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Merlin - Refuge [Part 1]
It's been a while since I have posted anything other than random ramblings and updates on the move - have some fic to make up for it?
Title: Refuge
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Rating: R
Length: ~14,000 words
Spoilers/Timeline: Set post Series 3, and a bit into Arthur’s reign.
Warnings: Violence, mild descriptions of torture, and the aftermath thereof. Implied character death (off screen).
Synopsis: Ealdor is in ruins and its people slaughtered or enslaved. Merlin left days before to try to stop the massacre and now Arthur is determined to discover his fate.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
“You are not going alone,” Gwen declared. Arthur was impressed, word had come during lunch and she had already both heard and dressed in her travelling clothes though he doubted the plates had even been cleared from the table yet.
He paused in his task of loading a pack with provisions he truly hoped he would not need and tried to find an answer she would accept. Thankfully, he found his solution when Gwaine appeared and announced, “He is not.” The knight was in his own common clothes with no signs or sigils of his station readily apparent, just as Arthur had requested.
“I can help,” Gwen insisted.
She had a dagger in her belt and possibly more weapons hidden away on her person and he did not doubt her resolve, which is why it pained him to admit, “Not this time, Gwen.”
“But-” she tried, but was cut off with his final companion for his current quest appeared.
“It is no place for a lady,” Lancelot told her, not unkindly. “Even a lady such as you who can and has clearly defended herself before,” he amended at her glare.
“But it’s Merlin...” she sighed, and he could hear the defeat in her tone.
“We will bring him home,” Gwaine promised what Arthur himself could not. There was too much doubt this time, too many unknowns mixed with too many knowns of less than prime circumstances.
“And Ealdor, and Hunith,” she continued as if not interrupted. She bit her lip and released it only to whisper, “They are our friends, have fought beside us... If something...” She trailed off, unable to finish, but Arthur knew exactly what she meant.
He placed what he hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder and said, “We won’t know for certain until we get there. The sooner we leave, the sooner we will know.”
She nodded in understanding and reluctantly wished them, “Come back safely.”
“And not alone,” Gwaine promised again. He squeezed her arm as he passed, and Lancelot did the same though she followed him out of the room to see to the final preparations. Arthur took the moment to breathe deeply and reassure himself that everything would be fine, before he grabbed one last thing on the off chance the rumours were true.
They rode under no banner and wore not a single dragon or strip of red. The lands where Ealdor lay were no longer ruled by Cenred, but the area was quite contested and the tiniest scraps were fought over as warlords and minor nobility tried to make a name for themselves. Declaring a party from Camelot would be tantamount to offering themselves up for battle, something they hoped to avoid if at all possible. They also knew the risk to Camelot herself should word get out that her defenders were away, which is why Leon and Percival and everyone else remained to protect the city and her people while her king went on a mission he could not ignore.
It took to nearly nightfall of the following day to reach Ealdor, and they arrived to find the burnt out village in ruins, backlit by the orange glow of the setting sun. Gwaine and Lancelot did nothing to stop Arthur’s run to one blackened husk of a former house in particular, and calmly searched through the remaining area while he dug through soot and embers.
He emerged empty handed, having nothing to show for his efforts save for a new layer of black atop his carefully chosen worn clothing. He shook his head at the inquiring looks he received for confirmation if nothing else, and announced, “We sleep here tonight and make one pass of the hills in the morning. If there is nothing there, we head to the Market.”
He did not dare voice his hope that the villagers, that Merlin, would miraculously appear overnight, nor did he need to. He also did not explain why he chose one barn in particular to sleep next to when there were at least two others that appeared in far better condition. He looked about for the simple personal touches Hunith left on her belongings, the way a rope was looped here or a garland of herbs hung there, and hoped she did not suffer.
Gwaine and Lancelot were silent as they paced the hills the next day, much as they had been throughout the journey thus far. They found a squealing piglet and a cow leaking fresh milk, but no sign of their owners. With a nod, the three men turned west, and steeled themselves for what they were about to face.
It took another two days to reach the broken town known only as the Market. The citadel had long turned to shambles, the only portions truly rebuilt and reinforced were the cells the unfortunates were shoved into while they awaited sale to the highest bidder and a handful of rooms for those who ran what was likely a lucrative enterprise. They waded through the throngs of people, but could not get close enough to what they needed without drawing suspicion so late in the day, so they had no way of knowing who or what the darkened cells held.
Arthur was as glad of the long ride as he was of clothing he borrowed from Merlin’s own cupboard. The tunic that was loose on his friend fit him almost too tightly, but was tattered enough not to announce that royalty walked amongst those looking for a new field-hand or bed-warmer. His scruff had grown into the beginnings of a full beard, and the dirt and grime from the journey made him look like an anonymous traveller, just like everyone else.
Gwaine blended in from his long years on the road, and even Lancelot slid in relatively easily from his time as a mercenary, though he kept tensing whenever he saw someone treated in a less than kind manner, which was often. It made him look a little jumpy, which was something Arthur himself was trying to suppress, but there were enough others who were clearly out of their league or unaccustomed to the sheer violence of the slave trade that the knight did not draw too much unwanted attention.
They camped outside the city walls that night, much like many other groups, though they stayed a bit further away than most. Even then, they kept their conversations hushed for fear of both being overheard and discovered. It took every bit of resolve Arthur had to not storm in, challenge every guard and thug, free every man and woman and child, and search through them for his friend, but he managed it solely by telling himself this way was easier, safer in the long run.
“I trust you have a plan?” Lancelot asked. He ladled out an extremely bland stew and passed the bowls around to his companions.
“Or something like it,” Arthur replied. He subtly clinked the final provision he had added to his supplies. He had no idea what the going rate was for an untrained and probably disobedient slave, but he was fairly certain he had enough for at least Merlin.
Lancelot looked surprised, but Gwaine simply raised an eyebrow and guessed, “You thought it might come to this, didn’t you?”
Arthur stalled and took a bite of the stew before he answered, “I hoped it would not, but needed some sort of reassurance that we would be able to keep your promise to Gwen.”
“Merlin will never let you live this down, you know,” Gwaine supposed with the closest thing to a grin to pass his lips in days.
“Only if we are lucky,” Arthur replied, and neither of his companions had a response to that.
The next day dawned grey and dreary, which fit his mood quite well. They had each taken a turn at watch the night before as it was common sense that anyone visiting a slave market would have something of at least trade value on their person and they did not wish to take any risks. As they approached what passed as the gates, Lancelot found enough voice to ask, “I thought we were still within the lands of Lord Laval. Why would an ally of Camelot permit such a thing within their borders?”
“Slaving brings business,” Gwaine explained to him. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and shook his head at a man who tried to entice them to have a look at cache of men and women who appeared quite resigned to their fate. “The travellers need food and supplies, all of which can be had for a price. If that price just happens to be a bit steeper here than on the other side of the kingdom, who is to complain? And if the people of this area just happen to be taxed a bit more and line the pockets of the nobility a bit more, well, who is to complain about that as well?”
Arthur had to admit the truth to the words, but also felt the need to add, “Laval swears he has been trying to put a stop to the Market for years. None of his allies pressed the issue until we did at our conference last spring. He claims that it is difficult to shut down what some of his own men have supported up to this point, but he was open to suggestions as to how to go about it.”
“I have a few suggestions,” Lancelot bit out as he stopped himself, once again, from lunging at a man dragging a girl no more than ten years of age by a rope that tore into blood-encrusted wrists.
