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The ransom came right before twilight the third day after Arthur had snuck out of the citadel with four inexperienced knights and a single hound for protection.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Merlin muttered, scanning the amount they wanted for the Crown Prince of Camelot. One, it was more money than he had ever seen in his life and two, they hadn’t even bothered to include proof of life. There wasn’t anything to suggest they actually had Arthur and not just some random blond man from the countryside… well, other than the young knight who delivered the ransom.
King Uther Pendragon sat on his throne, pale and unusually subdued. He scrubbed at his mouth as he considered his options.
“We’ll need to negotiate. Sir Leon,” the king called upon Arthur’s most trusted knight, the one he squired for only a handful of years ago.
Said knight had been speaking in low tones to the young man who brought the ransom back. The kid, younger than Merlin even, had a large bruise that took up half his face. A knife wound festered on his stomach. He had barely limped in before collapsing and only managed to stand now because one of the guards had levered him upright.
He needed Gaius.
Thankfully, the guard agreed and started to pull him from the room.
“He says that they’re holding the prince at the ruins near the border of Nemeth. It’s on our side but only just.” Here, Leon paused. Then, he swallowed and turned his gaze to the floor. “They killed the rest of the knights who were with them.”
Merlin carefully set the ransom back on the table by the king’s throne. He was only in the room because he’d been getting reprimanded for spilling an entire jug of wine down Lord Mostyn’s fancy tunic. He wasn’t flogged because the king was well aware Morgana ordered him to do it, even if she claimed a headache and refused to leave her rooms to face the king.
Merlin relished the opportunity to terrorize a lord after learning said lord had touched Morgana inappropriately. He would do it again, even if he had to face the king on his throne, the cushions bathed in the blood of his people.
Now, though, the attention was on something far more important.
Merlin scanned his memory of the maps Arthur and Leon regularly poured over. The ruins were a good journey away. With a retinue of knights, it would take over two days to get there.
Merlin knew a shortcut that would get him there by morning.
Mind made up, Merlin turned and slipped out of the throne room without bothering to inform the king or the knights where he was going. It was best no one know — better to keep his head on his shoulders, at least.
Llamrei, Arthur’s warhorse, stomped one heavy hoof when Merlin slid off his back. He was one of the only horses in the king’s stables that Merlin felt could carry two men all the way back to the citadel. The fact that he hated literally everyone made it even easier to walk away with him. The stablehands probably hoped Merlin would lose him in the forest so they could stop getting kicked for their troubles.
Now, though, Llamrei mouthed at Merlin’s hair affectionately while he reached up to remove the bag he’d hastily attached to the saddle. Then, he took down Arthur’s sword belt.
Merlin himself couldn’t do much with a sword, but Arthur, if he was in good enough condition, would need it. He was always more comfortable with his sword in his hand. And, while this wasn’t his regular sword, it was one of the ones he used during training and balanced well enough to keep from throwing him off while he fought.
“I need you to stay here. If anyone comes out of the ruins, get away and wait for us nearby,” Merlin told Llamrei, staring at the horse and pressing his intent into his mind. He hated having to do it, but he couldn’t risk tying Llamrei up and having him captured if the idiots who had Arthur found him. The war horse could, in theory, protect itself, but he didn’t want to put Llamrei in danger either.
The low nicker he got in response would have to be enough.
Merlin slung his bag over his shoulder, attached Arthur’s sword belt, and slipped through the trees toward the ruins.
The low light of the morning cast everything in a hazy gray. Only one man stood outside near the entrance. He had his arms wrapped around himself and his hands tucked under his armpits against the cold. Frost clung to the grass and the trees, but Merlin hadn’t even noticed it. Now, he considered how the cold might help him.
Crouching, Merlin pressed his palm into the grass. It tickled his wrist as he felt with his magic, letting the world around him turn golden as he pushed power into the ice hanging in the air. He sent it all racing toward the bandit. Before the bandit could so much as blink, tendrils of ice crawled up his boots and stuck him to the ground. They curled up his legs like vines and tangled around his waist. He finally noticed when it got to his arms, his yelp of surprise cut off when the ice filled his lungs and tore through his organs. Wide eyes snapped upright, and that’s the last thing the man ever saw.
