Pendragon Red (Part 2/4+Epilogue)

[talesofyesac]

Title: Pendragon Red (Part 2/4+Epilogue)
Author: talesofyesac
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 30,583
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Arthur (gen)
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death (minor), violence
Summary: Camelot is overrun by a group of magic users after Uther refuses to negotiate with them. Oddly, the only things they seem to want from Camelot are Arthur... and Merlin. His father dead and his kingdom conquered, Arthur, oblivious to what they could possibly want with his servant, attempts to protect himself and Merlin while somehow finding a way to escape before they reach their unknown destination. Meanwhile, Merlin tries his best to stop Arthur from unraveling completely while also endeavoring to understand what part he and Arthur play in a prophecy involving towers, dragons, and blood sacrifice. 
Author’s Notes: This story was written for the journeystory mini big bang (a story of at least 10,000 words). It takes place before Fires of Idirsholas (2.12). Also, a million thanks to stbacchus, who is the most wonderful beta in the world. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Link to the Fabulous Art Made for this Story:  http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/237916.html

The devil is in the details.

All his life, Arthur has been trained to notice the details. Tracks in the mud, which direction the wind is blowing, what color the sky was earlier in the morning, because God forbid it’s the wrong color, since that might mean a storm, and then tracks won’t help you much, and the wind will only be something pelting rain against your back. Every day of his life, looking, watching, and listening.

One moment has dulled it all: for all he notices any of that at this point in time, it’s possible that there might already be a gale blowing around him without him taking note of it. Every sense feels numb, at least beyond his ability to feel the drying blood stiffening on his pants.

At first it clung to him, much like water-soaked material would, though far warmer and sicklier smelling, but then it had begun to dry, growing tacky and thicker. Now, if he tried to peel his pants off, they’d be stiff to the touch, and each tug would probably pull at the fine dusting of hair on his legs: by now, no doubt the blood has dried to that as well. It’s attaching to him; he’ll never be clean from this.

Even worse, he can feel some on the skin of his face. When he and Merlin had been shuffled into the courtyard and unceremoniously pushed onto a pair of horses, the men moving them had at least given him a cloth to wipe his face, but he can’t imagine that he got all of it: even if he’d mostly wiped anything visible away, there’s bound to be some left, etched in the pores of his face. It’ll be drying now, just like when he has blood on his hands after he’s killed an animal on a hunting trip, and in a little while, it will surely begin to itch. Scratching will bring flakes of the stuff, up under his fingernails, and then that’ll itch too.

All these years, and he’d thought he’d stopped feeling nauseous at the sight of blood. Maybe he even had. But this… is different. His stomach just keeps on rolling: what a weakness that would be, spilling whatever meal he last had-and it’s hard to remember-out onto the ground in front of his captors.

He’s got to stop thinking of it. He’s better than this. Knows better. He is Arthur Pendragon, and he doesn’t have the luxury of this kind of behavior. Breathe deep, concentrate-it shouldn’t be this hard, should it? But it hurts, and this blood feels different from any he’s ever had on him before. His father. His father….

Don’t think of it.

They’ve got to be miles from the castle by now. If he’d been watching the sun, he’d know, and there is no excuse for that oversight, not even if it is excusable for anyone else. His father… he’d be ashamed. He’s learned better from his father. He has. Uther would never accept his death as a reason for his son not to keep his wits. He’d be ashamed. Ashamed. His father is dead, and damn it all, Arthur is still shaming him.

That’s simply not acceptable. He is better than this.

Right. Think. It’d been morning when they’d opened the gates. How long had it taken to get to the throne room? It couldn’t have been long. None of it had to have taken much time. The mess in the courtyard-that couldn’t have been more than a quarter of an hour, just long enough for them to throw him and Merlin on a pair of horses and tie them there while every single remaining denizen of Camelot had stood by watching. Right. Easier not to think on that either. So much not to think about-God, somebody, help them all… the time-he needs to know the time.

It’s late now. Late enough that, were he in charge, they’d be stopping to make camp, maybe trying to find some small game. No one wants to set camp once the shadows have lengthened to the point where they’re hardly shadows at all anymore but rather just lighter spots of darkness, and if they wait much longer that’s all they’ll get. Funny. He could almost laugh at that: not only are these men despicable in just about every way, but they’re also useless at knowing such simple things as when to break for the night.

Or, perhaps not: the man in the lead, the one who killed-no. Not now. Just the man in the lead-he’s waving his men down, and their little procession appears to be stopping.

In one collective sort of halt, the horses pull to a stop, a few sputtering their relief into their bits. One even shakes its neck, throwing its mane askew like water droplets. Beside him, Merlin’s sigh is audible as well, and it draws the gaze of a few of the closest men. No one says anything, though, probably because they’re equally as relieved: they’ve ridden hard today, and they’re all wearing the dust of the road.

