Several hours previous

Lying on his back, eyes closed, Merlin's head rested in someone's lap as cool fingers traced lightly over his face. The pleasant lick of warm sunlight played across his body as long grass tickled the bare skin of his arms, and in the distance he could hear the gentle lapping of water on a bank.

Birds sang, and a strangely familiar voice hummed above him. It was low, soothing, drifting on the edge of his memory.

A throbbing began in the front of his left shoulder, deep and insistent. Pushing it away Merlin focused instead on the touch, burying himself in the hypnotically delicious sensation. He had no way to be certain how long he lay drowsily content before his mysterious companion spoke, breaking the spell.

"It's almost time, child."

The voice was distinctly feminine but with an underlying resonance. It sounded to his ears as if several people were speaking at once blending to layer the croak of age seamlessly with the sweetness of youth.

"Time?" The words were heavy, his tongue uncooperative. The pain in his shoulder became harder to ignore. He kept his eyes closed, forcing his body to remain relaxed.

"Emrys… my handmaiden has begged of me a boon. Or she will, soon enough." The fingers drew lazy circles down his face, his neck, across his chest as the voice continued.

"There will be a price."

Her touch traced near his injured shoulder and Merlin flinched away reflexively. At his motion the hands, until then so gentle, crushed against him with surprising strength. Talon like nails bit into his chest digging into his flesh. The sweet touch became instead a restraint, a command, pressing on his ribcage. Startled he tried to open his eyes and found his body unresponsive. Alarm was a distant concept, hazy and detached even as a part of him understood he should be feeling it.

It's more than that, he was certain now he'd never heard the voice before. Regardless, he wanted to please her. Something ancient inside of him reached for her.

I want her approval.

A spark of fear now, like torchlight reaching him faintly through a heavy fog. Who was she?

As though reading his thoughts a low chuckle rumbled above him, and it was as if the sound was a drink of fresh water and he a parched wanderer dying from thirst. "Shhhh, there, there pet. You and I will have an eternity to get to know one another better. For now, you need to… wake up!"

Without warning the fingers thrust deep into his shoulder, directly into the center of the radiating pain, plunging into his flesh.

Merlin screamed; the sound muffled through a gag. Eyes flying open he shot upright. The muscles in both of his legs immediately protested the movement by seizing in a vicious cramp that stole his breath and prematurely choked off his shout.

Dear Gods, it hurt!

Falling back and slamming his eyes shut Merlin found his attention immediately preoccupied with taking short gasps of air through teeth clenched around the foul-tasting cloth in his mouth. Fighting through the waves of pain as his muscles spasmed awareness filtered to him of rough bonds at his ankles and wrists, further contributing to his disorientation.

He'd been dreaming but try as he might to grasp for the rapidly scattering tendrils of memory, he couldn't conjure more than a sense of… unease. It came paired with a brief ghostly sensation of fingers combing through his hair.

Where am I?

The fire in his legs faded to a sore ache, and he directed his attention outward. Leaves crunched as he shifted, and blinking eyes open he saw a sun dipping low on the horizon. A chill was stealing over the land, and he shivered realizing his jacket and scarf were both gone.

It appeared he was still in the forest then, but with no sign of any of his companions. Blinking harder he attempted to clear his vision, but his eyes stubbornly continued to drift in and out of focus.

A befuddled glance confirmed that he was indeed bound at both wrist and ankle, and his left shoulder felt like it had been struck by a blacksmith's hammer. Looking down he squinted at a row of rough stitches in this flesh, holding closed a bloody wound in the innermost front of his shoulder, right above his armpit.

That's not supposed to be there he thought, barely restraining a giggle.

Sluggishly Merlin strained to conjure the memory of what had transpired. Gwaine was asking him something about flowers then… he had been shot! Tumbling down the hill he'd been standing still on like a deer in one of Arthur's hunts. Stunned by the fall, he'd been seized and… and a… face. One that looked like his.

Becoming aware of voices Merlin twisted toward the sound, mindful not to roll onto his injured shoulder.

"What have you done? I feel… funny." He mumbled thickly, his cheek dropping to rest against cool damp earth.

Or at least, he tried to mumble. As he went through the motions of speech it came out unintelligible even to him.

Oh that's right- I'm gagged, how silly of me. Another giggle came, and again he bit it back. That was odd, he didn't giggle. Arthur would say it was undignified.