Falling on his arse, Merlin took a deep, icy breath. He didn’t often expend that much magic. It left him feeling wobbly and weak, but he pushed upright before it could become a problem.
He had to keep going.
Freezing the bandit outside gave him time to sneak into the ruins and push his magic into the stones. He could feel the way the area burned with life. Someone who had magic used to live here. They sunk it deep into the belly of the building, where he could feel a burning golden light among the muted glow. That wasn’t latent magic, though. He knew that bright light — it was Arthur.
Four other bandits remained in the ruins as guards. They must have been leaving Arthur well enough alone. He could be vicious when he wanted to be, and he would be furious about the loss of his knights. He was probably already planning ways to kill the bandits who did this.
Merlin slipped down the hall to his left and kept crouched so none of the bandits would see him sneaking around. He didn’t try to call his magic back to him. It warned him when the bandits started to move on a patrol of the area. They didn’t come close, though, his magic knocking over a pot and sending them scrambling.
The staircase led him down, down, down, into the heart of what had to have been a castle. The dungeons spread before him in two directions. If he hadn’t known where Arthur was already, it would have probably taken ages to search. But he turned and strode toward where he could feel that burning light.
He peeked his head around a corner to see Arthur pacing back and forth in a cell only about five steps wide. He looked like a caged lion, snarling under his breath. The low light of the morning did little to let Merlin know if he was hurt, but he could smell the old, rusted scent of blood. The bandits stripped him of his armor and left him in his hose and a soft tunic, nothing to keep the cold away.
Good thing Merlin packed some supplies before he left, then.
Arthur’s head snapped up when Merlin came around the corner fully and grinned.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Arthur demanded sharply, unbelievably ungrateful.
Merlin let his smile fall. “I’m getting you out, duh.”
He moved to the front of the cell and absently pressed his hand to the lock. The crack it gave as he pushed his magic into it would probably bring the bandits running.
Merlin pulled the door open and stepped inside, scanning Arthur from the top of his golden hair down to the boots that looked worse for wear.
“What did I tell you about the magic?” Arthur snapped, smacking him upside the head as soon as he got close enough.
Snarling, Merlin shoved the sword belt at him. “Ungrateful prat.”
“Ungrateful? Not wanting you dead is ungrateful?” Arthur shot back. He’d been pissy ever since he caught Merlin using magic two months ago. Granted, he saw him creating shapes in the fire instead of doing something heroic or impressive, but it still ate away at Merlin’s good graces the longer his awful mood dragged on.
“Being a prat about me literally saving you is ungrateful,” Merlin said, digging a tunic and trousers out of his bag to hand over. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Arthur lied. He slipped the tunic over his head and stepped into the trousers, quickly tying the laces.
Merlin stepped close as Arthur tied his sword belt on and pressed his palm to Arthur’s chest. He pushed with his magic and felt the cut on his right side that leaked blood and puss near the hem of his hose, and the large bruise on his thigh that ached whenever he put weight on that leg.
Nothing life threatening, but the injuries might slow them down.
“I could help with the infection, but that’s about it,” Merlin said, snatching his hand back when Arthur swatted at him.
“Just focus on keeping yourself alive, you idiot,” Arthur snapped, drawing his sword in one smooth move. It barely looked like he was injured at all when he did that. But Merlin knew, intimately, how much it hurt to move like that after a beating.
They would be lucky if Arthur could move at all tomorrow.
“Fine. Suffer,” Merlin snapped, turning to see if he could find the bandits. They were on their way down. “We need to go. They’re coming.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Arthur told him, striding out of the cell and twisting his wrist. His sword whirled in a tight circle. It was practiced and controlled and terrifying for his enemies. And it meant that Arthur planned to kill every last one of the bandits who killed his men.
Merlin blew out a long breath. Then, he tried to bolster himself. It could be worse. At least now, he could fight with his magic without worrying about his head being chopped off.