It’s not altogether a bad place to stop. If Arthur had chosen it, he’ll admit that it would be downright good-but there’s absolutely no chance of conceding anything better than a mediocre decision to these men, regardless of how there’s a running stream at the bottom of the hill or an extremely convenient overhang of rock nearby.

Really, it’s not all that bad. They’ll set up the bedrolls under the overhang, and they’ll be blocked from the wind by the ledges that are high enough up the cliff so that Arthur could stand under them comfortably. The overhang stretches out about the same length, and that’ll be enough to keep any rain off them while still letting the smoke from a fire escape. The land under the overhang also just barely slopes downward: the water won’t trickle into their bedrolls if it rains. Thank God for small miracles: on top of everything else, sleeping in a puddle would be too much.

Drawing his horse up to the front of the group, the man in charge gives another wave of his hand, seemingly oblivious to how his horse tosses its head impatiently, probably already set on getting down to that stream for a good long drink. The man-he doesn’t seem to be in any such hurry. He’s efficient, yes, but from what Arthur can tell, he’s not terribly pressed for time. Good-that’s good to know. It might help later on. Any information can help-again, the little observations.

It feels good to see those things, and Arthur swallows down a deep breath, feeling the burn in his lungs when he holds it. This is better, this strange sort of normalcy. If he can just concentrate on this man as an enemy-size him up like he’s been trained to do-then he’s still himself, still Arthur, doing what he’s born to do, leading, fighting, and that’s something, at least, for the time being.

The man is nothing impressive. Not physically. Oh, he’s well enough built, and he’s dressed in good quality clothing, but the only truly remarkable thing is how he commands his men’s respect. Clearly, he’s done something to earn their loyalty. Though, it’s not been done with pretty words: he’s hardly said anything since they began riding, although that’s rather deceiving, as there’s no lack of communication.

Interestingly enough, the same could be said of him and Merlin.

Merlin, who is riding beside him, quiet for once in his life. And, no, there is most certainly no reason to miss that incessant chatter. None at all. It’s not like he’d like to hear it, just to know that Merlin’s all right. Let him hear something, because he’s already lost far too many people today, and let anyone who wants to question about why a servant is worth that much. Perhaps he can challenge them to a duel over the matter-over his sense of judgment. Given the circumstances, that would be rather satisfying.

Maybe the leader. Get that sword under his ribs and just twist-

“Get the bedrolls down. Start a fire.”

And then Merlin’s back down standing beside him-when had they even gotten off their horses?-and just like that, his world halts and jolts back into focus properly.

The road has taken its toll on Merlin: that much is bitterly obvious. He’s wearing a fine sheen of dust in his hair, courtesy of a hard ride, and Arthur can’t imagine that he himself looks much different, other than the blood that’s certainly mixed in. There’s not much disturbing about Merlin’s dirty appearance, really: rather, what shakes him is the distance in Merlin’s eyes, the kind of look he gets when he’s certain the unfolding series of events has a high probability of ending badly. He always somehow withdraws, thinking about things that he can’t-or won’t-share with Arthur.

Morgana had been like that-sometimes withdrawing in a way Arthur never understood. Morgana, though-Morgana left them. Disappeared out of the castle about a week into the siege. She was last seen leaving the lower town with a blonde woman, someone who, by all reports, she seemed familiar with.

Doesn’t matter who she left with, really. Whoever it was, Morgana betrayed Camelot with that person’s help. She left them all to die. Whatever her secrets were-that was what came of them.

Perhaps he should worry that Merlin is the same. But how can he?

Secrets or not, Merlin didn’t leave.

“Are you all right?” Merlin asks, careful and quiet.

All right? No. Not even close. “Fine.” It doesn’t matter-they both know he’s lying. Merlin’s only asking because… well, it’s hard to say why he’s asking, actually. He just is. But there’s no doubt he knows the lie for what it is.

Certainly he does: his face tightens up, and even when two men come forward and steer them toward the overhang, pushing them down onto two bedrolls, his face doesn’t ease. It does shift to accommodate the scowl he shoots at the men, but other than that, his features remain largely untouched. “Arthur-“

No. If he talks about it now-just no. He can’t. “What about you?”

“Arthur-“

“Oh, honestly, Merlin, your vocabulary consists of far more than just my name. I asked you a question.”

That earns him a scowl, but there’s nothing really threatening about it. Even if there were, it’d be hard to take it seriously when Merlin looks so small against the rock outcropping: it eats him up in its shadow, and the way he leans back into it doesn’t suggest that he’s trying to avoid that. There’s something about Merlin-right from the start Arthur’s always said that, and he does pride himself on his ability to read people-but it doesn’t seem possible that half the time Merlin can be a bumbling idiot, and then in times like these he can follow the men around him with his eyes, watching them make camp with scrutiny that rivals what Arthur has seen in his knights.

“I’m all right. But you need to wash.”

“Thank you, Merlin.” As if he needed to be reminded of that.