“As do I,” Arthur agreed. For the mission to be a success though, he would be forced to keep those to himself. It grew harder and harder by the moment. Every battered face, every crack of a whip through the air, foretold the possibilities of the fate his friend faced.
The official auction would not begin until midday, though money and merchandise exchanged hands long before if the price was right. At this point, they did not even know if one of the burly men held the keys to what they wanted but, as it was auction day, the cells were roused and the captured forced closer to the bars for the buyers to see what was on offer. They were able to get far closer than before, but had yet to find what they were looking for.
And then they heard an unfortunately familiar voice.
“I will flay you alive if given the chance,” Merlin growled. He was one cell down and currently on display to an overweight pompous arse and his wife.
The potential buyer simply laughed. “Oh, this one has spirit!” he exclaimed. “He could be quite fun to break.”
His wife though, had other ideas. “It will take far too long and be far too messy; can’t we just take the girl alone? We promised Phillip someone for the fields,” she wheedled.
The man shook his head. “She’s too scrawny and we’ll likely have to buy another before the season is over. The only thing she had going for her was the matched set of the boy.” He paused for a moment, his wife pouting at his side, and eventually relented, “We will see what else is on offer. If there’s nothing better you can have your girl and I can have my fun. We wait until the auction though as they tend to start the pricing lower and these two are not worth what this brigand wants for them.”
With that apparently decided, they moved on. Arthur was tempted to run right up and buy Merlin then and there and be done with the whole thing, but he was jostled backwards by another group, which gave the man in charge of Merlin’s cell a chance to approach. He backhanded Merlin across the face and berated him for costing him a potential sale. Merlin could do nothing but take the abuse as he had been chained to a metal loop set high above the bars with minimal leeway. Even from his distance, Arthur could see the scabs covered in filth around his wrists, and the way Merlin swayed that betrayed more injury than just from the manacles.
By the time Arthur got close enough to the cell to verify that, yes, that was his friend, and that yes, someone would pay dearly for this, the man had backed away. It was not, however, to give Merlin a chance to recover. The crack of a whip sounded in the tiny cell and Arthur watched in horror as Merlin recoiled, clearly struck. He grabbed Gwaine’s wrist to stop him from doing anything foolish, and instead stared and burned into his memory the image of the whip sailing twice more, once wide enough to slice into the forearm of the young woman unlucky enough to be bound beside his now grimacing friend.
To give Merlin credit, he did not scream. He gritted his teeth and held on to the chains and refused to collapse though it was obvious he clearly longed to. The tiny thing at his side gasped more in shock than in pain but could do nothing to grab her now bleeding arm and so instead began to whisper fervently at him instead. Arthur could only imagine the words and how they would include pleas for him to be quiet, to not cause more trouble, and possibly to not be an idiot, though the last one could have been him projecting at that point.
In hope of ending this sooner rather than later, he stepped forward to address both the man he wished to do serious harm to and to sort out the potential price for someone who had saved his life more times than he cared to admit. Unfortunately, he was stopped by a vice-like grip on his upper arm, something all the more surprising as Gwaine and Lancelot were now in front of him. They turned around the moment they realised he was no longer following, but it was too late and four large men now surrounded Arthur, with a fifth stood inside the rough circle with him that wore a face far too familiar.
Gwaine looked like he was ready to fight his way in, and Lancelot looked like he would do nothing to stop him and would in all likelihood join him regardless of the consequences, but Arthur signalled them to stand down just as the man beside him whispered, “Prince Arthur, I thought such places were beneath you...”
“Under normal circumstances, they would be,” Arthur agreed. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And it’s king now, really.” True, it had been king for a very short time, not even long enough for him to set any major laws in motion, but it was enough of a reality to point out if nothing else.
Laval released his grip, but his men made no move to let Arthur go. “My apologies, sire,” he said, stressing the title but thankfully still speaking in low tones. “After the disgust you showed towards these things during our negotiations, it all the more surprising to find you here, in disguise, seemingly ready to make a purchase.”
It was then Arthur noticed that Laval himself wore far from the normal regalia. He was dressed in fine but simple clothing, with a cloak and cowl that hid most of his features from all but the closest of contact. He could have easily been any one of a dozen other landowners milling about the Market, save for the fact Arthur had hosted him in his own home such a short time before. “And I could ask why someone who purports a desire to shut down this operation is milling about in the midst of it,” Arthur commented dryly.
“Look around you, sire,” Laval requested. His men moved aside just enough for Arthur to take in his surroundings. “All men in black tunics are mine. We are attempting to close the Market for good. I say the word, and the gates are closed and everyone, purchasers and purchased alike, are trapped in here until we can sort them out.”
Arthur was duly impressed. Laval had men in key positions and would be able to do exactly what he said within moments. The resulting aftermath would likely involve bloodshed and possible starvation for some, but he would severely weaken if not directly take out the worst of the offenders in one fell swoop.
“Why are you here?” Laval asked. He looked around and his grey eyes lingered on both Lancelot and Gwaine. “You have not brought enough men for battle and do not wear the colours of your crown. I thought Camelot far more upstanding than to allow private and discreet purchases, unless there is a seedy underground of which I am not aware. It cost me many a supporter to side with you on this matter. To have it thrown in my face as such...”
Arthur shook his head. “Slavery is banned in Camelot, now and for as long as I rule,” he swore. He let through just enough of his passion and disgust with the matter to hopefully sway his supposed ally. At the questioning expression he received in response, he clarified, “This is a rescue mission, nothing more.”
Laval turned sharp eyes on Arthur, and then onto the nearby cells. “The whelp of a man with the ridiculous scarf, he’s yours, is he not?”
There was no use in hiding it, so Arthur nodded. “He was my personal servant and a dear friend,” he confirmed. He did not add that Merlin had become a trusted advisor as well, or their past history of saving each others’ lives more times than either could remember at this point.
“Then you have my utmost apologies as I have kept you too long,” Laval said with a dramatic sigh. Arthur’s head whipped around to the cell, but he thankfully found Merlin still there, still chained and beaten, but not yet sold. Laval clarified, “His owner, the man who is responsible for that particular group, just assigned him to a lot to be auctioned together. There is no hope of buying him before then now.”
Arthur swore profusely, but it was Lancelot who calmly asked, “Do you have enough for the lot?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Arthur replied. He had brought enough for his friend, possibly another survivor if there were any to be had, but not an entire lot of slaves, not enough to buy a cell’s worth of freedom.
“If you fight, your man is as good as dead, as are you,” Laval warned. “I cannot risk this operation for a single man, and you and he would be trapped inside and would have to fend for yourselves if I set it in motion now.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, and mused, “If only we could get them closer to one of the exits, it would at least give them a chance before the doors close...”
Lancelot turned to Gwaine and Arthur really should have been more concerned about their matching expressions and the way they both said, in unison, “I have an idea.”
Which is how a thoroughly exhausted looking Merlin was led to an auction block that had been moved three times already due to unexplained fires and random bits of the already dilapidated building collapsing in key locations at inopportune times. He was still chained, now to two people to his right and three to his left. He shuffled with a decided limp, and the blood on his back had scarcely enough time to dry with places that continued to drip freely when he shrugged and adjusted the chains just so.
Arthur played his role and placed his bid, surprised at the initially low asking price until he discovered both that the man from earlier was apparently still interested, and that Merlin had managed to rile up his cohorts into being as disobedient as possible, making them less than a prime catch, especially when a single buyer would have to deal with them all at once. He ended up with a bid that was several gold pieces more than he had brought with, but that he was assured was covered by both Gwaine and Lancelot should the seller need to see the goods. He did not question how they came about the funds, nor did he question the fact they had brought them with in the first place and somehow failed to mention this until now.
