24. Part 1: Blindfolded
("Revelations and Reactions" from Refined by Fire)
Sir Arrok and another knight had bound Merlin in a seated position at the base of a large tree, his hands behind him. Gagged, and blindfolded. Which Arthur hadn't ordered specifically, but in the case of a captive able to use magic, a necessary precaution, and part of him recognized and approved of that detail of initiative. For their own safety.
Which was illogical. They didn't need protection from Merlin.
And. They'd used a torn strip of his shirt around his eyes, and stuffed his own neckerchief into his mouth. Red and blue. Arthur had wondered before, if the one color was worn as a token of his new home, but the younger man kept the other as he kept his irreverent personality, utterly unique as the neckerchief itself was.
Arthur leaned forward over his crossed legs and began to stroke a finer edge to his knife with a sharpening stone, keeping his movements slow and controlled, as the others moved about preparations for the night's camp – most of which would have been done by Merlin, under other circumstances – and Arthur and Merlin just sat.
He didn't initiate any conversation with his men, but responded to politely worded queries with forced calm. Yes, I'm shocked. I never would have thought – that Merlin could actually make a useful contribution to a brawl. Yes, I am very angry – that he twice! disobeyed my order to run.
But that was Merlin. Never very good at following orders, now it seemed he'd trespassed into breaking laws. And this one, to choose to break…
The third time one of the men approached to ask, "Are you all right, my lord?" he recognized the reason. What they were really asking.
Not, did you know?
But, has he done anything to you? Feeling well, there, sire? Not – enchanted, or anything?
Merlin didn't move.
And if dinner hadn't interrupted Arthur, he might have ground his knife steadily into a tool better used as a toothpick. He'd gradually recognized the precarious balance of the situation; immobilized and handicapped, Merlin was by no means safe. And that was without thinking what might happen upon their arrival in Camelot.
Arthur ground his teeth in pretending to chew. One word out of place, one look or action more sympathetic than condemning, and it might be ten times worse for Merlin on just the suspicion of such an enchantment. And Arthur might lose what little freedom his authority gave him, to look after Merlin's wellbeing. If he were suspected – of enchantment or just sympathy – he would be watched, at the very least.
Either way, his authority would end when they reached Camelot, and Uther was informed of this development.
No. There had to be another way.
"My lord?" Leon sat on his heels to one side of Arthur.
He lifted his head fractionally to grant the knight permission to address him. Sir Leon hadn't come to question him before; he felt a faint disappointment that this knight had succumbed to the temptation to make sure of Arthur, too.
But Leon said only, "Rations for the prisoner?"
Silence but for the pop and crackle of the fire between him and Merlin, forty feet away from him, beyond the circle of knightly camaraderie, however subdued or forced on this occasion. Everyone waited to hear his response, evaluate his reaction for the level of appropriately rabid anti-magic rhetoric.
"No," he said evenly, and a flicker of disapproval passed briefly through the older knight's eyes.
Arthur understood. He felt that way himself – this was Merlin, who'd never hurt anyone, who didn't deserve to go hungry and thirsty no matter what laws he'd broken… Arthur was angry again. He felt that his hands were tied as tightly as his serv- as the sorcerer's.
"We don't need to waste provisions on him," he added. More than implying the result of bringing a proven magic-user back to Camelot.
It was exactly the right thing to say. More than one of the men nodded approvingly, though the dissatisfaction was clearer in Leon's face as he conveyed understanding and the intention of obedience in a single terse jerk of his head.
And it made Arthur sick to his stomach.
The sky faded to darkness. Shadows drew closer, reaching with chill fingers as far as they dared. The fire burned brighter, hotter, snapping and sparking merrily, fuel added periodically by one of the knights.
And if Arthur raised his eyes from the charring branches, coated with whitened ash and searing orange-yellow heat at the heart of it, he could see Merlin through the leaping crimson tongues of flame.
He was so still. And quiet.
And if he was sentenced to burn at the stake… Arthur would look upon this vision again. Only, Merlin not so quiet. Screaming and writhing, like others Uther had forced him to watch…
Arthur turned aside to his bedroll, arranging himself carefully. Pillowing his head on a combination of his bundle and Merlin's – both packed by the younger man only this morning. Staring up at the fire-lit undersides of the leaves, tossing lightly and whispering distantly against the deep blue of the sky.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin hated the blindfold.
