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Pain – has an Element of Blank –
It cannot recollect
When it begun – or if there were
A time when it was not –It has no Future – but itself –
Its Infinite realms contain
Its Past – enlightened to perceive
New Periods – of Pain."Pain – has an element of Blank" by Emily Dickinson
When Merlin woke up, it was to a debilitating headache, hazy, incomplete memories, and the panicked realization that he was shackled, gagged, and propped against a cold stone wall. His first thought, of course, was for Arthur. Arthur was what gave him the strength and determination to force his aching eyes open despite the pain that had settled behind them. He was the reason Merlin's gaze skirted frantically around the small room he was in, barely registering his surroundings, searching for a familiar face under fair hair, and noble blue eyes.
When he gleaned no sign of the king – or evidence that he had once been there – Merlin felt himself relax, but only just. Peering around the small, dingy room keeping him prisoner, he noted that there was a single door, several paces away. It was closed; the warlock had no clue where it led, but it stood to reason that he and the king might have been separated and that Arthur could be somewhere behind that door.
Merlin had a feeling, however – an instinct, perhaps – that Arthur was not here. He couldn't decide if that knowledge made him feel better or worse about the situation: Of course, he didn't want Arthur to be a prisoner too, but if he wasn't with Merlin, then that meant he was probably getting into trouble elsewhere, without protection. Merlin had long since accepted that his role in Arthur's life was reminiscent of a mother with her child – Merlin was only truly relaxed when he had the king in his sights, where he could keep an eye on him and make sure he didn't wander into danger.
Still, just in case he was wrong, he had to approach escape carefully, both for Arthur's safety and that of his secret. Once he knew that his friend had made it to safety, if indeed he had, then Merlin could show whoever had grabbed him exactly what they had gotten themselves into. As for who had taken him, or what had led Merlin to be in this situation at all, the sorcerer was still unsure about. He could recall snippets – sunlight glinting off of polished blades, metal clashing and grinding against metal, red cloaks billowing, battle cries and death notes and standing off to the side, watching, intervening where necessary, protecting. But these memories could have been those of any battle.
Before he had time to dig deeper into his memories, the door he had just been contemplating swung open, and an enormous man ducked through, his shaggy head bowing to accommodate the ceiling. He had the mannerisms of a bandit and the clothing of a king – one could dress in the finest of stolen garments and decorate oneself with gold and gems, but there was no shaking the greasy aura of death and greed that attached itself to those who took indiscriminately.
"Oh look," said the man when he saw Merlin alert and glaring at him. "It's awake." His voice grumbled like a summer thunderstorm and oozed like wet earth. He had a heavy club hefted upon one shoulder, the muscles of his arm bulging against the skin as if trying to escape.
Merlin straightened himself up as much as he could at the taunt, determined to maintain every bit of dignity that remained. It wasn't easy, as the shackles kept him from stretching too far – his wrists and ankles were held together by short chains, and another longer chain connected his hands and feet. He barely had enough slack to sit up straight – there was no way he'd be standing with these fetters on. A good thing, then, that he didn't plan on staying in them for long.
His captor laughed, the sound as unpleasant as his voice had been. Despite Merlin's magic, despite knowing that he was at his core more powerful than this man, something about him made Merlin's very skin crawl as if he had fallen asleep in anthill. And his eyes – the look in them was cold and disconnected. He didn't see Merlin as another person, not even a captive one. The manner in which he regarded his prisoner was the way one appraised an object, a piece of property with no intrinsic value other than what it could fetch at market. A pit of dread twisted open in Merlin's gut as he realized just what this man was.
The vile man's next words confirmed Merlin's suspicions: "Wee little thing, aren't you? It seems doubtful that we'd be able to make anything off your scrawny hide, in ways of labor, at least." Desperation clawed unbidden at Merlin's chest in time with the hammering of his heart. The people who had taken him weren't just bandits – of course they weren't, bandits killed and stole, they did not capture. These men were slave traders.
The man squatted down in front of Merlin and grasped the warlock's lean face in a rough, calloused hand. Merlin stiffened at the fingers digging painfully into his face, tried to yank his head away. His captor held firm, tilting Merlin's head first to one side, then the other. The muscles in Merlin's neck tensed from the awkward position, and he barely managed to keep a rein on his magic. Just a little longer, he bargained with himself. Just until you know more about Arthur. Then you can stop this madness.
Finally releasing Merlin's face, the bandit rocked back on his heels and added, almost to himself, "Well, you may be small, boy, but you're going to earn us a fortune. You might even make us enough to make up for the knights that got away." As an afterthought: "Maybe even enough to make up for the men we lost too." He stood up, looming over Merlin once more. The warlock found himself completely dwarfed in the man's shadow.