He glances over at Arthur. “Where do you think we’re going?”

“I’ve hardly had the time to consider that.” A lie, of course, but Merlin doesn’t push it: he simply nods again and looks back toward the men moving through the camp. Gradually, a campfire seems to have sprung up, and bedrolls have been laid out, though with an obvious precision that very clearly surrounds the two of them.

Well, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t known they were to be carefully guarded. In this case, however, it’s a bit disheartening to be right.

Even without the fires, there’s no chill in the air, but Merlin shivers anyway, and Arthur could swear that a moment before, his eyes had been following that formation too. No surprise there: not many men would want to sleep surrounded by their enemies.

Then again, not many men would think it a good idea to call attention to themselves so blatantly as Merlin does: “Hey!”

Damn it all. Just kill them right now. Maybe he’ll do it himself. “Merlin,” he hisses, and is, predictably, ignored. “Merlin!”

Merlin just shrugs. “We need to wash.”

Well, they do. Still, yelling at the man in charge like that’s a right they’re owed-probably not the best idea.

It’s not like Arthur was about to do that himself. No. Certainly not. And he’s not irritated that Merlin got to it first. Not. At. All.

He leans back into the rock: he really ought to just stop pretending.

Foolish or not, Merlin’s shouting does get the attention of one of the men, and so what is there to be sorry for? He doesn’t look particularly murderous, and, at this point, even if he was-what of it? Honestly, it’s not like Arthur doesn’t know he’s lucky that he’s not lying back in the throne room with his father, head separated from his body.

Suddenly, the rock at his back feels just a little colder; beside him, Merlin fidgets. That throne room-that throne room-

“All right,” one of the men says, glancing over his shoulder, likely searching for their leader. Apparently, he must be off seeing to something or another: he’s not in the immediate vicinity, thankfully.

Arthur’s seen quite enough of that man, thank you very much. He’ll probably never stop seeing him, sword in hand, swinging-

“Get up.”

Oddly, there’s no particular malice in the gaze of any of these men, not even when they pull him and Merlin to their feet. It makes so little sense. They’d laid siege on Camelot, surrounded it with magic, starved it out, all to gain entrance: why in the world would they do that if they had no grudge against it-against Uther?

Swallowing hard, Arthur finds himself shaking his head. None of it makes sense. Nothing makes sense, and-Merlin bumps into him, breaking his line of thought. Just like always. Clumsy idiot, stupid idiot, who is here, thank God, and alive. So many people died in that siege. Those days after Gaius died-Merlin’s own death certainly hadn’t been so remote a possibility, Arthur remembers, very decidedly not shuddering (outwardly, at least). Men who grieve like that sometimes don’t survive themselves.

It hadn’t been that Merlin was hysterical-it might have been better that way. He’d just been… so quiet. The castle was going to pieces around them, people were starving, and some sort of enchantment was making it all possible, and through it all, Merlin had just stared, dull-eyed and silent, acting like a proper servant for once-and there are simply no words for how disturbing that was-until this morning, when he’d been told they were opening the gates.

This morning-this morning he’d been downright impossible.

He’d refused to leave. It had been the first act of defiance since Gaius’s death, and it had brought the kind of relief that Arthur can never acknowledge but that curled heavy in his gut, easing through the tension there until his insides didn’t feel so hopelessly knotted. He glances over at Merlin now, and it’s impossible not to remember how he’d looked with his jaw set, refusing any attempt of Arthur’s to send him away.

A push to Arthur’s back pretty effectively pulls him out of his thoughts and into the moment.

“I’m sorry, were you in some kind of hurry?” he snaps over his shoulder, throwing a glare at the man who, presumably, pushed him. It’s possible that he has the wrong one, but at this point, that seems a bit of a trivial worry.

Merlin must agree, because he smirks and glances at Arthur out of the corner of his eye again. As tired and worn out as he looks, this time, now that he’s not trying to hide it, that still manages to be a properly lively gesture.

Guard something-or-another scowls back, though it’s a bit lost under his facial hair. He looks young enough-at least, youthful enough to still be properly clean shaven-but if he’s anything like some of the younger knights, the moment he could-and perhaps, unwisely, a bit before he could do it properly-he was growing a beard. As if a scraggly beard of reddish-brown hair makes a man.

From the looks of him, Arthur could take him down in under a minute in a fair fight.

“You look as though you’ve just eaten something sour.”

Merlin again; Arthur scowls over at him. “And you look as though you haven’t bathed in a month. At least only one of us reflects reality.”

“So you have eaten something sour then?”

“Oh, shut up, Merlin.

Rather than chattering on, Merlin ought to do something useful, like sizing up the men escorting them. Useless. Utterly useless. As terrible at this as he is at shining boots. Anyway, though, there’s little chance of any sort of escape tonight, regardless of Merlin’s current attention to detail-their captors have been too on guard, and he hasn’t had a chance to plan with Merlin yet-but every detail helps, and things learned tonight might come in handy.