His hands were tied. And he'd been threatened – by Sir Arrok, he thought he recognized the voice – that he'd be run through if he so much as flinched in the wrong direction. Though which direction was the wrong one, he didn't know. And couldn't ask, because of the gag. But it felt like his hearing was the only sense he had left, and that was muffled by the painful pounding of blood through his skull – and more specifically, the knot he was sure was forming, though he couldn't feel for himself.
The blow to the back of his head was maybe another safeguard to prevent him using magic, or a test to see if he would – and he couldn't, not against the knights, not if he wanted to someday persuade Arthur magic could be good – or possibly even to soothe resentment over his habitual lack of proper respect shown to superiors. Sir Arrok again, if he had to guess.
Though maybe the guess was unfair, since he'd been hit with a sword-hilt from behind.
After he'd been blindfolded.
Theoretically, Arthur should be as safe in the midst of a troop of knights as sleeping in his own bed. Only, because Merlin couldn't see this, he couldn't quite convince nerves and muscles to relax.
Merlin's thoughts were like an extra hammer-blow to his brain that he'd just as soon avoid, but this one he clung to. Arthur hadn't run him through.
The knights had seen, and accused – and Arthur had demanded to know, is it true, did you just use magic… and Merlin couldn't bring himself to lie to his friend's face. The prince had been clearly furious – but he'd told Merlin to run.
One moment he'd given him, before they'd both been surrounded by Uther's finest – only Merlin couldn't.
Couldn't leave Arthur now. Another thought he clung to through the exhausting ebb and flow of pain.
There was a second reason he hated the blindfold, though. Contemplating this moment for years, since the axe had fallen in the courtyard on Merlin's first day in Camelot, over the months and years as he'd gotten to know the prince – his prince – he knew that Arthur was only dangerous when his temper got the better of his judgment.
And that moment had passed.
But the others. With the blindfold on, Merlin wouldn't be able to see if one of the knights might just decide to end the potential threat he posed with a blade between his ribs or through his throat. Magic put everyone on edge, that way, it was difficult to tell how any one person might react to unveiling a sorcerer.
That was not the way he wanted to die – he wasn't ready to die. He wanted to live – didn't everyone? – but his life in danger always made him worry about Arthur, without him. Yeah, he'd managed almost twenty years before they'd even met, but – Arthur would be dead a dozen times over, if not for the protection of Merlin's magic.
His magic was necessary, for Arthur's life. Therefore, he was necessary, and must continue to live. That was only logic.
Merlin's heart thudded whenever he heard footsteps approaching through the fallen leaves and the coursing of his pulse through his head, whenever he felt the vibrations in the ground beneath him. He flinched, occasionally, at a sudden noise. And someone was sharpening a knife – across his stretched nerves, it felt like.
No one spoke to him. No one touched him, not to hurt or to help. It was as if he'd ceased to exist.
Muscles cramped and he worked them surreptitiously, squeezing his fingers to keep sensation. His neckerchief pulled moisture from his mouth and did not taste pleasant, and he resolved to keep them cleaner…
But things would never be the same, would they. There would be no excuses this time, no last-minute explanations of why he wasn't a sorcerer, after all. He wouldn't be allowed Gaius' hug – or a smack on the back of his head; at the moment, the thought made him wince instead of grin – a short night on his hard bed and a long list of Arthur's worst chores to assure him that all had gone back to normal. He wouldn't be washing this neckerchief along with the rest of the laundry, tomorrow.
What would he be doing? Good question.
Did he have a plan? He rarely had a plan. Plans got fouled up and situations deteriorated unrecognizably. Reactions and excuses were what he was good at.
So – did Arthur have a plan?
A twig cracked, and he flinched, suddenly attentive to his physical senses rather than the sore throb of his thoughts. The twig had alerted him, because all else was silent. Not the waiting silence of every knight on edge due to danger, but – restful silence. Was it that late al-
A hand touched him, and he yelped into the gag of his neckerchief.
"Shut up, idiot!" Arthur growled, so close in his ear that he felt the prince's breath.
He couldn't help collapsing back against the tree in rather limp relief, as Arthur's fingers removed his gag and blindfold simultaneously – one up, and one down. He blinked at the small but painfully bright spot of the campfire as his eyes tried to adjust, tried to work some moisture back into his mouth. A glint of sharp metal showed in Arthur's hand as he turned his attention to the side; Merlin flinched before he felt the cool flat of the blade slip between his fingers.
"What are you doing?" he hissed at the prince.
"What do you think?" Arthur returned. "Helping you escape."
Merlin turned toward him, which only served to hinder Arthur's efforts at the binding rope behind him.