In the end, Arthur won, but it was a near thing. The wife still wanted the girl and the husband still wanted the joy of trying to break Merlin, but they had purchased another slave earlier in the day and could not justify the expense for a beaten man shouting vulgarities in their general direction. It was when it came time for the money to exchange hands that all hell broke loose.
Laval’s men swept in from all sides save for the exit closest the exchange. Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot herded their prize towards the rapidly falling heavy gate, reaching it just as it locked into place. Though Arthur knew better, he was still surprised at its sudden golden glow and the way it rose back up as if on command. He was, of course, not the sole witness and, with exclamations of a certain name being shared amongst them, his group was joined by a half-dozen more people than he originally intended to find let alone free on this mission, mostly chained, and all wearing the colours and styles of Ealdor.
The gate crashed down once more, trapping slaver and slave alike inside. Arthur spared one final glance at the other side, and instantly wished he had not as the little girl from earlier was trying her hardest to squeeze through the bars, and one of the beefy armed men was torn between trying to raise the gate to escape to freedom and pulling her back to her newly appointed owner.
A man from the crowd outside the citadel tried to round up his fleeing merchandise and had brandished both a whip and a dagger to do so. Free from the confines of the worst of the crowds and no longer clearly outnumbered, Gwaine made short work of the man while Lancelot herded the trio of filthy adolescents towards the group that clambered around Merlin. Some offered their thanks, and others demanded he free them from their chains immediately, and others just stood in awe at the chance that their nightmare had finally come to an end.
Arthur knew not to bank on a clearly uncertain thing, and urged them to move as fast as they could manage towards the woods as soon as every manacle had shone gold and released. They had but three horses, and still had to make their way through a group of confused potential buyers to get there, but there they at least had some basic healing supplies, and he knew for a fact that they had one damned fine physician’s assistant in their midst.
He looked over to that physician’s assistant to try to convey the relief and exaltation and everything else that was currently circling through his mind, but instead caught sight of a man barely holding it together. He managed to get to his friend’s side with minimal jostling, and asked, “Merlin, are you okay?”
Bruised eyes and grime encrusted pale skin turned to face him. He was too thin and too grey and too injured, and yet what worried Arthur the most was the eerily calm way Merlin replied, “No. No, I do not believe I am.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, and was not surprised when he received no answer.
They made it to the woods, but Arthur wanted them to make it further still before they truly stopped to assess the full extent of the damage. They were too close to the Market still, and if anyone else escaped or the potential buyers decided to follow them and try to get the goods for free, they would be at a severe disadvantage.
Gwaine lifted a woman with a severe limp up onto his horse and took the reins, and Lancelot helped a man and what looked to be his young daughter mount his own. Arthur wanted Merlin to ride his charger given that he was clearly the worst off of the remaining refuges, but his friend stumbled blindly on ahead, heedless of the less than subtle attempts by multiple people to get him to ride. Arthur caught him several times when he tripped over a root or a rock or something else small and unseen, and every time Merlin flinched away from the touch and continued his shuffle-slide forward.
When Arthur caught more than just Merlin stumbling and taking longer and longer to recover, he knew they needed to find a place to rest, likely for the night. A glance to Gwaine and Lancelot told him they had reached a similar conclusion, and the three of them began to look for anything that could be used as a sort of shelter for the crowd they now had with them.
They managed to find a small cave that did not appear to have had any more natural residents for quite some time, and everyone slowly filed in, save for Merlin who continued to walk until Arthur took him by the shoulders and guided him in the right direction. In the light that filtered in from the trees, he caught sight of far more than three lash wounds carved into his friend’s back beneath the tattered remains of his tunic, and could not help but wonder what else lay hidden from view.
Lancelot tried to get the others settled somewhat in the cave while Gwaine grabbed the waterskins and set off to find some way to fill them, two of the less injured clambering along to help. Arthur busied himself trying to get Merlin to talk to him, even though he was not certain he truly wanted to know what he had to say.
When Merlin looked hesitant to join the others, Arthur pressed him to sit on a rather large stone outside the cave, and then crouched down beside him. “We need to treat your wounds, and I may need your help treating the others as well,” he told him. If Merlin would no concentrate on his own needs, Arthur knew him well enough to take advantage of his desire to look after others.
“Loren’s ankle is not broken, but she will need it wrapped if not splinted, and everyone needs water and food,” Merlin mumbled. He scrubbed a hand over his ashen face, and Arthur took note of the bruised and split knuckles, and the way a small gash along his hairline tore open with the action.
“Gwaine can handle the water part, and will probably look for something more than rations on the way back,” Arthur nodded. He knew they did not have enough for this many people, rations or no. If they could catch a few rabbits, or even a pigeon or two, it would help. These people were starving and, as much as he would like to host a feast in their honour, he knew it would go to waste if they ate too much too soon after having so little for so long.
Merlin simply stared off into space again, which Arthur feared was to become his standard response if given the chance. He was determined for that chance not to exist.
“We brought some healing supplies, and as many herbs and tonics as we could reasonably risk not breaking,” he continued as though his friend had agreed with him. “I want to take a look at that back of yours before you exhaust yourself taking care of the others.”
Merlin’s response, as expected, was another stare. When Arthur tugged at his sleeve though, he pulled off the remains of his tunic in one jerky and extremely painful looking go. Arthur had seen a lot of wounds in battle, so it was not the damage that made him flinch, but instead the fact that such wounds were inflicted upon his friend, that his once relatively unscathed back was now moulted with bruises and split by lines of red, that his thin wrists were scraped raw from rope and harsh metal of the manacles. Some of the lash marks had torn open, while others were not much more than raised welts that were swollen and still hot to the touch, his wrists would likely drip freely once the dried blood was removed, and he kept rubbing at his calf in a way that hinted at a deep bruise if not a more severe injury.
Lancelot handed him the pack with the healing supplies, as well as a relatively clean cloth and the one remaining skin that still held water before he stepped back so as to be unobtrusive. Arthur looked to the supplies and then back to his friend at a loss, with no idea where to begin. There were so many injuries, though none of them were life-threatening unless left uncared for, and he wanted to treat everything at once even though he knew to simply clean one of the wounds would cause pain. He wanted to wrap Merlin up in some sort of magical blanket that would heal him and comfort him and keep him safe from ever having to go through something like this again.
Seeing how no such blanket was available if one even existed – he would have to ask Merlin under better circumstances – and seeing how Merlin had leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs and fold his hands in front of him, Arthur decided to start with his back and go on from there.
He poured some water on the cloth and began to dab at the wounds, closing his eyes for a moment at Merlin’s sharp intake of breath. He opened them again and tried to concentrate on his task and come up with a way to distract Merlin at the same time. He planned on making small talk, maybe a joke about the amount of scruff on his friend’s usually smooth chin, but instead what came out was a half-pleaded, “What happened?”
Either Merlin suspected he would press the issue until he got an answer or he needed at some level to tell someone and share the experience, because he actually began to talk. He did not begin with the message they had received, likely knowing Arthur already knew that part what with being there and all, but simply said, “By the time I reached Ealdor, it was too late.”
Arthur pictured the burnt out remains of the once fairly lively village. He had wondered how it had reached such a state while under Merlin’s care, how the sorcerer would have let such a thing happen if he had anything to say about it. He also wondered how that sorcerer was captured and bound and why he did nothing to escape until today, and really hoped that was part of the tale as well. He poured more water on the cloth, and sat back to listen.