"How far from the border then?" said a short man with an accent Merlin had never heard before that slurred his words into a drawl.

Stumpy's companion crouched on the forest floor a few paces away, her eyes shimmering with a glaze of magic. Peering into a stone bowl held in both of her hands, she swirled its contents thoughtfully. "Perhaps two days ride."

Merlin tried to sit up, but his strength abandoned him and he fell back onto his side, this time the giggle that rose did bubble out of his lips. The two people speaking in low murmurs only feet away staunchly ignored him.

"Is a trap suspected?" Stumpy asked.

"All they can think about is rescuing the boy. The two injured knights will arrive back at Camelot in a few hours"

"I still don't understand why I can't just take them out, wounded birds would be an easy hunt. And two knights dead? That would demoralize them all nicely, especially their commoner Queen I bet." He snickered; voice full of glee at the thought.

The sorceress stood, finally looking away from the bowl now sitting on the ground at her feet as her eyes faded from gold to a bright green. "We don't need to understand, we just need to obey. If Camelot believes that it's King was merely waylaid hunting down unlucky slavers, they won't see the real threat. The news of their King's capture needs to be carefully timed."

"I think Berwyn would say- "

She cut him off, her voice cracking across his like a whip. "Stop thinking, that's not what we're paid for. It's all gone perfectly so far, and it will continue to do so as long as people like you don't start thinking."

The man's furious retort was lost on Merlin, who was replaying what he'd just heard over again in his head soaking in the implications with slowly dawning horror. Trying to marshal his thoughts he found them sliding away, refusing to line up properly. Each piece was there they just wouldn't… stay… put.

Trying again to get up this time he managed to roll up onto one elbow, and from there propped himself upright with his back against a log. It was the most his body could manage, and even that small effort left him breathless. He had to… magic.

"Magic!" He shouted into the gag, before stopping, confused, losing track of his plan as quickly as if it was water cupped in open fingers. His mind was tied in knots and stuffed with cotton, recalling him to the time he, Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine had stayed up late after the midwinter feast and together drunk a few too many bottles of ale. Only this was ten times worse.

For the first time the two individuals before him spared him a glance.

"The poppy tincture is wearing off sooner than we thought- he needs another dose," observed the sorceress.

"Get it yourself, wench" sneered her companion.

"If you insist on treating me like an irrational woman, I will show you what an irrational woman looks like, Odvar," she warned, voice cool.

Swearing at her, Stumpy, or Odvar as she'd called him, made a rude gesture with his hand before stomping off into the forest.

As she moved over to rummage in some saddlebags, Merlin remembered that Arthur was in trouble! He tried to stand up, promptly falling prone onto his side having forgotten all about his bindings.

"Poor lamb, you'll tear your stitches if you aren't careful." The sorceress said, her voice above him. Merlin hadn't realized his eyes had closed until they popped open again.

"Your King seems to care a great deal about you. Odd, you don't seem like anything special, or are you more like a favorite trained monkey."

He glowered.

A genuine laugh, and her smile was as beautiful and dangerous as a winter storm. "Don't look at me like that, love, it's just the job. Put it from your mind. Your misery will end soon enough. You can have the honor of serving your lord one last time by delivering the news of his fate."

She reached out and removed the gag from his mouth, pulling him into an upright position again before holding out a bottle.

"This is brandy mixed with a poppy tincture. It'll help with your pain and send you into a deep sleep. When morning comes you can slumber peacefully through your death."

Clearing his throat Merlin's voice came out in a croak. "Go jump in a bog."

Suddenly, Merlin recalled the plan he'd lost track of- magic! He reached out and touched her forehead calling up a sleep spell… and nothing happened.

His magic: he could feel it present, humming quietly in the deepest recesses of his body. Probing inside himself he found his power was as sluggish and disordered as his mind, ultimately failing to rise to his command.

So, instead, Merlin lurched forward and slammed the top of his head as hard as he could into her face. He heard the satisfying crunch of bone.

XXXX

Gwen pulled her quill from the page and signed, turning over her hands. She surveyed the ink splotches marring the warm sepia color of her skin with thinly veiled frustration.

The other lords and ladies of the court seemed to have an uncanny ability to pen a letter and keep both their fingers and cuffs spotless. But, just like the callouses which roughed her hands and told the story of her life as a poor serving girl, these black spots set her apart from the rest.