"Your pack is there – rations and water." The dark lump just beyond Merlin's left boot. "Leon's got the watch for another three hours," Arthur continued, and Merlin squinted at the figure of the older knight, studiously not noticing his prince releasing a magic-user. "And we won't be able to track you in the dark, so you've got six hours – seven if I can delay the rest convincingly. We'll be faster than you on horseback, but we're closer to the border here than the citadel – if you cross it before we catch you up, then we'll have to–"
"No," Merlin blurted, twisted his tied hands further out of Arthur's grip. A sudden indefinable fear shot through him at the suggestion, increasing the beat of his blood in his skull almost unbearably.
Arthur pushed to reach his bonds again. "If you're worried about getting me in trouble, don't be. Your escape will be easy enough to explain. Magic."
Merlin glanced up to see Arthur's mouth twist as if the word tasted foul to him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You're an idiot," the prince told him, and he thought – though in the uncertain light he could've been wrong – that Arthur was trying not to smile. "How many times did you think you could use that spell before someone caught you at it? Didn't anyone ever teach you that using magic corrupts your soul?" Merlin gaped at him, sure that he'd heard wrong, though the fog of his headache. "Go home, Merlin, back to Ealdor – and don't use it again."
So Arthur didn't know. Not exactly. Not fully. Arthur didn't understand… about magic… about Merlin.
If he obeyed his prince, escaped Camelot – would he go back to waiting? to farming? – to hoping not to receive the news of Arthur's death? What about his destiny?
And what about Morgana? She'd be furious to learn even so much as Arthur believed. She'd be even more furious if Arthur told her of his part in Merlin's escape – he could see the prince even now, confiding in the girl he thought of as a sister, expecting her relief to match his own at Merlin's safety and freedom, beyond Uther's reach. Arthur would be unprotected, from threats magical and physical, unaware of the danger the king's ward posed from within, enemies like Morgause from without.
And Arthur would keep believing that magic corrupted.
He couldn't be Arthur's invisible shield, beside him as his manservant, any longer. But he also couldn't just run away. He couldn't think any further than that; those two thoughts alone were clear–
Arthur hadn't run him through; he couldn't leave Arthur now.
"No," he said again, more insistently, and both of them froze as the nearest slumbering knight muttered and shifted. Leon twitched as if he'd stopped himself glancing over.
"Are you really this stupid?" Arthur growled.
It wasn't his intelligence he needed to prove. That wouldn't convince the prince – the once and future king – to change the laws, lift the ban, bring magic back. Someday.
No, he needed to prove the nature of magic itself. Not dark and dangerous, not corruptive. Just, a force of nature, like flowing water or blowing wind or warming sunlight. Useful, and beneficial, if governed wisely, like any other skill.
Merlin struggled against Arthur, determined to cut him free. He didn't want anyone to wake, either, to discover Arthur himself breaking his father's law – though it wouldn't be the first time for that, either.
"I'm not leaving. I haven't done anything wrong!" he said intensely. He'd raise his voice if he had to, he thought.
"Breaking the law isn't–" Arthur cut himself off as a second knight shifted, rolling awkwardly in his bedroll to a more comfortable position. "What makes you think you'll be acquitted at a trial?" Arthur demanded in a lower voice, sitting back on his heels. "What's so important in Camelot that you can't just–"
"You," Merlin said simply. "I said I was happy being your servant til the day I–"
"You want that day to be tomorrow?" Arthur interrupted. "And how on earth do you think you'll serve me by that?"
"It'll be all right, I'll think of something," Merlin said tiredly. He kind of wished Arthur would go away and let his head ache in peace, so he wouldn't have to argue. Or think.
"You? Think?" Arthur looked like he wanted to hit him.
Merlin only watched him. Arthur could believe in a stranger's guilt, watch a stranger's execution with nary a twinge. But he was ready to forgive Merlin's single use of magic, ready to save his life… after only a few short years. Uther had been ready to send Gaius to his death last year on the witchfinder's word – regretfully, maybe, but still without pause – after decades of loyal service.
Arthur was different. Merlin couldn't leave him, now. The punishment – the execution – he'd figure something out.
"Trust me," Merlin said softly.
Arthur's jaw was set, hard. He didn't respond, only toyed with his knife for a moment. Then gave Merlin a heated glare which he read instantly – the prince hated the feeling of helplessness Merlin's evident stupidity gave him. He pushed to his feet and prowled back to his bedroll on the far side of the fire where he threw himself down with his back to Merlin. And didn't look at him again.