Merlin's cheeks ached where the man had grabbed him. His head still felt like it could burst at any moment, he felt disoriented, and the haze over his vision had only gotten worse. He was tired and his muscles cramped and he had no idea where Arthur was or if he was okay. But none of that bothered him as much as the greedy way the slave trader peered at him, or their confidence that they could sell him for such a high price. Terror lapped at his mind like waves on the shore. What did they think he had that would make him so desirable as a slave? What the hell did they plan to sell him for?
Merlin did not intend to stick around and find out, especially now that the trader had revealed that none of the other knights had been captured, which meant Arthur was not here. Which, of course, meant that Merlin no longer had to hold back.
He closed his eyes; it was proving harder to corral his magic into a devastating burst than it usually was, as his swimming head made it difficult to concentrate on something usually so instinctual. While he tried to center himself, to prepare himself for the fight to come – because surely it wasn't just this man here, there had to be more waiting outside the door – his captor continued to ramble on. "Of course, you'll be with us for a while yet before we can sell you. We'll have to cross the border before we can advertise our merchandise." Merlin tried to ignore the man's words, focusing instead on the magic and resolve to fight his way out, but he couldn't block them out completely. And then the slave trader said something that stole Merlin's concentration all together: "After all, Camelot's a dangerous place to try to to sell a sorcerer."
Waves of surprise and relief hit Merlin simultaneously – surprise that this horrid man knew his secret, and relief that it was his power they were so keen to profit off of. Regardless, their plans to sell him were atrocious, but Merlin knew there were far worse things to be forced to do than magic.
"And that's why you're all tied up nice and tight, and why you won't be allowed to say a word while you're here with us. In my experience, sorcerers who can't talk can't say their spells. No spells, no magic." He chuckled, proud of himself.
Merlin almost felt sorry for the man. He had no idea what he was in for.
Perhaps the slave trader saw the raw power flickering behind Merlin's blue eyes, then: He took a step back, hesitated, then narrowed his eyes, hefting the club in his hand with careful consideration. Merlin had already closed his eyes once more, was drawing upon his magic, and so he didn't see his captor arrive at his decision. He was too distracted to hear the muttered, "But maybe, just in case…" He allowed his magic to build up inside him, relishing its warmth, protection, and comfort, prepared to release and –
He screamed.
Magic released, but not as he had intended – not in a controlled burst in order to escape. It was torn out of him as something slammed into his lower legs with the force of a felled tree. The sound that came from his mouth – more animal than human – did not completely hide the horrific crack of shin bones snapping in two.
He didn't see the wave of magic slam into his tormentor, didn't see the man's eyes widen in terror just before he was thrown across the room, cracking into the far wall. Merlin didn't see the cruel light dim from the man's eyes or hear his last breath stutter from crushed lungs.
Merlin's vision went white, but he was still aware, he could still feel, and all was pain, pain like he'd never known before. It was beyond comprehension, beyond words, beyond sight or sound or anything that could quantify it. His legs – both of his legs – burned with the throbbing intensity of a thousand fires, the pain squeezed the breath out of him and turned it to screaming. He lurched to the side, stomach heaving, and vomited. The motion wrenched at his mangled legs and he blacked out, ears ringing, hands numb, magic settling in the air around him, now that it had done its job.
He would not wake for some time.
When he did come to, the pain had dulled to a steady ache. He was lying on a hard cot on his back, his legs arranged neatly, though not propped up as they should have been. He didn't know how long he had been asleep, nor what had happened after he had passed out. His head felt strange in a way that simply losing consciousness could not cause, and he realized blearily that he had most likely been drugged. Anxiety rippled within him. If he had been drugged between passing out and waking up, then he might have been in the possession of the slave traders for far too long – days, even. With this fear simmering frantically in his gut, he struggled to sit up and found that his hands were still shackled in front of him. At least the gag was gone.
He was in a small room with no windows, built high with great stones and with little decoration. The only furniture was the cot he'd been placed on, a dining chair, and a washing basin with a bucket of water and fresh chamber pot beside it. There was one door, and it was closed.
Merlin glared at the manacles around his wrists and the shackles fell off. At least they hadn't tried containing his magic with any sort of enchanted jewelry – he'd heard tales of such twisted artifacts from Gaius. Not that it mattered, anyway. Merlin didn't know how to do the level of healing magic that mending broken bones would require. Healing magic wasn't that simple – it too dealt with the law of equal exchange. One could not just heal a mortal injury or sickness with magic as easily as one could, say, use magic to move an object or throw an enemy across the room.