Not that she minded, Gwen held no shame over the nuances of her past. But winning the respect of the ruling class with which she now rubbed shoulders had been an ongoing battle, and she understood how highly they viewed these superficial aspects of daily life. She thought it was obscene, but if learning these skills would remove even a small barrier and make the traditionalists in court more open to hearing the ideas which would bring about systematic change, then she could swallow her pride and pick her battles.

And yet, as seemingly insignificant as it was, this skill continued to evade her.

Abandoning her task with a sigh Gwen stood and went to the window of her and Arthur's chambers, peering out over Camelot, missing her husband. Night had fallen, the city now illuminated by hundreds of points of flickering torchlight, a mirror to the heavenly lights hanging in the sky. Sometimes she felt as alien and far away from the woman she used to be as the stars must be from the Earth. Other times, she felt all that separated her from that simple girl was the thin drape of velvet and silk in which she now dressed.

An urgent knocking interrupted Gwen's melancholy thoughts and she turned, smoothing her skirts before noticing she'd accidentally wiped the ink still wet on her fingers across the fine fabric. With a sigh of both defeat and resignation, she called for whoever it was to enter.

Her maidservant burst in, looking flustered and dipping a hurried curtsy. "M'lady it's- "

A messenger boy pushed past her, his face flushed and his breathing labored. "Your grace, Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival need to speak with you urgently. They're injured, they say it's about the- it's about your husband."

All thoughts of stars and ink fled as Gwen gathered the stained folds of red silk in her fists and ran.

XXXX

They had beaten Merlin, soundly. In the case of the one called Odvar, he had also done so gleefully, if impersonally. The unpleasant man had sauntered unhurried back to the camp in response to the angry shout of the sorceress, and promptly shown him the business end of his boot.

"Can't even handle one drugged boy, Maeve?" Odvar had taunted, giving Merlin her name.

Merlin coughed and curled into a ball around his screaming ribs, blood dribbling from his split lips. He watched night fall through one half open eye as he faded in and out of consciousness. At one point he'd woken to find a small fire had been built to keep the biting cold at bay and he lay at the edge of its heat.

In ever increasing moments of lucidity Merlin harbored a secret grin, a defiant victory; he'd managed to empty the entire bottle of poppy tincture in the scuffle.

Maeve had shrugged when she'd realized, telling him he could suffer then. As if the tincture had been a kindness. As though it has been some gesture of vast benevolence and mercy, a tool for humane slaughter.

As the night wore on and the drugs and alcohol steadily worked their way from his system, his body became an increasing cacophony of pain even as his thoughts began to take on the semblance of order. They hadn't bothered to tether him; the cage of his own injured flesh a more effective bondage than any other they might have devised. His body felt warm, but still he shivered.

Now, Merlin held himself as still as possible and focused on breathing. Breathing. His ribs protested with every inhalation but if any ribs were broken, they were merely cracked. He had broken ribs before, he reflected, flashing back to a memory of a mace crashing into his chest, and a desperate scramble through the trees. Of Arthur, refusing to leave him behind.

That had hurt worse than this.

Probably.

His captives had engaged in spurts of conversation, but he had thus far been unable to glean any new information about what fate was to befall Arthur and his Knights.

Unfortunately, Merlin had learned what was in store for him. Come sunrise, he was to be tied to the back of a horse and his throat opened. To paint a certain picture, as Odvar put it. The perverse excitement in the man's voice had escalated as he'd described his plan to Maeve in the same way an artist might tell of a planned masterpiece. His words had lovingly painted the image of a tapestry of crimson spilling over the flanks of the white roan, a bloody banner heralding a declaration of war. The exact terms of that threat would be inked on a scroll and pinned to his body with a dagger.

They'd kept him alive, going so far as to tend his wound, only so they could bleed him at the right time to the right effect. He was a stage piece.

Heart throwing itself against the inside of his ribcage like a frightened bird, he tried to think of any way to escape. But without his magic, Merlin knew he was of little consequence.

Over and over, he would turn his attention inward, calling to the power he could still sense there. Was it wishful thinking alone that made it seem as though it was shifting more and more in response his summons?

Had something broken inside of him?

The idea tightened his throat and made him feel very small indeed. His lungs seemed desperate to draw in every last ounce of cold air they could, as though trying to pack a lifetime worth of breathing into the next few hours before dawn. In and out, his breath ghosting before his face, scraping nails of ice down his parched throat.