“It had been a trap,” Merlin sighed. He scratched at his scruff and then stared at his scabbed and bloodied hands. “A few people came out of hiding when I got there, only to be rounded up and captured. We fought, but I’m not certain how well as the next thing I knew, I was waking up in a cart with a throbbing head and a whole lot of chains. There were several of us there, and maybe I could have done something to escape then, but I couldn’t quite concentrate and my magic felt disturbed, uneasy in some way.”
“We were given potions,” a new voice chimed in. It was the woman from the cell, her arm still torn and raw as she handed Arthur a salve for Merlin’s back. She tucked a grimy strand of once blonde hair behind her ear and shrugged, “At least I think that’s what happened. My head ached and everything was far too bright and loud and Elias said the same was true for him. I told Merlin not to risk using his magic, not yet, in case it caused more harm than good.”
It was sound advice, and something Arthur could understand, if not agree with. He would have had Merlin try small things such as loosening a manacle or conjuring water to test his capabilities and developed a possible escape plan from there. Disoriented and scared and not being a trained strategist, the urge would have been to suppress and not call attention to oneself instead of plotting and planning and formulating an escape. It explained a few things, but not enough.
“I could hear them talking, and heard what they did to the others,” Merlin began again. “Those who could be captured were in the carts or already sold. Those who resisted were slaughtered. The village was burnt to the ground to flush out anyone else.” He paused and looked back to Arthur with red-rimmed eyes, the blue within shimmering with unshed tears. “My mother... My mother was not in the carts.”
Arthur hung his head at the pronouncement. It served as confirmation of his suspicions, but did nothing to lessen the pain of losing a fine woman whom he had grown to respect, even if her gift of strong-willed attitude tended to get her son into trouble more times than not. “I am so sorry,” he said, knowing words could not truly convey the loss.
Merlin closed his eyes and took a moment to regain at least a little composure. Lancelot paused in his care of the woman’s arm to rest a supporting hand on an undamaged scrap of skin, but stayed silent and gave his friend the space he needed.
Merlin swallowed heavily, and when he continued his voice was carefully devoid of emotion. “The food and water they gave us tasted of the tinctures Gaius used to give to Morgana. I tried not to eat any, but did not have much of a choice when Elora and the others were caring for me.”
“I did not know it was tainted,” the woman at his side insisted, gifting Arthur with her name in the process. Slightly ruefully, she added, “Though I may have already been under its effects at the time and so my judgment may have been clouded. I just thought he needed at least water, especially after taking such abuse.”
Arthur opened his mouth to ask Merlin why he was attacked, but his friend beat him to it with a wry, “I may have, possibly, angered them with something I said.” Less wryly, and with a wince as Arthur tended to a particularly deep wound, he sighed, “And I may have, possibly, paid for it later.”
Arthur wished he could have been surprised at his once impudent manservant’s behaviour, but was frankly more astonished he had not well and truly lost it at the news of his mother and could only imagine what results such an outburst would have garnered.
“I don’t remember too much after that,” Merlin admitted. “Once you ate or drank, it made you slightly more compliant, or at least far too exhausted to do much about any urge you may have to set the camp ablaze and take on an entire camp of slavers. I thought maybe I could arrange something when we reached the Market, free as many people at once. It did not quite work out as planned.”
When Merlin did not elaborate, Arthur looked to Elora, who bit her lip at more than the sting of the salve Lancelot used on her wounds. “When we got to that awful place, there was a sale going on, a very special sale,” she told him. “There was a boy, fairly young at that. He was lit up with all these glowing chains. The way they treated him...”
“He was magic, like me,” Merlin cut in, finding his voice once more. “They sold him to the highest bidder for far more than the going price of the rest of the slaves. The chains bound his magic and burned him if he tried to use it, branded him in some way.” He shook his head, either in sorrow or to clear the image from his mind. “The people who bought him planned to train him and, barring that, were going to let the warlocks they already had at their disposal practice against him.”
“But you said he was a child,” Lancelot protested.
Merlin met his gaze and nodded. “He was, younger even than when I first came to Camelot” he confirmed. “And the men who sold him placed bets on how long he would survive. Given that these bets were in days, Elora and Elias had an easy task convincing me to keep things hidden until we had an absolute plan and an actual chance at a way out.”
“And that plan was?” Arthur prompted, trying to block both the image in his mind and the urge to seek out the boy and free him immediately when they had other concerns to see to first.
“Get as many of us sold together as possible, and then escape from there,” Merlin replied.
Sold as ordinary slaves instead of magical, there would have been fewer defences. Mix that with people who knew each other and their strengths and abilities all working for a common cause, and there was at least a slight likelihood for success. Far more than an escape from a slaver’s stronghold, Arthur supposed.
“Your plan seemed to work a bit better than ours though,” Merlin admitted.
Arthur did not wish to disclose that plan had been to save only Merlin, with anyone else being inconsequential, so instead he confessed, “We had help. Laval warned us his men were moving in, and the timing seemed to work in our favour.”
“Laval?” Merlin asked, clearly surprised. “But these are his lands...”
“And he wished to curry favour with Camelot by finally closing down that atrocity,” Arthur told him.
Merlin shook his head. “No, you don’t understand,” he insisted. “The Market, the whole place, is his. He runs it, or at least supervises enough to be paid a fair share.”
“His men helped lock everything down and capture the slavers and the buyers,” Arthur explained. Merlin was simply confused, he had to be. Perhaps he had seen Laval scouting out his operation and jumped to the wrong conclusion.
Merlin, however, continued to object. His eyes were wide and had that look to them that Arthur never really liked, but had learned to trust. He firmly believed in what he said, and would find a way to prove it if need be, damned the consequences to himself in the process. “His men were the guards, the real guards, and kept everyone in place. I would not have recognised him or them had he not just visited, but I swear to you, he not only knows what is going on there, but rules it.”
Arthur blinked. That could not be right. Laval had sided with him, renounced the slave trade, promised to clear his lands for more legitimate enterprises.
If only his mind would not supply him with images of the slavers nodding to him, motioning to his men who just happened to stand in the way and jostle people back into place. He remembered now how a man approached Laval and did not offer him merchandise like all the rest, but carried a far sized satchel that he seemed to want to give to him. He remembered now the look of confusion when Laval pointedly waived him off and walked over to Arthur to check on how the rescue plan was progressing.
“His sweep of the Market was an act of containment,” Lancelot guessed. “He locks things down, we may or may not escape in the process. We remain, and he tries for the throne. We escape, and he makes a show of releasing some or all of the prisoners and sending the slavers to his own cells.”
“Only he later lets them go to hunt the people he just freed down again as soon as we are suitably swayed and count him as an ally,” Arthur finished for him. He hung his head in defeat. He had been well and truly played.
That head snapped up though at Lancelot’s next words. “Did Laval know these people were from Ealdor?”
“Even if he did not know where his men gathered their quarry, he would have investigated after our obvious interest in their welfare,” Arthur responded. By now Laval knew at the very least that Merlin was captured in Ealdor, and would likely reach the conclusion that the village was important to him, if not to Arthur himself.
“But would he do so to ensure his men did not attack the village again and draw your wrath, or to try to get back a bit of the profit he just lost?” Lancelot asked.
Arthur pictured the ruin of the village and the few survivors trying to piece their lives back together, weakened and relatively defenceless, and wished he had an answer.
Part 2 on Live Journal | Part 2 on Dreamwidth
Title: Refuge
Genre: Gen, Friendship
Rating: R
Length: ~14,000 words
Spoilers/Timeline: Set post Series 3, and a bit into Arthur’s reign.