Still, Merlin managed to lever himself up to a sitting position, head pounding and spinning far too quickly. Even that small movement sent waves of pain shooting through his legs and up his spine, and nausea roiled anew in his already unsteady stomach. Leaning over as far as he could, he saw that his breeches legs had been cut off just above the knees, and that his legs had been set and bandaged – how well, Merlin could not say – and his worst fears were confirmed – his legs, both of them, had been broken.
Even if it hadn't been for the obscene level of pain, and the grating feeling that accompanied every minute movement, Merlin would have had no doubt that his shin bones had both been fractured, probably – he shuddered – snapped. His legs, even hidden underneath the bandages, looked misshapen and swollen. They appeared shorter than they should have been, and the angle of his right one seemed the tiniest bit off. He looked away, the sight somehow making the pain and curdling in his gut worse.
As he carefully lowered himself back onto the unforgiving surface of the cot, a fog of hopelessness descended upon him, and it was only through pure force of will that he held back the burning that pressed threateningly at the backs of his eyes. He was a fool. He had been so sure of himself, of his power, that he had thought it impossible for his captors to contain him. Their bonds wouldn't have held him, nor would the gag. But it didn't matter how powerful he was, in the end, Merlin realized, his chest caving in on itself and pulling him into a whirlwind of misery. If he couldn't walk, he was stuck.
Unless he wasn't.
Merlin could have kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner, but in his defense, he had a head injury and was barely holding it together with two broken legs – pain, in his experience, made it hard to reason at one's full capacity. Then again, it might be a worthless endeavor, anyway, calling on Kilgharrah. After all, Merlin had no idea where he was – he knew the slavers had plans to smuggle him over the border into another kingdom – or if the dragon would even be able to hear or sense him when he called. Then there was the small problem of Merlin being locked away inside, away from the open air, where Kilgharrah ruled.
His newfound hope dampered almost as soon as he'd found it, Merlin nonetheless called for his old, scaly friend just in case the dragon might, by some chance, be able to come to his aid.
Because this time, even with all the powers of Emrys boiling in his veins, Merlin was not going to be able to help himself.
Two men came into the room about an hour after Merlin called for Kilgharrah. Either no one had been outside guarding him when he had released his ancient, guttural cries to the unimpressed ceiling, or they'd just thought he was losing his mind and ignored him. They edged through the doorway, their eyes locked warily on their captive's prone form on the bed. Merlin thought with some satisfaction that they looked scared stiff.
There was nothing else for it – Merlin was stuck here for the foreseeable future, he was in so much pain that he couldn't stop trembling, and he was done with this day. One thing that Merlin had proven through years of loyal service to Arthur was that even when all seemed lost, life became the tiniest bit more tolerable if you could snark at someone and get on their nerves. Normally, Merlin targeted Arthur – as the king did to him. Now, Merlin's audience were the people who had captured him, broken his legs, and planned to sell him as a magical slave.
He had a lot to work with.
Merlin flashed his brightest grin, adding to the mix the tiniest bit of madness, just to set their nerves on edge. "Welcome!" he boomed, not bothering to sit up on their account, spreading his arms wide like this was his home and he was graciously ushering them in. "So nice of you to visit. Don't be shy, come in."
When the uneasy bandits continued to huddle by the door, Merlin brought them sliding across the floor with a flash of his eyes. He heard their boots skidding against stone as their toes curled in an attempt to slow their passage. They ground to a stop right beside his bed. Merlin glared up at them, all traces of humor gone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, and the dark anger in his voice was Emrys's, not Merlin's, and it felt good to be angry, to feel anything but despair.
"W-we're here to check on you," one bandit stammered.
Merlin raised an eyebrow.
"You know, check your injuries, help you to the chamber pot, get you… ready…" The second bandit trailed off with a gulp.
"You're helping me with nothing of the sort," Merlin growled. "As you have so astutely noticed, I have magic. I don't need to be helped anywhere. I can bring anywhere to me." He kept his words intentionally vague, fighting as he was against the burning flush trying to creep up his neck.
"Be that as it may, sir," the first bandit stuttered out, and Merlin realized with amusement that he hadn't even blinked at calling a man he planned to sell "sir." "Visitors are coming, and the boss ordered us to prepare you to meet them."