This is no good, he thought angrily, fighting to master the panic thrumming through him. He'd heard Gaius mention in passing once that there were dangerous substances which could quicken or repress the flow of magic. The old physician had then staunchly deflected Merlin's further questioning on the subject, saying it was no use anyways as they were all much too dangerous. But wasn't it far more likely, then, that he'd accidentally stumbled across one such substance?

At last, after ages of increasingly frantic prodding, he felt it. Like an ancient beast waking from a nap, yawning, stretching, raising its head, his magic slid lazily from the deep well inside his center to answer his call.

He breathed out, then back in. Slowly. Releasing his fear, shaping his intent. Quietly, even though the agony was now singing in his battered body and limbs. Merlin smiled.

I'm coming, Arthur.

XXXX

The last embers of the fire crackled, hissing as they fought to stay alive. Dawn was approaching rapidly, and the stars faded as if swept away in anticipation of the wave of oncoming light.

Merlin rolled into his stomach and somehow started crawling, pulling himself across the ground with his uninjured arm. He could crawl, good. Part of him noted clinically that he hadn't broken his arms or his legs, good. Good.

As he inched forward, he passed the bodies of Maeve and Odvar. Both limply sprawled where they had landed, Merlin's spell having batted them through the air like the hand of an invisible giant.

Merlin reached the contentedly grazing horses five or ten minutes or a year later, he couldn't be sure. Warm brown eyes peered down at him, curious. The ivory mare snorted, tossing her head and whinnying as though laughing at the sight of this human crawling on its belly.

Gritting his teeth in determination, fixing his goal in his mind's eye, Merlin murmured quiet reassurance to the mare as he rose to his knees and steadied himself on the horse's tack. Then, pressing palm to stirrup, he levered himself slowly to his feet. Standing for a moment his eyes fixed in dread on the saddle. Taking her reigns he managed to haul himself up her flanks, wheezing and grunting in the effort.

As much as he longed to ride after Arthur, Merlin wasn't so deluded as to believe he could do anything in his current state. His best chance was to return to Camelot.

Surely, Gwen would know what to do.

Gripping the ivory mare's harness in one white knuckled fist he laid his other palm down on her neck, calling to his power. It swelled within him, and he felt a surge of exhilaration at the familiar sensation.

"Cum vento sub pedibus tuis, me domum fere."

With little warning she lunged forward, and he turned his full concentration towards staying on. Hanging on with grim determination in the light of a new day he galloped back towards Camelot, and away from Arthur.

XXXX

Gwaine and Percival both had been lingering in the courtyard for almost a full day since the morning after they had returned. In hushed voices they now were weighing the merits of technically committing treason by disregarding Gwen's orders to stay put. She had listened to their story intently, asking several questions, before sweeping off to do… well he wasn't entirely sure, but certainly something important. Arthur was a quite a hands on and involved ruler. Their queen had been left as the sole monarch in his bursts of absence enough times to have a comfortable understanding of things.

Gaius had seen to them both, quickly and efficiently. He'd given them each potions to help with their pain and even the persistent dizziness, but unfortunately the only cure would be rest and time. The physician had lingered with them in the courtyard for several hours, his old eyes anxious and solemn under thick brows. But when he had finally been able to ignore his duties as court physician no longer, he had retreated to his workroom.

The guards on watch at the gate had likely been notified of the situation, as they both showed a keener interest in the two knights than Gwaine would have liked. It would be tricky to slip out unnoticed.

Suddenly a horn trumpeted an alarm, and Gwaine spun, Percival gripping his arm in warning. There was urgent shouting and the sound of hooves, a single rider barreling into view up the main road toward the citadel. Gwaine's surge of hope was doused by the sight of the lone horse. If it was Arthur returning as he'd vowed there would be… well, he couldn't remember exactly through his brain fog but there would be more riders than one.

The ivory steed burst through the gate, the lone figure sagging forward in the saddle. The horse slowed to a trot as it approached the center of the courtyard, and to his shock and confusion Gwaine recognized even through a mass of blood, swollen flesh, and bruises, Merlin. The boy must have tied himself to the saddle at some point because ropes made of what at first glance appeared to be ivy were all that kept him on his horse.

The mare wasn't in very good shape either, eyes wide and rolling, flanks heaving, soaked with sweat as though she had run for miles without stopping.