Warnings: Violence, mild descriptions of torture, and the aftermath thereof. Implied character death (off screen).
Synopsis: Ealdor is in ruins and its people slaughtered or enslaved. Merlin left days before to try to stop the massacre and now Arthur is determined to discover his fate.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
“You are not going alone,” Gwen declared. Arthur was impressed, word had come during lunch and she had already both heard and dressed in her travelling clothes though he doubted the plates had even been cleared from the table yet.
He paused in his task of loading a pack with provisions he truly hoped he would not need and tried to find an answer she would accept. Thankfully, he found his solution when Gwaine appeared and announced, “He is not.” The knight was in his own common clothes with no signs or sigils of his station readily apparent, just as Arthur had requested.
“I can help,” Gwen insisted.
She had a dagger in her belt and possibly more weapons hidden away on her person and he did not doubt her resolve, which is why it pained him to admit, “Not this time, Gwen.”
“But-” she tried, but was cut off with his final companion for his current quest appeared.
“It is no place for a lady,” Lancelot told her, not unkindly. “Even a lady such as you who can and has clearly defended herself before,” he amended at her glare.
“But it’s Merlin...” she sighed, and he could hear the defeat in her tone.
“We will bring him home,” Gwaine promised what Arthur himself could not. There was too much doubt this time, too many unknowns mixed with too many knowns of less than prime circumstances.
“And Ealdor, and Hunith,” she continued as if not interrupted. She bit her lip and released it only to whisper, “They are our friends, have fought beside us... If something...” She trailed off, unable to finish, but Arthur knew exactly what she meant.
He placed what he hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder and said, “We won’t know for certain until we get there. The sooner we leave, the sooner we will know.”
She nodded in understanding and reluctantly wished them, “Come back safely.”
“And not alone,” Gwaine promised again. He squeezed her arm as he passed, and Lancelot did the same though she followed him out of the room to see to the final preparations. Arthur took the moment to breathe deeply and reassure himself that everything would be fine, before he grabbed one last thing on the off chance the rumours were true.
They rode under no banner and wore not a single dragon or strip of red. The lands where Ealdor lay were no longer ruled by Cenred, but the area was quite contested and the tiniest scraps were fought over as warlords and minor nobility tried to make a name for themselves. Declaring a party from Camelot would be tantamount to offering themselves up for battle, something they hoped to avoid if at all possible. They also knew the risk to Camelot herself should word get out that her defenders were away, which is why Leon and Percival and everyone else remained to protect the city and her people while her king went on a mission he could not ignore.
It took to nearly nightfall of the following day to reach Ealdor, and they arrived to find the burnt out village in ruins, backlit by the orange glow of the setting sun. Gwaine and Lancelot did nothing to stop Arthur’s run to one blackened husk of a former house in particular, and calmly searched through the remaining area while he dug through soot and embers.
He emerged empty handed, having nothing to show for his efforts save for a new layer of black atop his carefully chosen worn clothing. He shook his head at the inquiring looks he received for confirmation if nothing else, and announced, “We sleep here tonight and make one pass of the hills in the morning. If there is nothing there, we head to the Market.”
He did not dare voice his hope that the villagers, that Merlin, would miraculously appear overnight, nor did he need to. He also did not explain why he chose one barn in particular to sleep next to when there were at least two others that appeared in far better condition. He looked about for the simple personal touches Hunith left on her belongings, the way a rope was looped here or a garland of herbs hung there, and hoped she did not suffer.
Gwaine and Lancelot were silent as they paced the hills the next day, much as they had been throughout the journey thus far. They found a squealing piglet and a cow leaking fresh milk, but no sign of their owners. With a nod, the three men turned west, and steeled themselves for what they were about to face.
It took another two days to reach the broken town known only as the Market. The citadel had long turned to shambles, the only portions truly rebuilt and reinforced were the cells the unfortunates were shoved into while they awaited sale to the highest bidder and a handful of rooms for those who ran what was likely a lucrative enterprise. They waded through the throngs of people, but could not get close enough to what they needed without drawing suspicion so late in the day, so they had no way of knowing who or what the darkened cells held.
Arthur was as glad of the long ride as he was of clothing he borrowed from Merlin’s own cupboard. The tunic that was loose on his friend fit him almost too tightly, but was tattered enough not to announce that royalty walked amongst those looking for a new field-hand or bed-warmer. His scruff had grown into the beginnings of a full beard, and the dirt and grime from the journey made him look like an anonymous traveller, just like everyone else.
Gwaine blended in from his long years on the road, and even Lancelot slid in relatively easily from his time as a mercenary, though he kept tensing whenever he saw someone treated in a less than kind manner, which was often. It made him look a little jumpy, which was something Arthur himself was trying to suppress, but there were enough others who were clearly out of their league or unaccustomed to the sheer violence of the slave trade that the knight did not draw too much unwanted attention.
They camped outside the city walls that night, much like many other groups, though they stayed a bit further away than most. Even then, they kept their conversations hushed for fear of both being overheard and discovered. It took every bit of resolve Arthur had to not storm in, challenge every guard and thug, free every man and woman and child, and search through them for his friend, but he managed it solely by telling himself this way was easier, safer in the long run.
“I trust you have a plan?” Lancelot asked. He ladled out an extremely bland stew and passed the bowls around to his companions.
“Or something like it,” Arthur replied. He subtly clinked the final provision he had added to his supplies. He had no idea what the going rate was for an untrained and probably disobedient slave, but he was fairly certain he had enough for at least Merlin.
Lancelot looked surprised, but Gwaine simply raised an eyebrow and guessed, “You thought it might come to this, didn’t you?”
Arthur stalled and took a bite of the stew before he answered, “I hoped it would not, but needed some sort of reassurance that we would be able to keep your promise to Gwen.”
“Merlin will never let you live this down, you know,” Gwaine supposed with the closest thing to a grin to pass his lips in days.
“Only if we are lucky,” Arthur replied, and neither of his companions had a response to that.
The next day dawned grey and dreary, which fit his mood quite well. They had each taken a turn at watch the night before as it was common sense that anyone visiting a slave market would have something of at least trade value on their person and they did not wish to take any risks. As they approached what passed as the gates, Lancelot found enough voice to ask, “I thought we were still within the lands of Lord Laval. Why would an ally of Camelot permit such a thing within their borders?”
“Slaving brings business,” Gwaine explained to him. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and shook his head at a man who tried to entice them to have a look at cache of men and women who appeared quite resigned to their fate. “The travellers need food and supplies, all of which can be had for a price. If that price just happens to be a bit steeper here than on the other side of the kingdom, who is to complain? And if the people of this area just happen to be taxed a bit more and line the pockets of the nobility a bit more, well, who is to complain about that as well?”
Arthur had to admit the truth to the words, but also felt the need to add, “Laval swears he has been trying to put a stop to the Market for years. None of his allies pressed the issue until we did at our conference last spring. He claims that it is difficult to shut down what some of his own men have supported up to this point, but he was open to suggestions as to how to go about it.”
“I have a few suggestions,” Lancelot bit out as he stopped himself, once again, from lunging at a man dragging a girl no more than ten years of age by a rope that tore into blood-encrusted wrists.
“As do I,” Arthur agreed. For the mission to be a success though, he would be forced to keep those to himself. It grew harder and harder by the moment. Every battered face, every crack of a whip through the air, foretold the possibilities of the fate his friend faced.
The official auction would not begin until midday, though money and merchandise exchanged hands long before if the price was right. At this point, they did not even know if one of the burly men held the keys to what they wanted but, as it was auction day, the cells were roused and the captured forced closer to the bars for the buyers to see what was on offer. They were able to get far closer than before, but had yet to find what they were looking for.