Merlin focused on keeping his expression stoic, but he knew who these visitors were. Buyers. Rich, disgusting people who had money to spare and who thought that buying another person was a suitable endeavor. The warlock knew that his life would become a living hell if he were to leave in the hands of one of these visitors. And while he would never stop trying to escape, and most likely would escape, given the fact that he was, in fact, the prophesied Emrys who still had a lot of work to do on the prophesied greatness front, he would never be the same. Merlin fought off another wave of desperation, this one more potent than the first.
"Not feeling up for visitors, thanks." He flicked his eyes to his useless, broken limbs. "In case you haven't noticed, I've got a nasty case of two broken legs."
The bandits exchanged alarmed expressions, but remained silent. It was as if they were having a silent argument about who would speak first. Finally, one said, crossing his arms in feigned bravado, "You're the prisoner here, not us."
"We'll see about that," Merlin griped crabbily, and summoned a strong wind to herd them out of the room.
The group of slave traders were beginning to regret grabbing the scrawny sorcerer. When he had been spotted doing magic on the edge of the battlefield, he'd been the perfect condolence prize as the remaining bandits ran for their lives. But it had been four days, and he was terrorizing everyone who came in to feed him, to check his wounds, or to try to ready him for the upcoming private auction. He'd sent a miniaturized storm after Borin two nights ago when the man had made an attempt to shackle him once more. The man was still sparking at random, even now.
It was obvious that the boy's wounds were taking a toll on him though – one could not possess such traumatic injuries without dealing with devastating side effects, and since it appeared he was all powerful in everything but self-healing, he was stuck where he was. That meant they just had to wait until he had been worn down by the fatigue, the pain, the stirrings of a slight fever just behind those blue eyes… then he would be much easier to control. That was, if someone else didn't take him off their hands first.
The abandoned fort just inside the border of Essetir where the traders had made their temporary home was abuzz on this particular day, as their first potential buyer was slated to arrive. All of the traders hoped fervently that this would be the first and last buyer interested in their newest merchandise – the sooner they got that tiny terror out of their hair, the better. They also wanted this buyer to be the one because they knew just how much wealth they could get from this particular party.
Lord Domhnall, after all, was a legend amongst the underbelly of the five kingdoms. Once King Cenred's head torturer, now an aspiring warlord who was rumored to be amassing an army of magic users for unknown purposes (though it was said that he had his greedy eye on wealthy exotic lands across the sea). He was a rich man, and very powerful. He would be the best buyer to take their magical burden, provided that he would be interested in someone with such a rebellious attitude.
It seemed likely that he would take the traders up on their offer, however – everyone who'd heard of him knew the stories of how much Lord Domhnall loved a challenge.
The days were running together. Merlin lay on the cot, flushed, nauseated, spikes of agony pummelling his legs. His whole body felt stiff and uncomfortable, and a slight chill had settled down around him. He had helped Gaius with enough sickness and injuries to know when a fever was coming on.
He wasn't sure what had brought the fever on exactly – in his experience, it could be untreated traumatic injuries and the strain they put on the body. Stress and fatigue were also viable options. It most likely wasn't infection, since as far as Merlin could tell, the broken bones had not pierced his flesh.
But still, he felt miserable. His days passed in torment, pain his only companion, and the only relief he found from it was in driving his captors mad, and the only thing that kept him going was the thought of escaping and returning home, to Camelot – to Arthur. He kept the bandits from getting too close, and sent his most creative spells after them, and it had gotten to the point where no one entered the room except to set a tray of food right inside the door. Merlin could bring the tray to himself magically if he wanted to eat.
He hadn't eaten in two days.
He knew he should, to keep his strength up, but the pain in his legs was the kind that did not confine itself to its original source; it wandered around his body, twisted his stomach into knots and made his hands shake uncontrollably. He drank water, when he could, but avoided food. It would just come up again, and he didn't want to have to deal with that on top of everything else.
He slept most of the time now, but he kept a ward about him so that no one could approach him or harm him while he was asleep. It had been weakening as of late, however, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. Merlin was exhausted always, sick and in anguish, and he was beginning to think that either the Great Dragon had not heard his call, or that he was being ignored.
The door swung open. Merlin, who had been trying to fall asleep to stave off the pain and sickness, opened his eyes and swung his head around in surprise. No one had dared enter since the lightning storm incident. He didn't recognize the man who almost glided into the room, but immediately, Merlin's magic railed against his presence, screaming to Merlin's defense even though all the man had done was stand just inside the doorway and look at him.
He was extraordinarily tall, and slender, with spidery hands and long, manicured fingernails. He wore a black cloak, the hood of which was pulled back to reveal an angular, sunken face with sickly skin and cruel storm-gray eyes.
