Chapter Text
Arthur’s arms are bound behind his back. The ropes wrap around his chest and wrists, and there are more tying his ankles together.
These are the first things Arthur notices when he wakes up with a headache in a dark room. He’s pretty sure he’s underground because of the dank, damp smell that permeates what he can only describe as a cell.
He’s lying with his cheek smashed against the stone, and it takes him a moment to sit up and right himself to get a proper look around his present accommodations.
When he catches sight of Merlin, his stomach drops out.
Arthur can’t help but startle in disbelief, “Merlin?”
Arthur wracks his addled mind, but he knows that Merlin didn’t go with him on this excursion.
Merlin had been sick, and Arthur had insisted that he stay in bed and rest. As much as he wanted to stay by Merlin’s side while he recovered, he couldn’t ignore the cry for help from the outlying village of Stroud that was a two-days ride from Camelot. It was a peaceful little outcropping with excellent agricultural productions, but Arthur would have gone out to protect them even if they weren’t such an economic boon for Camelot.
So how could Merlin be here now?
Arthur grimaces.
Merlin looks terrible.
His lip is split, and there’s a cut above his eyebrow that has created a sticky trail of blood down the side of his face. His hair is matted with the same sweat that creates a sheen on his skin, which is somehow even paler than his usual shade of snow.
And he’s clearly unconscious, shackled, chained to the ceiling, limp, hanging from his wrists, toes barely brushing the floor.
His hands are the color of bone, save for the deep purple bruising that mottles the flesh on either side of the cold iron cuffs. The veins of his arms and hands stand out in stark relief.
He looks dead.
There’s a sudden lump in Arthur’s throat, and his voice cracks when he repeats, “Merlin? Merlin!”
The sound of creaking hinges pulls Arthur’s attention to his left, where a short, broad man is wearing a satisfied smirk as he enters the room.
“Awake, I see? You’ve caused me an awful lot of trouble, your highness,” the man says.
Arthur struggles against his bindings, “What do you want? Who are you? Let Merlin go.”
“After I had to go out completely out of my way to go fetch your pet sorcerer? Not a chance. I went to all the effort to terrorize Stroud just to get the pair of you out of the citadel, and he wasn't even with you. My men had to make an extra trip and get through Camelot’s protections.” Slowly, the man eyes Merlin like he’s surveying his prey, “We hadn’t planned on that complication. We had to take out a few guards, but fortunately, your pretty little plaything was all out of sorts. Too unwell to put up a fight."
To emphasize his point, their captor reached out and caressed Merlin’s sweaty cheek.
Merin doesn’t react in any way.
“Get away from him!” Arthur shouts.
The man returns his attention to the angry King and continues, “I hear you’ve given him a title, named him court sorcerer.” He leers, “Heard you’ve also made him your consort. Imagine my surprise. A sorcerer becomes consort to the king? Must be awfully good on his knees then, or on his back?”
Arthur growls, “Enough.”
Satisfied with the effects of his taunting, the man crosses to Arthur, “You are a blight on your father’s legacy. When you lifted the ban on magic, you spit on his grave. I will see you punished for it, and I will see Camelot rid of magic once more.” When he finishes speaking, he steps out of their cell only to return with Arthur’s own sword. He gestures with the sharpened blade, “I plan to start with him.”
“Don’t!” Arthur commands.
With renewed vigor, Arthur fights against the ropes that restrain him. The ache in his temples pales in comparison to his fury, but the other effects of the blow he took to the head aren’t so easily swayed. His balance is skewed, and his movements are sluggish make him nauseous. Regardless, he grunts with effort and tries to get up off the floor.
Confident that his royal prisoner is too incapacitated to do any real damage, the man ignores Arthur and the noise of him shuffling against the ground. Instead, he continues, “I suppose you should know the identity of the man who will slay your lover and sit upon your throne."
He runs a finger along the polished steel as if testing the weapon. He appears satisfied. “My name is Ulric. My own father was a coward.” As he talks, he steps closer to Merlin. He peers at him thoughtfully. “I lived in that village as a child, you know. Stroud. It was very long ago. My father was a terrible farmer, so he learned to practice enchantments and spells to help the crops flourish.”
Ulric’s tone is light now, almost conversational, but a vicious anger simmers beneath his calm facade. He lifts the sword and presses the tip to the fleshy underside of Merlin’s bicep before dragging it against the thin skin. Blood beads to the surface. Arthur strains against the ropes binding his hands. “Everyone in the village suspected someone in my family was using magic, but no one said anything until the Great Purge.” Ulric scowls, “When the soldiers came, our neighbors sent them straight to our family.
“My mother hid me, but I watched. When the soldiers demanded that the magic-user surrender themselves, my bastard of a father shoved my mother into their arms.”