And then they heard an unfortunately familiar voice.
“I will flay you alive if given the chance,” Merlin growled. He was one cell down and currently on display to an overweight pompous arse and his wife.
The potential buyer simply laughed. “Oh, this one has spirit!” he exclaimed. “He could be quite fun to break.”
His wife though, had other ideas. “It will take far too long and be far too messy; can’t we just take the girl alone? We promised Phillip someone for the fields,” she wheedled.
The man shook his head. “She’s too scrawny and we’ll likely have to buy another before the season is over. The only thing she had going for her was the matched set of the boy.” He paused for a moment, his wife pouting at his side, and eventually relented, “We will see what else is on offer. If there’s nothing better you can have your girl and I can have my fun. We wait until the auction though as they tend to start the pricing lower and these two are not worth what this brigand wants for them.”
With that apparently decided, they moved on. Arthur was tempted to run right up and buy Merlin then and there and be done with the whole thing, but he was jostled backwards by another group, which gave the man in charge of Merlin’s cell a chance to approach. He backhanded Merlin across the face and berated him for costing him a potential sale. Merlin could do nothing but take the abuse as he had been chained to a metal loop set high above the bars with minimal leeway. Even from his distance, Arthur could see the scabs covered in filth around his wrists, and the way Merlin swayed that betrayed more injury than just from the manacles.
By the time Arthur got close enough to the cell to verify that, yes, that was his friend, and that yes, someone would pay dearly for this, the man had backed away. It was not, however, to give Merlin a chance to recover. The crack of a whip sounded in the tiny cell and Arthur watched in horror as Merlin recoiled, clearly struck. He grabbed Gwaine’s wrist to stop him from doing anything foolish, and instead stared and burned into his memory the image of the whip sailing twice more, once wide enough to slice into the forearm of the young woman unlucky enough to be bound beside his now grimacing friend.
To give Merlin credit, he did not scream. He gritted his teeth and held on to the chains and refused to collapse though it was obvious he clearly longed to. The tiny thing at his side gasped more in shock than in pain but could do nothing to grab her now bleeding arm and so instead began to whisper fervently at him instead. Arthur could only imagine the words and how they would include pleas for him to be quiet, to not cause more trouble, and possibly to not be an idiot, though the last one could have been him projecting at that point.
In hope of ending this sooner rather than later, he stepped forward to address both the man he wished to do serious harm to and to sort out the potential price for someone who had saved his life more times than he cared to admit. Unfortunately, he was stopped by a vice-like grip on his upper arm, something all the more surprising as Gwaine and Lancelot were now in front of him. They turned around the moment they realised he was no longer following, but it was too late and four large men now surrounded Arthur, with a fifth stood inside the rough circle with him that wore a face far too familiar.
Gwaine looked like he was ready to fight his way in, and Lancelot looked like he would do nothing to stop him and would in all likelihood join him regardless of the consequences, but Arthur signalled them to stand down just as the man beside him whispered, “Prince Arthur, I thought such places were beneath you...”
“Under normal circumstances, they would be,” Arthur agreed. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And it’s king now, really.” True, it had been king for a very short time, not even long enough for him to set any major laws in motion, but it was enough of a reality to point out if nothing else.
Laval released his grip, but his men made no move to let Arthur go. “My apologies, sire,” he said, stressing the title but thankfully still speaking in low tones. “After the disgust you showed towards these things during our negotiations, it all the more surprising to find you here, in disguise, seemingly ready to make a purchase.”
It was then Arthur noticed that Laval himself wore far from the normal regalia. He was dressed in fine but simple clothing, with a cloak and cowl that hid most of his features from all but the closest of contact. He could have easily been any one of a dozen other landowners milling about the Market, save for the fact Arthur had hosted him in his own home such a short time before. “And I could ask why someone who purports a desire to shut down this operation is milling about in the midst of it,” Arthur commented dryly.
“Look around you, sire,” Laval requested. His men moved aside just enough for Arthur to take in his surroundings. “All men in black tunics are mine. We are attempting to close the Market for good. I say the word, and the gates are closed and everyone, purchasers and purchased alike, are trapped in here until we can sort them out.”
Arthur was duly impressed. Laval had men in key positions and would be able to do exactly what he said within moments. The resulting aftermath would likely involve bloodshed and possible starvation for some, but he would severely weaken if not directly take out the worst of the offenders in one fell swoop.
“Why are you here?” Laval asked. He looked around and his grey eyes lingered on both Lancelot and Gwaine. “You have not brought enough men for battle and do not wear the colours of your crown. I thought Camelot far more upstanding than to allow private and discreet purchases, unless there is a seedy underground of which I am not aware. It cost me many a supporter to side with you on this matter. To have it thrown in my face as such...”
Arthur shook his head. “Slavery is banned in Camelot, now and for as long as I rule,” he swore. He let through just enough of his passion and disgust with the matter to hopefully sway his supposed ally. At the questioning expression he received in response, he clarified, “This is a rescue mission, nothing more.”
Laval turned sharp eyes on Arthur, and then onto the nearby cells. “The whelp of a man with the ridiculous scarf, he’s yours, is he not?”
There was no use in hiding it, so Arthur nodded. “He was my personal servant and a dear friend,” he confirmed. He did not add that Merlin had become a trusted advisor as well, or their past history of saving each others’ lives more times than either could remember at this point.
“Then you have my utmost apologies as I have kept you too long,” Laval said with a dramatic sigh. Arthur’s head whipped around to the cell, but he thankfully found Merlin still there, still chained and beaten, but not yet sold. Laval clarified, “His owner, the man who is responsible for that particular group, just assigned him to a lot to be auctioned together. There is no hope of buying him before then now.”
Arthur swore profusely, but it was Lancelot who calmly asked, “Do you have enough for the lot?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Arthur replied. He had brought enough for his friend, possibly another survivor if there were any to be had, but not an entire lot of slaves, not enough to buy a cell’s worth of freedom.
“If you fight, your man is as good as dead, as are you,” Laval warned. “I cannot risk this operation for a single man, and you and he would be trapped inside and would have to fend for yourselves if I set it in motion now.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, and mused, “If only we could get them closer to one of the exits, it would at least give them a chance before the doors close...”
Lancelot turned to Gwaine and Arthur really should have been more concerned about their matching expressions and the way they both said, in unison, “I have an idea.”
Which is how a thoroughly exhausted looking Merlin was led to an auction block that had been moved three times already due to unexplained fires and random bits of the already dilapidated building collapsing in key locations at inopportune times. He was still chained, now to two people to his right and three to his left. He shuffled with a decided limp, and the blood on his back had scarcely enough time to dry with places that continued to drip freely when he shrugged and adjusted the chains just so.
Arthur played his role and placed his bid, surprised at the initially low asking price until he discovered both that the man from earlier was apparently still interested, and that Merlin had managed to rile up his cohorts into being as disobedient as possible, making them less than a prime catch, especially when a single buyer would have to deal with them all at once. He ended up with a bid that was several gold pieces more than he had brought with, but that he was assured was covered by both Gwaine and Lancelot should the seller need to see the goods. He did not question how they came about the funds, nor did he question the fact they had brought them with in the first place and somehow failed to mention this until now.
In the end, Arthur won, but it was a near thing. The wife still wanted the girl and the husband still wanted the joy of trying to break Merlin, but they had purchased another slave earlier in the day and could not justify the expense for a beaten man shouting vulgarities in their general direction. It was when it came time for the money to exchange hands that all hell broke loose.
