop imagining was done to him."

"Merlin is stronger than you know…"

"But?"

"I wonder if part of his… behavioral patterns, aren't a way of separating his mind from his body. So he could survive what he suffered. I will have to speak to him further, watch him for the next few days and weeks, before I can say for sure."

"He's just too… passive. Merlin was never like that, before. Do you think he can – is he ever going to be the same, again?"

"Arthur…" (Gently.) "We must prepare ourselves for the impossibility of that."

…

"And throwing things is not going to do anything – apart from waking your wife."

"I'm sorry. Gaius, I'm…"

"I understand, sire. I'll excuse myself for now. Please try to get some sleep? He's going to need us all to be strong for him – and treat him as normally as possible. Good night, my lady."