Exhausted by his own struggle, Arthur can only watch in horror as Ulric proceeds to cut into Merlin’s opposite arm. Ulric’s brown eyes are fixated and intense.
And then the mood changes.
In a sudden fit of pique, Ulric grabs Merlin by the hair and wrenches his head back and snarls, “I watched her burn, Pendragon, for a crime she never committed because my selfish sorcerer father chose to protect himself.” Spittle flies from his lips from the force of his vitriol. “All magic is inherently selfish, and those who choose to use it must be stopped. If not, the innocent will continue to suffer at their hands."
All at once Ulric drops the sword and wraps a meaty hand around Merlin’s slender neck. Ulric’s stare never wavers as he squeezes.
“There are many who agree with me, who will see me take the throne and undo all that you have wrought upon your people.” Finally, Ulric relaxes his grip around Merlin’s neck. Merlin’s head lolls sickly against his shoulder. Arthur hopes he isn’t dead. He can’t tell if Merlin’s breathing in the lowlight. “I will keep you as a prisoner, make you watch as I rebuild your broken kingdom.”
Ulric crouches down to retrieve the sword, which he inspects thoughtfully, “But first you will watch me run him through with your own blade.”
“Merlin!” Arthur cries helplessly. He doesn’t know what he expects to happen, but nothing changes. "Merlin! Merin!"
Sparing a glance for Arthur, Ulric tells him, “I think I’ll cut out his heart and keep it in a jar.”
Ulric’s fist tightens on the hilt, and then he draws his arm back to thrust the point of the sword into Merlin’s stomach.
Arthur wants to close his eyes. Arthur doesn’t want to watch.
But his eyes remain open.
Frozen in panic.
“NO!”
His tone is so riddled with agony he doesn’t recognize his own voice.
The noise he makes in the back of his throat is almost inhuman.
The sword clatters as Ulric slumps to the ground.
There’s a spear sticking out of his back.
It had whizzed through the open door of the cell and met its unsuspecting target.
Pervical has never looked so enraged. His muscles are stilled tensed from his launch of the weapon.
There’s a cacophonous explosion of sound as the knights race into the room.
Leon rushes to Arthur as Lancelot races to Merlin’s side.
Arthur is barely aware of Leon moving around him, cutting the ties and speaking, asking if he’s alright, alright, alright.
Lancelot cuts Merlin free, and Percival catches him before he can sink bonelessly to his knees. The pair gently lay him out flat. A couple of knights have their weapons trained on Ulric's corpse, and Elyan darts forward to take the keys from his belt loop.
“We’ve got to get these off of him now,” Lancelot insists as Elyan passes him the keys. Swiftly and precisely in spite of his fear, Lancelot unlocks the cuffs and throws them across the room just as Arthur rises unsteadily with Leon’s help.
As soon as they’re removed, Merlin gasps.
Arthur lunges out of Leon’s hold and lands next to Merlin. He reaches for his hand.
“Merlin? Merlin, can you hear me?” he smooths his thumb gently over Merlin’s knuckles. “Please, Merlin. Answer me.”
“Ngh,” Merlin groans. His eyelids wrinkle as his brow draws in pain. “A-arth’r?”
When a choked sob escapes his lips, Arthur realizes he’s crying, “Merlin. Merlin, I thought you were dead.” Arthur bends forward until their foreheads are touching. “I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead.”
“Mmm,” Merlin mumbles unintelligibly.
Arthur feels hysterical.
“Sire, we need to see to both your injuries before we can move you,” Leon is saying, but Arthur can’t take his eyes off the man lying in front of him, breathing, alive, alive, alive. “Sire?”
Merlin’s hand twitches in Arthur’s.
Elyan has already started working around Arthur. He wipes away the blood on Merlin’s arm and wraps the wound to staunch the flow.
“He’s going to need stitches,” Elyan pronounces gravely. “His injuries need to be cleaned before infection can set in. He needs a physician. I don’t know if he can wait until we can get him back to Gaius. I’m also worried about his throat swelling up.”
Leon nods, “His wrists look awful.”
Lancelot’s posture is tense while he explains, “It’s the cold iron. It traps his magic. The effects become worse as time passes.” He frowns at the bruising, the chafed, raw skin, the angry veins.
Merlin whimpers when Elyan pulls tightly on the bandages, and Arthur shushes him softly.
“Shh, I know,” he says. It could be the head injury, but Arthur’s emotions are running amok right on the surface. “I’m here. I know it hurts. I’m here.”
“Ar’thr?”
“I’m here, I’m here,” Arthur tells him. “Just hold on. Just hold on, Merlin. I’m here.”