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Merlin and Arthur’s quest to rescue Gwaine and Percival and the others from Ismere was currently being put on the back burner.
Which was a fancy way of saying that they were trapped.
At swordpoint and outnumbered, Merlin could not see a way of escaping without getting himself or Arthur killed. Luckily, the situation didn’t seem so dire that Merlin needed to use his magic, so he did not include that as a potential mode of escape.
One of the two men shoved Merlin to his feet roughly. He stumbled by the force of it, but was steadied by the same man. Arthur was brought to his feet, too, looking frustrated.
Merlin felt sick, and not just from the lack of food. It was like he couldn’t breathe; as if there was a heavy weight pressing down on his lungs, robbing him of breath. The Vates had shown him a vision of Arthur being mortally wounded in a bloody battle, stabbed by a dark-haired man. And here Arthur’s bane was; in the form of Mordred.
He needed to protect Arthur; to defy the prophecy and keep him safe. Mordred had saved them from the bandits, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to kill Arthur at a later time.
The aforementioned Druid and the man in charge led the way, with Merlin and Arthur being led behind.
~*~
They eventually reached a cart belonging to the man in charge. Radnor, Merlin heard someone call him.
Men in thick, warm clothing like their capturers milled about, attending to the cart or sharpening their swords and the like. Other men sat around the camp, mostly in small groups, bound. They were like Arthur and Merlin.
Their captors shoved them towards the other prisoners before stalking off. Merlin, dizzy, fell onto his front, face smashed into the frozen earth. Arthur landed on his side. Merlin wondered exasperatedly how he could possibly look so graceful doing that.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Merlin. I’ve never met someone so uncoordinated in my life.”
Merlin did not respond. He shifted slightly on the ground in attempt to reposition himself on the ground.
Arthur pursed his lips, angling his head so he could watch Radnor’s retreating back. He turned his attention back to Merlin, his gaze piercing.
The expression on his face took Merlin aback. “Are you alright?” His voice was low, as if to keep the concern in it as invisible as possible.
Merlin swallowed hard and nodded. Arthur’s scrutiny left him feeling like the other man could access his mind and everything that was there. Merlin rolled over onto his back and stared up at the night sky.
Arthur examined Merlin; his closed off facial expression, the tension in his frame, his clenched fists which drew the skin over his knuckles so tightly that you could see a hint of bone.
He frowned, realizing just how much Merlin had changed over the decade he’d spent in Camelot. He was so stoic now, smiling less and frowning more. Arthur could recall only a handful of times he hadn’t been able to decipher an expression on Merlin’s face when they had first met. Now he could barely understand any.
He fell asleep that night dreaming of the adventures they had when Arthur had still been prince.
~*~
Merlin had never felt so numb in his life.
Yesterday they had left the frigid wilderness and had come upon the snowy plains of Ismere. It was so cold; colder than anything Merlin had ever experienced. More than anything, Merlin yearned for a fire, or a blanket, something to keep him warm.
All he had was his signature look and it did not provide much warmth. Looking around, Merlin could tell that most of the men imprisoned were in as bad shape as he was.
He looked over at Arthur to see how he was fairing. Merlin’s heart sunk to see him suffering. Arthur was shaking and his hands were turning a concerning purplish-black. Exhaling, Merlin pursed his lips and continued walking.
When they stopped for the night, Merlin immediately pulled Arthur aside as soon as they were unbound from the cart. Arthur gave him a questioning look.
Merlin took Arthur's hands in his and examined the growing discoloration of them. He gently started to rub his king’s between his own.
Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. “Merlin, what are you doing?”
His tone was familiar; one associated with things Arthur said when he thought Merlin was being odd.
“Your hands,” Merlin murmured. “They're so cold. I'm trying to keep the blood flowing in hopes that your frost bite doesn't worsen.”
Arthur stood there, as if unsure what to do. He didn't stop Merlin’s ministrations, however. Merlin reached up and untied his neckerchief. He started to rip pieces off into thin strips. Arthur saw what he was doing and started to protest.
Merlin shushed him, a motion Arthur did not appreciate.
“I'm the king, Merlin. You can't shush me!”
Merlin rolled his eyes. He was entirely too cold and too tired to deal with this old argument.
“You're going to need hands if you want to wield a sword,” he pointed out.
He took the strips and started to wrap them around Arthur's hands, making a pair of crude, fingerless gloves. When he was done, he gave Arthur's hands a light squeeze.
“Better?”
Arthur flexed his fingers, examining Merlin’s work. One of the strips started to come undone, so Merlin reached out and secured it better.
Arthur looked down at their hands, before saying, “Thank you.”
Merlin’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile before he turned to find a place somewhere in their small campground to rest.