Things like the fact that one of the six men escorting them has a slight limp in his left leg. It doesn’t look as though he’s newly injured, so it’s possible that it’s an old wound bothering him, perhaps even one that’s left him crippled. He’ll be weak on that side.

The one that pushed him forward: of the six, he seems to have the most assertive personality. The men look to him; perhaps the trend holds true when the man in charge isn’t available. An interesting dynamic, most certainly. Perhaps if the men can be made to doubt the official leader… divide and conquer. It’s seldom a bad strategy. If it’s possible, create dissension from within.

For the time being, though, he might just have to content himself with washing. They’ve reached the edge of the embankment, and as they start down the hill to the stream, one of the other two men takes the lead, going down first while the other three bracket him and Merlin in. Leaves crunch underfoot, and while they’re slippery enough that he might be able to feign a fall, that kind of bid for freedom won’t do much good if Merlin doesn’t know about it.

No, there won’t be an attempt at the moment, but tonight, he and Merlin will talk.

This won’t last much longer. Soon, he’ll be back in Camelot, giving his father a proper funeral, and he’ll be-

He’s king.

Oh dear God, he’s king.

“Arthur?”

Merlin’s looking at him. Is he being that obvious? Has he gone white? He should have known, but it’s just-he hadn’t thought.

King.

No. He isn’t ready for this. His father-it wasn’t supposed to be this soon.

Then, another shove to his back. “Well, you wanted to wash up that maiden fair skin of yours,” the man with the limp snaps, nodding toward the stream with a heavy glower and an imperious wave of his hand. “Go on then.”

If he thinks crossing his arms like he’s doing makes him look any more intimidating, he’s sorely mistaken. Arthur’s new recruits could beat him.

Fearsome or not, though, there’s some pleasure to be had in returning the man’s look: tipping his chin back, Arthur glares down his nose at the man as they come to settle at the edge of the stream.

He really wants nothing more than to dive straight in. With any luck, that’ll clean his clothes up, wash away the blood. Something like that, though-there’s nothing royal about it, and he learned at a young age that people will perceive him as he presents himself: and he is Arthur Pendragon, damn it, worthy of respect, and they’ll give it to him, prisoner or not.

Carefully, he pulls off his shirt. Don’t look at the bloodstains. Don’t.

But Merlin is.

“What?” he snarls at Merlin, throwing the shirt at him harder than he probably needs to. Merlin hardly moves, and it hits him half in the face, half on the shoulder, but neither of them says anything. Even the other men don’t say anything. Instead, Merlin just collects the shirt, bunches it up and shoves it under his arm, staring at Arthur with a sort of understanding that’s downright unnerving.

As quickly as it came, though, it’s gone, and Merlin’s back to sighing, shooting him a nasty look and tossing the shirt over his shoulder. Give him five minutes and he’ll be complaining about having to wash it, no doubt.

“Good Lord, Merlin, are you really that incompetent?”

The only answer he gets is a not-so-accidental splash. Merlin is clumsy, but he’s not that clumsy: he couldn’t have possibly meant to jerk his leg just like that, and, yes, it did look like a particularly failed attempt at walking into the water, but the too innocent glint in Merlin’s eyes indicates that under no circumstances was that what it actually was.

“Merlin!”

More of that guileless, wide-eyed innocence. If Merlin had that look as a child, God knows how many scrapes he was able to just stare his way out of. It would have been a useful skill for a prince as a child. Unfortunately, Arthur hadn’t possessed it, and certainly he’s justified in tripping Merlin on that basis alone, yes?

Probably not. Well, then simply on the basis of he is the crown prince and he can.

Merlin goes down sputtering like an old woman who sees the goat in the garden, and if this were another time, another place, Arthur is fairly certain that he’d split himself in two from laughing. As it is, though, he only manages a thin smile, more satisfaction than humor. It’s not that he feels particularly satisfied-only that satisfaction is the next closest thing after humor, which, at the moment, he seems to have forgotten how to feel.

Scrub, rinse, repeat: that’s his father’s blood washing down the stream. He doesn’t-he can’t-that’s it. However twisted a notion, maybe he was better off with the blood still on him. That’s the last bit of his father he’ll ever have, and he’s washing it away. It stains the water red, even once he stops scrubbing-his clothing is that drenched with it-but no matter how violently his stomach is twisting, he can’t help himself from skimming his fingers over the surface of the tainted water as it flows away from him.

Get it off… but let it stay.

God, Lord, someone, please-he aches. Just aches. And this can’t be fixed.

Then there’s Merlin, still half under the water: is time even still passing? It has to be. Things don’t stop just because he needs more time to understand how to live in a world where he feels like this. The water just keeps flowing and, strangely, when Merlin thrusts his head back above the surface, slicking the sopping hair out of his face and blinking away the rivulets of liquid running down his face, there’s a half smile on his face, full of a more genuine kind of satisfaction-the sort that’s not substituted for anything else.