Laval’s men swept in from all sides save for the exit closest the exchange. Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot herded their prize towards the rapidly falling heavy gate, reaching it just as it locked into place. Though Arthur knew better, he was still surprised at its sudden golden glow and the way it rose back up as if on command. He was, of course, not the sole witness and, with exclamations of a certain name being shared amongst them, his group was joined by a half-dozen more people than he originally intended to find let alone free on this mission, mostly chained, and all wearing the colours and styles of Ealdor.
The gate crashed down once more, trapping slaver and slave alike inside. Arthur spared one final glance at the other side, and instantly wished he had not as the little girl from earlier was trying her hardest to squeeze through the bars, and one of the beefy armed men was torn between trying to raise the gate to escape to freedom and pulling her back to her newly appointed owner.
A man from the crowd outside the citadel tried to round up his fleeing merchandise and had brandished both a whip and a dagger to do so. Free from the confines of the worst of the crowds and no longer clearly outnumbered, Gwaine made short work of the man while Lancelot herded the trio of filthy adolescents towards the group that clambered around Merlin. Some offered their thanks, and others demanded he free them from their chains immediately, and others just stood in awe at the chance that their nightmare had finally come to an end.
Arthur knew not to bank on a clearly uncertain thing, and urged them to move as fast as they could manage towards the woods as soon as every manacle had shone gold and released. They had but three horses, and still had to make their way through a group of confused potential buyers to get there, but there they at least had some basic healing supplies, and he knew for a fact that they had one damned fine physician’s assistant in their midst.
He looked over to that physician’s assistant to try to convey the relief and exaltation and everything else that was currently circling through his mind, but instead caught sight of a man barely holding it together. He managed to get to his friend’s side with minimal jostling, and asked, “Merlin, are you okay?”
Bruised eyes and grime encrusted pale skin turned to face him. He was too thin and too grey and too injured, and yet what worried Arthur the most was the eerily calm way Merlin replied, “No. No, I do not believe I am.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, and was not surprised when he received no answer.
They made it to the woods, but Arthur wanted them to make it further still before they truly stopped to assess the full extent of the damage. They were too close to the Market still, and if anyone else escaped or the potential buyers decided to follow them and try to get the goods for free, they would be at a severe disadvantage.
Gwaine lifted a woman with a severe limp up onto his horse and took the reins, and Lancelot helped a man and what looked to be his young daughter mount his own. Arthur wanted Merlin to ride his charger given that he was clearly the worst off of the remaining refuges, but his friend stumbled blindly on ahead, heedless of the less than subtle attempts by multiple people to get him to ride. Arthur caught him several times when he tripped over a root or a rock or something else small and unseen, and every time Merlin flinched away from the touch and continued his shuffle-slide forward.
When Arthur caught more than just Merlin stumbling and taking longer and longer to recover, he knew they needed to find a place to rest, likely for the night. A glance to Gwaine and Lancelot told him they had reached a similar conclusion, and the three of them began to look for anything that could be used as a sort of shelter for the crowd they now had with them.
They managed to find a small cave that did not appear to have had any more natural residents for quite some time, and everyone slowly filed in, save for Merlin who continued to walk until Arthur took him by the shoulders and guided him in the right direction. In the light that filtered in from the trees, he caught sight of far more than three lash wounds carved into his friend’s back beneath the tattered remains of his tunic, and could not help but wonder what else lay hidden from view.
Lancelot tried to get the others settled somewhat in the cave while Gwaine grabbed the waterskins and set off to find some way to fill them, two of the less injured clambering along to help. Arthur busied himself trying to get Merlin to talk to him, even though he was not certain he truly wanted to know what he had to say.
When Merlin looked hesitant to join the others, Arthur pressed him to sit on a rather large stone outside the cave, and then crouched down beside him. “We need to treat your wounds, and I may need your help treating the others as well,” he told him. If Merlin would no concentrate on his own needs, Arthur knew him well enough to take advantage of his desire to look after others.
“Loren’s ankle is not broken, but she will need it wrapped if not splinted, and everyone needs water and food,” Merlin mumbled. He scrubbed a hand over his ashen face, and Arthur took note of the bruised and split knuckles, and the way a small gash along his hairline tore open with the action.
“Gwaine can handle the water part, and will probably look for something more than rations on the way back,” Arthur nodded. He knew they did not have enough for this many people, rations or no. If they could catch a few rabbits, or even a pigeon or two, it would help. These people were starving and, as much as he would like to host a feast in their honour, he knew it would go to waste if they ate too much too soon after having so little for so long.
Merlin simply stared off into space again, which Arthur feared was to become his standard response if given the chance. He was determined for that chance not to exist.
“We brought some healing supplies, and as many herbs and tonics as we could reasonably risk not breaking,” he continued as though his friend had agreed with him. “I want to take a look at that back of yours before you exhaust yourself taking care of the others.”
Merlin’s response, as expected, was another stare. When Arthur tugged at his sleeve though, he pulled off the remains of his tunic in one jerky and extremely painful looking go. Arthur had seen a lot of wounds in battle, so it was not the damage that made him flinch, but instead the fact that such wounds were inflicted upon his friend, that his once relatively unscathed back was now moulted with bruises and split by lines of red, that his thin wrists were scraped raw from rope and harsh metal of the manacles. Some of the lash marks had torn open, while others were not much more than raised welts that were swollen and still hot to the touch, his wrists would likely drip freely once the dried blood was removed, and he kept rubbing at his calf in a way that hinted at a deep bruise if not a more severe injury.
Lancelot handed him the pack with the healing supplies, as well as a relatively clean cloth and the one remaining skin that still held water before he stepped back so as to be unobtrusive. Arthur looked to the supplies and then back to his friend at a loss, with no idea where to begin. There were so many injuries, though none of them were life-threatening unless left uncared for, and he wanted to treat everything at once even though he knew to simply clean one of the wounds would cause pain. He wanted to wrap Merlin up in some sort of magical blanket that would heal him and comfort him and keep him safe from ever having to go through something like this again.
Seeing how no such blanket was available if one even existed – he would have to ask Merlin under better circumstances – and seeing how Merlin had leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs and fold his hands in front of him, Arthur decided to start with his back and go on from there.
He poured some water on the cloth and began to dab at the wounds, closing his eyes for a moment at Merlin’s sharp intake of breath. He opened them again and tried to concentrate on his task and come up with a way to distract Merlin at the same time. He planned on making small talk, maybe a joke about the amount of scruff on his friend’s usually smooth chin, but instead what came out was a half-pleaded, “What happened?”
Either Merlin suspected he would press the issue until he got an answer or he needed at some level to tell someone and share the experience, because he actually began to talk. He did not begin with the message they had received, likely knowing Arthur already knew that part what with being there and all, but simply said, “By the time I reached Ealdor, it was too late.”
Arthur pictured the burnt out remains of the once fairly lively village. He had wondered how it had reached such a state while under Merlin’s care, how the sorcerer would have let such a thing happen if he had anything to say about it. He also wondered how that sorcerer was captured and bound and why he did nothing to escape until today, and really hoped that was part of the tale as well. He poured more water on the cloth, and sat back to listen.
“It had been a trap,” Merlin sighed. He scratched at his scruff and then stared at his scabbed and bloodied hands. “A few people came out of hiding when I got there, only to be rounded up and captured. We fought, but I’m not certain how well as the next thing I knew, I was waking up in a cart with a throbbing head and a whole lot of chains. There were several of us there, and maybe I could have done something to escape then, but I couldn’t quite concentrate and my magic felt disturbed, uneasy in some way.”