I'm sorry, Merlin thought at him, bending forward to try to rub one temple against the side of his knee, in a fruitless attempt to ease the throbbing. Hopefully he'd get a chance to say the same to Gaius – and maybe Morgana, though she'd made her own choices and probably his words meant less than nothing to her. But I'm not giving up. Not leaving Camelot, not leaving you.
Where there's life, there's hope.
After a moment, Leon turned, and made his way soundlessly to Merlin's side. He didn't ask what had been said, what either Arthur or Merlin was thinking or feeling. Leon only checked that Merlin's hands were securely bound behind him, then picked up the torn hem of his shirt that had served as a blindfold.
"Sorry," he whispered to Merlin. "No one should know he spoke to you. And if anyone thought you could remove these with magic…" He didn't have to say more. Merlin could guess what restraints might be used, if the other knights thought gag and blindfold ineffective. He'd probably be lucky if all they did was knock him out and sling him unconscious over the saddle.
Leon paused, set the blindfold across his knee, then picked up the abandoned water-skin to position for Merlin's use. Merlin gulped it gratefully, though warmish and tasting faintly of leather, it felt wonderful in his dry mouth and down a dusty throat.
"Thanks," he managed.
The knight looked at him unsmiling, a wrinkle of uncomfortable uncertainty between his brows, then lifted the blindfold to replace it as Merlin dipped his head in cooperation. A moment later the neckerchief was tugged up over his jaw and between his lips also. Merlin heard Leon pick up the pack Arthur had brought for his escape, to return it to its place and conceal the evidence of Arthur's attempt.
Merlin's stomach growled, and his head thumped. It was going to be a long night.
I've had worse, he reminded himself.
It wasn't much comfort.
24. Part 2: Blindfolded
("Sleeping Still" from Vortigern's Tower)
Merlin lay on his side in the grass, in cool dimness. He squirmed a little, and felt the rough pinch of ropes on his wrists, fastened together in front of him, raised them to feel at his face, identifying the blindfold and gag also. The blindfold was soaked through with tears.
Some distance away, though the tent material did little to muffle the voices, he heard Uther's raised. "How dare you trust a magic-user? Where is your sense of loyalty, Bedwyr?"
"My lord," Bedwyr said stoically, "I consider my actions as proving loyalty to yourself and your son both."
"You saw that demon-spawn yourself, you heard what he said. He's completely mad; you should have found a way to rid yourself of him immediately! How could you let that filth remain near my son – work unchecked sorcery upon my heir? This is the result – Arthur is dead!"
"Sire, the boy is young," Bedwyr answered. "He and your son have been through an ordeal together, is it any wonder that he panicked when you ordered him from Arthur's side? He truly believes that he and he alone–"
"And you, Gaius, a man of science and medicine – do you give any credence to that wild tale?"
"My lord," Gaius interjected calmly. "If what the boy claims is true, there is a chance that we can still save Arthur."
"Save him for what?" Uther spat. "It may be something else inside the body of my son, for all we know – no, he goes nowhere near Arthur."
Merlin felt his heart constrict. Would he be prevented from returning to the time and place where Arthur's consciousness was suspended?
If they accepted Arthur's death as fact now, what would happen? A funeral pyre – Arthur would be burned alive, or trapped forever with no body to return to… No, that wouldn't happen. Merlin wouldn't let that happen – but he needed Gaius' cooperation to save Arthur's life. And would he be able to fight off an army of knights with orders to kill or exile him and remain with Arthur long enough to bring him back?
So much hinged upon belief and acceptance.
"Leon, what do you think?" Uther asked.
The briefest of pauses. "My lord, you've heard Sir Bedwyr's story. I heard Arthur myself claim the boy had already once saved his life. I saw with my own eyes that he destroyed the catapult with magic – which routed Vortigern's forces, and so the battle was won."
"The battle was won by the knights of Camelot," Uther growled. "Not by magic."
"As you say, sire." Leon was nothing if not deferential. "The boy said he spoke to Arthur in the enchanted sleep, that he could wake your son if a physician were to aid in the healing of the wound." Slight hesitation only. "I believe him."
"If we do nothing, Arthur is as good as dead," Gaius added. "But you can see for yourself, Uther, the body is neither cold nor stiff as would be expected after this long. You lose nothing in the attempt, sire."
After a moment of silence, there was the rustling of tent material, a gentle hand pushed the blindfold down.
The old physician knelt and spoke to him softly, "My boy, your story is a highly fantastic one. Are you prepared to offer evidence of its truth?"