Right. He should have seen that coming: Merlin, useless though he may be at so many other things, will recognize his moods, will see his snappiness about a shirt for what it is. And, damn him, but he is particularly gifted at emotional distraction. He may have to let himself be tossed into a stream to achieve it, but for just those few moments when Merlin popped back out of the water, sputtering and choking, Arthur will admit that he felt better.

Of course it can’t last. There are men on either side of them in the water, waiting impatiently-more so by the moment. They’re probably cold-Arthur’s cold too-and eager to get back to the campfire, maybe eat some dinner, get a decent night’s sleep. Well, bully for them. They won’t have to see blood in their dreams; there’s no reason to make things even more comfortable for them.

Merlin clearly notices their audience as well, but rather than acknowledging them, he just gives Arthur a quick nod. “Turn around, will you? I’ll get your back.”

It’s nice, this closeness. Merlin has served him long enough to have done this more than once, usually after a hunt that had been particularly muddy. However it happened, this is familiar, and he knows Merlin’s habits-the way he pushes more with his knuckles when he reaches a difficult spot, or the slight sound of consternation he makes when he can’t easily get a smear of dirt or sweat off.

There’s something very comforting about simply standing there, ignoring the other sets of eyes on them as he lets Merlin try to scrub him clean: it’s familiar, enough that he knows every move Merlin makes, just like Merlin probably knows every dip in his back. Very familiar. Very close. Would this have been what it was like to have a brother? That is, this kind of knowing that goes beyond words, straight into the instinctual. It’s certainly not something typical of a manservant: some would say that means he’s let Merlin too close. Perhaps it’s even true. He has never, however, felt the price of that to be too high.

Once Merlin gets the grime out as best he can, he keeps on scrubbing anyway. Merlin. He just… thank God for Merlin, though he will never say that out loud. I’m not ready to move, and it’s like Merlin hears that, because he just keeps scrubbing until one of the men, apparently reaching his capacity for withstanding frustration, reaches out and yanks Merlin away from him.

There’s nothing particularly unexpected about that: the man is heavy-set, sporting a bit of a belly, and with beady dark eyes and reddened cheeks-the sort that only get redder the longer he has to wait. Arthur has seen his kind before, usually in tavern brawls, but watching him close his meaty fingers around Merlin’s arm and yank-it’s almost like witnessing that sort of thing for the first time. One wrong move, and Merlin could be gone too. Camelot, his father, his friends, and now Merlin… .

Deadly or not, the pull is too hard: with a startled yelp, Merlin tips over and straight back into the water.

At first, the man recoils, apparently not having expected that. Then, seconds later, his piggish bloat of a face splits into a grin; a laugh rolls its way out of him, hard and inexcusably cruel. Already, Arthur can feel himself tensing, and, yes, he has laughed at Merlin’s clumsiness-his mishaps. He has. He will. But it’s him-not these men. He never-he never-he wouldn’t really ever hurt Merlin, would never laugh if he were truly hurt.

He’s grabbing at Merlin before he even realizes he’s moved. The stream isn’t swift, and the water isn’t deep, but the bottom is rocky, and if Merlin had fallen just right-

He plunges down after Merlin so hard that his knuckles scrape the rocks, splitting open skin roughly enough that he can feel the water gush into the cuts.

But Merlin’s breathing, and he’s fine.

Just fine.

Arthur takes a steady breath. Another. The noise is a pleasant rattle in his chest, and he keeps taking gulps of air, watching Merlin.

“All right?” he hears himself say gruffly, letting Merlin cling to his arm until he can get himself back upright. Once he’s there, as steady as he’ll ever be on his own two feet, he manages to unclench his fingers from Merlin’s arm, turning instead to the man who pushed Merlin.

The bastard is still watching Merlin, only now he’s laughing harder-so hard that the little dip of fat under his chin wiggles in time with his exhales. Bastard. Evil, evil bastard, thinking it’s funny-thinking Merlin dying is funny-and no, no, no.

Arthur punches him square in the face.

It’s not really much of a shock how everything descends into chaos after that. Hands materialize on his arms, yanking him back and out of the stream, but all he can really concentrate on-and all he really cares to concentrate on-is the way the man is clutching at his very obviously broken nose, howling in pain. Ha. He’d never make it in Camelot’s army. Any tendency to show hurt so blatantly is pretty well non-existent with Camelot’s knights. His men-they’d put this pathetic excuse for a human being to shame.

Ideally, he’d like to watch the scene for a bit longer, but, like Merlin, he’s being yanked out of the stream and half-dragged back up the bank. Merlin-this is one of those times when his ridiculously open expressions couldn’t be any better: the sheer shock-and, yes, satisfaction-in his face is almost better than watching the man with the actual injury.