Percival bellowed orders to the guards, as he and Gwaine rushed forward. Gwaine paused for an instant as he realized it was not in fact vines which held Merlin in place but what appeared on closer inspection to be roots. Setting the oddity aside for examination at another time he cut the thick things holding Merlin in the saddle as Percival lifted him down, cradling his body to his chest more gently than his vast frame might have lead anyone to believe possible.

"Merlin!"

Merlin didn't respond, his forehead glistening with sweat. Stomach churning at the sight of his friend's injuries Gwaine felt at the boy's throat, searching for a pulse and letting out a breath of relief when he felt an unsteady flutter against his fingertips.

"Is he…?" Prompted Percival when Gwaine didn't immediately provide an answer.

"He's alive," confirmed Gwaine, relief rapidly giving way to concern as he registered how hot Merlin's skin felt. Placing a hand on Merlin's forehead he confirmed that the boy had a scalding fever.

Merlin who had so far been unresponsive suddenly jerked, eyes going wide, gaze hazy and unfocused as he gasped weakly, "A herald of war- you must… Gwen…"

Eyes rolling into the back of his head Merlin's entire body tensed, before finally going limp.

Without another word Percival set off towards Gaius's chambers, moving as fast as he could without unnecessarily jostling the injured manservant.

A guard had been sent to find the Queen already, but Gwaine paused long enough to grab a serving boy. He had promised the startled boy a piece of silver if he was swift about it, before hurrying after Percival. An unarmed child who was properly motivated would be much more efficient than a guard in mail and armor.

Gaius's chambers looked like a simple place, every surface cluttered with scrolls and books, bottles and herbs. It smelled sharply of sage; a fresh bundle of the stuff now abandoned on the worktable.

When Gwaine stumbled in, a patient cot had already been swept out and Merlin laid upon it. Gaius had descended on the boy and was in the process of peeling back his shirt, inspecting an angrily swollen wound in Merlin's shoulder. Percival was hovering against one wall, eyes solemn.

"This wound is infected, badly."

Gwaine's initial shock at the sight of Merlin had faded and had started building steadily to rage. The boy looked like someone's favorite punching bag. Moving to stand on the other side of the cot from Gaius, Gwaine found himself experiencing a rare phenomenon; he was lost for words.

Gaius's gnarled fingers brushed across Merlin's injuries, taking inventory. "Whatever he was shot with missed anything of real importance. Someone stitched it, but not well. I need to remove this thread and clean it out."

"Why isn't he dead?" wondered Gwaine, thinking aloud.

"Would you prefer him to be so?" snapped Gaius, his worry breaking through the cool, practical mask of the court physician like the lash of a whip across Gwaine's skin.

"Of course not!" Percival soothed. "I think Gwaine just meant… how is he here?"

He shot Percival a grateful look, "Yes, that."

Had Merlin managed to escape, but missed the others on his flight back home? His memories of Merlin's kidnapping were hazy, but Gwaine tried to remember if Merlin had been shot at that point.

Gaius nodded jerkily, still terse. "We'll have to wait until he wakes up to know Merlin's side of the story, I have no doubt it will be very insightful."

Percival and Gwaine traded worried looks. When might that be?

Suddenly Gwen burst through the still open doorway, making them both twitch in surprise.

Rushing over, she nudged Gwaine out of her way with surprising strength, dropping to her knees at Merlin's side. Large brown eyes glistened unnaturally bright as she took in the sweat, blood, bruises, and labored breathing of their friend.

Tenderly she laid a hand on Merlin's forehead, smoothing his damp hair away from his face before glancing up at Gaius. "He's going to be alright?"

"He's very weak, but I believe so."

Letting out a long breath Gwaine combed one hand through his hair like he often did in times of stress.

Chewing on her lower lip in a rare show of open anxiety Gwen nodded and stood, withdrawing a clean rag from a small pile. Stepping to a ceramic pot full of drinking water, she dipped the cloth into it before returning along with a stool. Sitting she leaned in, drawing the cloth across Merlin's forehead.

On his other side Gaius was leaning in, using a long thin pair of tweezers and a small blade to cut and tease out bits of thread from the wound.

"Gwaine," said Gaius, intent on his work, "take the jugs from table there and go fetch us some fresh water. When you return, we will need to boil it. Percival, will you hand me some fresh bandages from the cabinet next to you? No- the other one-"

Many would have protested, arguing that they were knights, and such things were below their dignity. Work far beneath them, fit only for servants. Gwaine, however, accepted the task without hesitation and hurried from the room.