“We were given potions,” a new voice chimed in. It was the woman from the cell, her arm still torn and raw as she handed Arthur a salve for Merlin’s back. She tucked a grimy strand of once blonde hair behind her ear and shrugged, “At least I think that’s what happened. My head ached and everything was far too bright and loud and Elias said the same was true for him. I told Merlin not to risk using his magic, not yet, in case it caused more harm than good.”
It was sound advice, and something Arthur could understand, if not agree with. He would have had Merlin try small things such as loosening a manacle or conjuring water to test his capabilities and developed a possible escape plan from there. Disoriented and scared and not being a trained strategist, the urge would have been to suppress and not call attention to oneself instead of plotting and planning and formulating an escape. It explained a few things, but not enough.
“I could hear them talking, and heard what they did to the others,” Merlin began again. “Those who could be captured were in the carts or already sold. Those who resisted were slaughtered. The village was burnt to the ground to flush out anyone else.” He paused and looked back to Arthur with red-rimmed eyes, the blue within shimmering with unshed tears. “My mother... My mother was not in the carts.”
Arthur hung his head at the pronouncement. It served as confirmation of his suspicions, but did nothing to lessen the pain of losing a fine woman whom he had grown to respect, even if her gift of strong-willed attitude tended to get her son into trouble more times than not. “I am so sorry,” he said, knowing words could not truly convey the loss.
Merlin closed his eyes and took a moment to regain at least a little composure. Lancelot paused in his care of the woman’s arm to rest a supporting hand on an undamaged scrap of skin, but stayed silent and gave his friend the space he needed.
Merlin swallowed heavily, and when he continued his voice was carefully devoid of emotion. “The food and water they gave us tasted of the tinctures Gaius used to give to Morgana. I tried not to eat any, but did not have much of a choice when Elora and the others were caring for me.”
“I did not know it was tainted,” the woman at his side insisted, gifting Arthur with her name in the process. Slightly ruefully, she added, “Though I may have already been under its effects at the time and so my judgment may have been clouded. I just thought he needed at least water, especially after taking such abuse.”
Arthur opened his mouth to ask Merlin why he was attacked, but his friend beat him to it with a wry, “I may have, possibly, angered them with something I said.” Less wryly, and with a wince as Arthur tended to a particularly deep wound, he sighed, “And I may have, possibly, paid for it later.”
Arthur wished he could have been surprised at his once impudent manservant’s behaviour, but was frankly more astonished he had not well and truly lost it at the news of his mother and could only imagine what results such an outburst would have garnered.
“I don’t remember too much after that,” Merlin admitted. “Once you ate or drank, it made you slightly more compliant, or at least far too exhausted to do much about any urge you may have to set the camp ablaze and take on an entire camp of slavers. I thought maybe I could arrange something when we reached the Market, free as many people at once. It did not quite work out as planned.”
When Merlin did not elaborate, Arthur looked to Elora, who bit her lip at more than the sting of the salve Lancelot used on her wounds. “When we got to that awful place, there was a sale going on, a very special sale,” she told him. “There was a boy, fairly young at that. He was lit up with all these glowing chains. The way they treated him...”
“He was magic, like me,” Merlin cut in, finding his voice once more. “They sold him to the highest bidder for far more than the going price of the rest of the slaves. The chains bound his magic and burned him if he tried to use it, branded him in some way.” He shook his head, either in sorrow or to clear the image from his mind. “The people who bought him planned to train him and, barring that, were going to let the warlocks they already had at their disposal practice against him.”
“But you said he was a child,” Lancelot protested.
Merlin met his gaze and nodded. “He was, younger even than when I first came to Camelot” he confirmed. “And the men who sold him placed bets on how long he would survive. Given that these bets were in days, Elora and Elias had an easy task convincing me to keep things hidden until we had an absolute plan and an actual chance at a way out.”
“And that plan was?” Arthur prompted, trying to block both the image in his mind and the urge to seek out the boy and free him immediately when they had other concerns to see to first.
“Get as many of us sold together as possible, and then escape from there,” Merlin replied.
Sold as ordinary slaves instead of magical, there would have been fewer defences. Mix that with people who knew each other and their strengths and abilities all working for a common cause, and there was at least a slight likelihood for success. Far more than an escape from a slaver’s stronghold, Arthur supposed.
“Your plan seemed to work a bit better than ours though,” Merlin admitted.
Arthur did not wish to disclose that plan had been to save only Merlin, with anyone else being inconsequential, so instead he confessed, “We had help. Laval warned us his men were moving in, and the timing seemed to work in our favour.”
“Laval?” Merlin asked, clearly surprised. “But these are his lands...”
“And he wished to curry favour with Camelot by finally closing down that atrocity,” Arthur told him.
Merlin shook his head. “No, you don’t understand,” he insisted. “The Market, the whole place, is his. He runs it, or at least supervises enough to be paid a fair share.”
“His men helped lock everything down and capture the slavers and the buyers,” Arthur explained. Merlin was simply confused, he had to be. Perhaps he had seen Laval scouting out his operation and jumped to the wrong conclusion.
Merlin, however, continued to object. His eyes were wide and had that look to them that Arthur never really liked, but had learned to trust. He firmly believed in what he said, and would find a way to prove it if need be, damned the consequences to himself in the process. “His men were the guards, the real guards, and kept everyone in place. I would not have recognised him or them had he not just visited, but I swear to you, he not only knows what is going on there, but rules it.”
Arthur blinked. That could not be right. Laval had sided with him, renounced the slave trade, promised to clear his lands for more legitimate enterprises.
If only his mind would not supply him with images of the slavers nodding to him, motioning to his men who just happened to stand in the way and jostle people back into place. He remembered now how a man approached Laval and did not offer him merchandise like all the rest, but carried a far sized satchel that he seemed to want to give to him. He remembered now the look of confusion when Laval pointedly waived him off and walked over to Arthur to check on how the rescue plan was progressing.
“His sweep of the Market was an act of containment,” Lancelot guessed. “He locks things down, we may or may not escape in the process. We remain, and he tries for the throne. We escape, and he makes a show of releasing some or all of the prisoners and sending the slavers to his own cells.”
“Only he later lets them go to hunt the people he just freed down again as soon as we are suitably swayed and count him as an ally,” Arthur finished for him. He hung his head in defeat. He had been well and truly played.
That head snapped up though at Lancelot’s next words. “Did Laval know these people were from Ealdor?”
“Even if he did not know where his men gathered their quarry, he would have investigated after our obvious interest in their welfare,” Arthur responded. By now Laval knew at the very least that Merlin was captured in Ealdor, and would likely reach the conclusion that the village was important to him, if not to Arthur himself.
“But would he do so to ensure his men did not attack the village again and draw your wrath, or to try to get back a bit of the profit he just lost?” Lancelot asked.
Arthur pictured the ruin of the village and the few survivors trying to piece their lives back together, weakened and relatively defenceless, and wished he had an answer.
Part 2 on Live Journal | Part 2 on Dreamwidth
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This sounds great, but I'm having a bit of difficulty reading it because of the layout. It never mattered much for shorter stories, but this one is longer. Would you consider removing the default "view in my journal style"? (If you aren't sure where it is, it's in customize/options, in "Basic Options" category, uncheck "Show entry pages in my journal style rather than the site layout"). Perfectly okay if not, I'll simply use ?style=light at the end of the url for now anyway, but I figured I'd ask in case you didn't have a preference yourself.
Thank you! And I can't wait to really read it later tonight. =D
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