It’s more assessable too, as when Arthur is tossed down back under the overhang where their bedrolls are, he finds Merlin thrown next to him moments later, equally as sopping wet and still clutching Arthur’s shirt.

What an interesting sight they must make: Arthur with only his trousers, Merlin holding Arthur’s shirt and still fully clothed himself. Both soaking wet.

At least they’re clean. Thank God for that.

Merlin, jaw slightly slack and brow furrowed, glances down at the fabric in his hands. “I-uh-here…”

Merlin may erroneously disagree-he always seems to-but Arthur is very gracious as he accepts it back with only a small smirk. And, yes, there it is: Merlin’s answering glower doesn’t seem to indicate that he views the action the same way. He really ought to try being a bit more thankful: not every crown prince-probably no other crown prince, actually-would break someone’s nose on behalf of his servant. Of course, not every servant would so willingly give themselves up to die with their prince. Not every prince is Arthur; not every servant is Merlin.

Well, best to let it go then: Merlin’s all right and that’s what matters at the moment.

Anyway, he’s apparently going to have more to consider in the next few moments: seconds after they’ve sat down, a bundle of clothes is tossed at their feet.

“I’m told you had a bit of a disagreement with my men.”

It’s not all that surprising to look up to find himself faced with the man from the throne room-the man who beheaded his father. Expected or not, though, there’s little that could be less pleasant.

Showing emotion is certainly out of the question, and, anyway, he’s good at hiding that, when he needs to be. Show nothing-and he doesn’t, he’s sure, though his face feels stiff: the smirk carving its way out on it may very well be stuck there forever. He can feel that-at the moment, can’t imagine not feeling it years from now too. “Consider any disagreement I have with your men as personal towards you as well.”

The man’s right brow arches. He’s surprised? Honestly? He ought to have seen that coming, and Arthur’s certainly not above showing that with a well-placed sneer. There’s no way the man can miss it, and, yet, his face remains relatively impassive; he simply sighs and then, apparently resigning himself to the fact that there will be no quick resolution, squats down, resting on the balls of his feet as he regards them with a small smile. “You will truly make a terrible diplomat if this is how you negotiate with your enemies.”

“I’m not negotiating with you.”

The man nods. “You’re right,” he says. Is it Arthur’s imagination, or is he almost exasperated? Dropping his head, shaking it slowly-it’s not the actions of collectedness. Still, though, the confidence there, steady in his eyes when he raises his gaze back up-it’s not comforting. “Negotiation would mean you have something to offer. You don’t. We have everything we need from you.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Gesturing toward Arthur and Merlin, the man just shrugs. “The pair of you.”

He thinks so, does he? “Flattered. But if you want a ransom, you shouldn’t have killed my father.”

“No ransom. Only you.”

“What for?”

“It’s rather complicated, I’m afraid.”

Complicated? Complicated? That’s not even-it’s-it’s- “Then uncomplicate it!” One more word, and he’ll be lunging at the man, he’s sure. Already, his fingers are itching for a sword. See how this man likes having his blood spilt, and he won’t even die a king, like the man he killed. No honor in this, for him, and, really, a sword is too good. Bare hands maybe…

“Arthur.” Merlin’s hand seems to have materialized on his arm at some point. “You’re unarmed.”

What? It… oh.

Somehow his fingers have gone to his waist, reaching for a sword he doesn’t have. That… does explain Merlin’s look of confusion, the way his brows have closed together, worried. Why is he worried? So, Arthur’s unarmed. Yes, for a moment he’d forgotten, but… surely he doesn’t look that insane?

“Let go, Arthur.”

His fingers are still curled in the fabric of his shirt, right where the sword should be.

Slowly, he unclenches his hands.

“I’m fine, Merlin.”

Whether or not Merlin believes him is another issue. There doesn’t seem to be much relief there, certainly not in the way Merlin’s eyes follow him and his hand seems to hover, almost reaching out but drawing back at the last second. Merlin is, at least in things like this, not a fool: he has to know his touch wouldn’t be appreciated and would only seem to indicate weakness.

“Here,” Arthur says, leaning forward and grabbing the bundle of clothes at their feet. Carelessly, he shoves it at Merlin. “Change into something dry. I can’t have you getting sick right now.”

For once in his life, Merlin listens, reaching down and pulling a shirt out of the bundle: his eyes flicker towards the man watching them as he slips the shirt over his head, the neck of it catching a few strands of wet hair and plastering them down to his forehead. The man simply continues watching as Merlin straightens out the fabric, tugging it into its proper place. Only once he’s also found a pair of trousers in the pile and pulled those on also does the man finally give any indication that he intends to offer an explanation.

“Best if you’d dress as well,” he says simply, nodding toward Arthur. “We’ve a good deal of ground to cover, and taking ill will only make the journey more unpleasant.”