Two bandits followed cautiously behind their guest, who continued to observe Merlin with deadened eyes. "Your ward is slipping," the newcomer said. "But it is impressive in your present state, nevertheless." Turning to one of the traders, he snapped, "He's badly injured. Do you think I'm going to pay the sum you request for broken merchandise?"
Rage welled up inside of Merlin at the casual mention of his being sold like an object. He had no intention of going with this man.
"He's too powerful to contain, even with binding," the bandit explained, trembling. "We had to break his legs so he couldn't run."
Gray eyes alighted on Merlin once more, running up and down his form with new interest. The gaze made Merlin feel slimy and he resisted the urge to shudder. "If this is true–"
"It is!" insisted the bandit.
"–then I will have great use for him. What was once broken can be mended, after all. And once I'm done with him, he will have no desire to run away. In fact, his only desire will be to serve me."
Merlin barked out a harsh laugh and told the man to do something very unpleasant to himself.
A chuckle. "My, he's a feisty one. I'm going to enjoy breaking him." With uncanny speed, the man shot out a hand, hissing a dark spell that slithered off his tongue like a vile, writhing creature. Merlin put every ounce of magic, weakened as he was, into his protective shield.
It wasn't enough.
Like an arrow through chainmail, the pinpoint spell punched through Merlin's magical wall. Heavy chains wrapped themselves around his arms and torso, squeezing tightly and burning hot. He knew these chains – Morgause had used this same spell to bind him in the Serket's nest years ago. The chains had held him them. But he was stronger now.
His eyes flashed gold. His magic lashed out at the chains, attacked them, and they grew hotter and hotter. Merlin screamed, feeling the links tightening, suffocating, burning into his skin, but he did not relent – and moments later he was rewarded as the chains shattered into tiny, burning hot fragments that peppered the man who had conjured them. A sense of pride and satisfaction kindled to life inside of Merlin then, for though he knew that with his legs broken that there was only one way this would end, he was still able to put up a fight.
Fury flashed unhinged in cold gray eyes before the expression smoothed over and a thin smile curled the man's lips into something demonic. "Very good," he purred. "Excellent, in fact." Without taking his eyes off of Merlin, he bared his teeth and hissed, "I'll take him."
His next spell hit Merlin with the weight of a tempest. A flash of pain, bright, blinding light, and then… nothing.
High above the fort, shrouded in clouds, a great golden dragon loomed, fiery eyes locked on the fort below. Merlin, Kilgharrah said. He had been far when the boy had called him. It had taken him nights of concealed travel to find his young warlock.
Young warlock.
No answer. Something akin to concern twisted deep within the dragon's bones. It was not a feeling he was used to. His Dragonlord was alive, Kilgharrah could sense it. But something was wrong.
The Great Dragon's instinct was to swoop down, to tear the building apart stone by stone until he found his stolen warlock, but some instinct told him to wait, that his time would soon come.
He was rewarded for his efforts not two hours later, when a disgusting little pinprick of a man sauntered out of the door with a chained, unconscious Merlin dangling limply in the air behind him, a pallid puppet tied up in strings.
As the fires of rage swelled within his soul, the fires of hell spewed from his gaping maw and he dove, swift and silent as death itself.
He killed the puppet master first, roasting the arrogant little twig who thought he could fight back with his pitiful magic. He picked off the others as they ran, screaming, from the slaughter, and when he was done, he lifted his young warlock in the gentlest of grips, minding the disfigured legs, and carried him away, to safety.
The next morning, the weary and restless search party, led by Sir Gwaine, awoke to a sight that both baffled and thrilled in equal measure. Not one hundred paces away, in a patch of bushes they were sure they'd searched thoroughly the night before, lay Merlin. He was unconscious, looked like he'd been through hell and back, and – Gwaine burst his knuckles on a tree trunk – both of his legs had been broken, though they had been set well and were on the mend.
"What the hell?" Elyan demanded, eyebrows furrowed. "How… how did he get here?"
Gwaine glanced up from where he was bathing a nasty, but healing, wound on the back of his weakly stirring friend's head. He thought back to a time, not very long ago – a muddy, soaking wet Merlin stumbling out of the bushes after he'd been missing for days.
"That's the thing about Merlins," Gwaine said lightly, his humored tone belying the fury seething just beneath the surface at what had been done to his closest friend. "They have a knack of showing up right when you need them most."
Then he smiled, but his eyes were hard and weary, and they glinted with tears. "Come on, lads," he said heavily. "It's going to be a long, slow journey."
"Yes," Elyan agreed. "Let's get him home."