He’s right. Damn it all, though, knowing that and doing anything about it are two different things: Arthur is still clutching his shirt-wet from the stream-in his hands. It won’t do him any good, wet as it is. The fact is, though, he needs clothes, and refusing just because of who’s offering-it’s foolish. Survival-that’s always the primary objective. Take the clothes and stay warm: survive.

That doesn’t make it any easier to pull the garments over his head.

“Better,” the man says approvingly once Arthur is also dressed. He glances at Merlin again too, nodding once, and then leans back a bit, seeming to sink into his minute success. “Now, then, you’d both best know: there’s no reason for this to be any more unpleasant than it has to be. We need the both of you, and that’s all.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Arthur finds himself snapping back. “Me, maybe, but Merlin? He’s nothing to you. You’d do well to let him go. Less nuisance that way.”

There’s a flash of something that seems dangerously like fascination in the man’s dark eyes, but it’s gone too quick to be certain. “You think so?” he asks, half-smiling. “A nuisance you were willing to assault my guard over?”

“He pushed him in the stream!” Arthur snarls, trying to ignore the way Merlin fidgets uncomfortably next to him.

“Arthur-“

“No. Shut up, Merlin.”

The man’s smile grows, not so much that’s it’s particularly full-blown, but enough that his face at least seems balanced again. “And you don’t care at all for him?” he asks rather scornfully.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“And that, Prince Arthur, is where you’re very wrong. I know all about you. More, in some ways, than even you do.”

Seeing that smile on this man’s face is a little like losing a tournament… and Arthur was never much good at losing. Here, though, it’s not quite an option, and, yes, it’s true that he’s lunging forward before he thinks better of it, but he’s not armed, and even as he lashes out, he doesn’t expect to succeed.

Well, no expectations, no disappointment.

He does get a good punch in. Just one, though, before there’s a knife not at his throat, but at Merlin’s, and that’s just not acceptable. Immediately, he stills, eyes darting to the man lying sprawled on his backside, one hand to his cheek, and that infuriating smile still a shadow on his face.

“Let him go,” Arthur says. His breath is coming in pants, and it’s hard to decide whether he’d rather look at Merlin-held down by a guard, his neck enclosed threateningly by one beefy hand-or the man in front of him. It’ll have to be the man: he’s the one who controls this situation, clearly.

“Prince Arthur,” the man says slowly, drawling it out as he pushes himself back to his feet. He stands this time, though when Arthur tires to follow suit, a rough hand shoves him back down on his bedroll. “So very used to getting what you want. The firstborn-the only born-a golden child. You had everything you wanted, but never quite what you needed most. Never good enough, were you? A father who never entirely saw what he wanted--”

“Don’t you dare talk about my father!”

“-and even when he did, couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Does anyone know about that time when you went into your father’s rooms, Arthur? And you asked him if you looked like your mother. And he just stared. Didn’t even seem to know you. And you--you fled. Turned and ran.”

No. No. He’s seeing the man’s lips move, but they can’t possibly be saying that. Just can’t be.

Because Arthur--he had done that. He’d asked, and Uther had fixed him with this blank stare. It had been like his father was seeing straight through him-seeing a memory. His jaw had gone slack, and he’d leaned back at his desk, hardly even breathing. But what really cut straight to Arthur’s insides-cold, just like ice-was the pure, unadulterated anguish he’d seen in his father’s eyes. And then-then there had been the resentment. The kind that screamed I hate that you’re alive when she’s not. And maybe that wasn’t what his father meant at all. He might have just hated that Arthur looked like her-was a living memory. Maybe it was something else. But the way Uther had looked at him-all that resentment-had sent him running. Nearly immediately he’d heard his father’s voice calling for him, ordering him back, but for all Arthur had heeded that call, Uther might as well have been calling into the wind.

Best as he can remember, Arthur knocked over a chambermaid as he careened down the hall, sending the fresh linen in her arms scattering. He hadn’t gone back… and Uther had never said anything about the incident at any later date. It was like it hadn’t even happened, and, in all honesty, sometimes, when he’s been alone too long with his own thoughts, it’s easy to wonder if his father has convinced himself that it never did.

“You can’t know that,” he finds himself breathing out, lungs aching. There shouldn’t even be air enough for words.

Strangely, that seems to settle the man: the tension in his face fades, and he stands up a bit straighter, raking one hand through his hair. The strands catch on his fingers, holding on, though finally slipping off in a fall of gray-brown. “You found one person who has never turned you away, Arthur,” he says quietly. “Of course you care.”

Maybe, yes, and so what? Damn it all, he could care, he could, but it’s none of this man’s business. He has no right to stare at Arthur like this, like he knows everything, when he cannot possibly begin to know any of what really matters. No man who understood what it’s like to see his father killed would have killed Uther like he did. And even if he did, he cannot begin to fathom what seeing Merlin slip under that water felt like.

“What I care about right now is seeing a sword up under your ribs,” Arthur snarls, only managing by sheer force of will to hold back another lunge for the man’s throat.

For a moment, he could swear the man is going to hit him. There’s no accounting why, really: he just crouchs down, elbows lazily resting on his knees as he watches Arthur, no indication of violence really present. Still, that gaze-it’s too intense, and the only reason for it is the sort of look Arthur has seen all too often in predators. No one looks like that if his observation means no harm.

The moment breaks, though, when the man gives a nod to Arthur’s right, and suddenly Merlin is being pushed forward, smacking into Arthur’s back. Right, well, still boney as ever-was that his elbow that just drove into Arthur’s spine?

“Merlin,” he mutters, not turning away from the man before him. He hates him-hates the way he smiles knowingly when Arthur, not breaking eye contact, reaches behind himself to grab for Merlin. It doesn’t take long to get hold of a wrist, and, no, this certainly doesn’t make it look like he doesn’t care, but at this point, holding onto Merlin matters more than what this man thinks about it. “Are you all right?”

He gets a soft, hesitant, “’M fine” in reply. It’s not the most assertive of answers, but for once, it doesn’t seem to be out of some character flaw of Merlin’s: if Arthur looked, he’s willing to bet that Merlin has his eyes fixed on his attackers, expecting the worst and waiting for it as best he can.

Somehow, the worst never comes: whatever the reason, the man chooses that moment to push himself to his feet, eyes finally flickering away from Arthur and alighting on Merlin. “You really don’t look like much,” he says quietly. Oddly, the tone is almost lilting, completely devoid of the venom necessary for an insult.

One more nod to his men apparently concludes the man’s business; the next step has him turning away, picking his way through the dirt and fallen leaves without even a backwards glance. It’s too anti-climatic, and, oh, just how wonderful would an arrow look right up under his shoulder blade-

“Arthur.”

Arthur breathes out hard. “Yes-“ But damn it all to hell, he’s grabbed again, yanked back this time by strong hands and tossed down onto the bedding. Come to think of it, Merlin was probably trying to warn him. Little late now, but he can still appreciate the sentiment.

If he had hostages, he’d be doing the same as these men: binding up their hands and feet, insuring that they won’t be making any sudden movements. In all honesty, he might be a bit less kind: it’s hard to fathom why he and Merlin are being allowed to keep their hands in front of them.

And then it’s not. The guards aren’t leaving. Finished binding up their captives, they retreat back just a bit, but they don’t sheathe their weapons, and does anyone actually think he and Merlin are going to sleep like this, surrounded by armed men? But, no, that’s not-Merlin needs to sleep. He needs to eat too, and that doesn’t seem all that far out of the question, as a few moments later, another man approaches, bearing what looks like a plate of something at least edible. Yes, jerky, some bread, a little cheese, water-fine. Just perfect.

When it’s set in front of him, Arthur reaches out with his bound hands and pushes it toward Merlin. “Go on.”

Merlin looks askance at him. “We’ll split it.”

“Do as I say, Merlin. Eat it.”

“You need some too.”

That’s true. Honestly, though, does Merlin really think that matters? He’s just seen his father die, his kingdom fall. And Merlin wants him to eat? He can’t even-the suggestion alone seems entirely impossible. Just the idea of any food passing his lips is enough to make his stomach roll unpleasantly, and if it’s feeling like this now, exactly how is it going to feel if he did put something in it?

“I’m not eating unless you do,” Merlin insists.

Stubborn idiot. He’ll tell him that too, only when he turns to face Merlin, he doesn’t quite expect the plea in the stare. Merlin never begs him-teases, pushes, demands, but begging-it’s so uncommon that-that-

It just means something is wrong.

That look on Merlin’s face-that, more than anything, slams the reality of everything into his brain.

There are at least five men in the immediate vicinity. All of them can hear him. None of them care the least bit for his dignity. Confessing anything to Merlin at this point should be out of the question, but somehow he can’t help leaning back, sinking down into his bedroll and staring up at the overhanging crag of rock as words grow heavy in his mouth. “Merlin,” he murmurs, absolutely refusing to look at anything other than the rock above him. “What I need right now, more than food, is for you to eat. Do you understand?”

Silence. One of the guards shifts his weight from foot to foot. Another snickers under his breath-or maybe that’s a cough. Merlin-doesn’t he understand? Can’t he? This isn’t about being the hero, but Merlin-he simply must survive this. Anything else is unthinkable. He needs Merlin to understand that, to just do as he says for once in his life….

Then, a touch to his side. He jerks like he’s burned, but it’s only Merlin, sitting beside him, bread in hand. There’s no curve to his lips, little color in his cheeks, but he’s looking very carefully at Arthur with something that seems very close to understanding. Not pity, never pity, but the sense that I’ll help you and If this is what you need, I’ll do it.

Merlin bites into the bread.

Arthur closes his eyes and breathes.

Part 3