Or, well, he hoped so. Arthur still might chop his head off based the mood he’d been in, he supposed. He never promised not to.
The bandits came around the corner at a run. They skittered to a halt when they saw Arthur with his sword. But the leader looked past him at Merlin; and a cruel grin pulled at his lips.
Merlin waggled his fingers at him.
“You think you can take us with just one measly man to protect you?” The leader sneered, showing yellowed and broken teeth. He waved to the three men behind him. “Against these men?”
To be fair to the leader, the other men were tall, broad, and packed with lean muscle. They weren’t well fed, but they weren’t unfed either. It would be easier to fight them if they were at least a little malnourished. Instead, they looked hardy. Whoever hired them must have sent supplies.
“I don’t need anyone’s help to kill you,” Arthur bit out, waiting. He shifted his weight just slightly, and Merlin wasn’t really that surprised when it put Arthur between him and the bandits. He openly rolled his eyes. He didn’t need a defender, and Arthur knew it.
The leader of the bandits wasn’t the first one to move in the end. Two of his goons lunged forward at once and threw themselves at Arthur.
In a flurry of strikes, Arthur fought them back. The clash of swords was loud in the hall, the fight vicious. More importantly, though, the third man managed to slip past, sword in hand.
Merlin raised an eyebrow and set his bag down to free his hands. He raised them up like he might surrender, the better to throw a spell.
“You should have left him here,” the man said, shaking his head. He looked almost disappointed, like he thought Merlin might die for a stupid cause and regretted it. But it wasn’t enough to stop him.
Backing up a few steps, Merlin made sure to keep one eye on Arthur. He held his own well, slashing through an open spot on one of the bandit’s sides and cutting swiftly through flesh. The howl the man let out was loud, and the second tried to throw Arthur away. But he was moving with the singleminded focus of a killer, the same way he fought on a battlefield for his people.
“Why, so you could wait your turn to die by his blade?” Merlin asked, smirking the way he knew nobles hated.
The bastard sneered and swung his sword like a brute.
Hissing out a breath, Merlin gathered his magic but had to redirect to throw it at one of the men Arthur had been fighting when Arthur suddenly lunged between Merlin and the sword, catching it with his blade. He grunted at the hit but held firm as he pushed the man back.
Merlin chucked the man coming after Arthur into a wall so hard the crack of bones could be heard as they broke.
“Arthur!” he bit out, furious.
“Get out of the way, Merlin!” Arthur shot back at him, twisting his blade and managing to free the sword from the bastard’s grip. It went clattering to the ground as Merlin spun and threw out a hand. A pulse of magic shoved the leader back, though he managed to brace against the blow and only slid a step or two.
“A sorcerer… Perhaps I should let your little prince go. Cenred would pay thousands for a sorcerer as strong as you,” the asshole said, tilting his head in consideration.
Like a crossbow finding a new target, Arthur turned on his heel and reoriented. It was uncanny, the way that killing gaze could lock onto a person and stay there. And it was a bit unnerving to know that Merlin might still be on the receiving end of it some day.
“Shut the hell up,” Arthur ordered.
“Oh, you don’t like when I threaten to sell your pet sorcerer? Who even knew the Pendragons had it in them to be so pragmatic?” the man said, shaking his head in wonder.
Merlin sighed and stepped back. When Arthur’s head tilted just slightly to be able to see him from the corner of his eye, he waved him forward.
He would let Arthur kill this one.
Arthur lunged just as the leader opened his mouth again. The leader managed to block and parry and dance around Arthur’s blade, but Merlin spent years watching Arthur train. He recognized, as Arthur slammed the flat of his blade into the man’s ribs, that he was playing with his food. He could end it, but he wanted to cause damage first.
And — because the bastard threatened to sell him — Merlin let him.
The first burst of blood came from a cut along the leader’s arm, of all things. He snarled out a pained noise as he blocked a blow to his chest.
Arthur gave him a moment to regain his breath and his equilibrium before lunging back in.
It took two more minutes for Arthur to finally thrust his blade through the man’s stomach and rip it sideways. The leader’s eyes went wide, his mouth open in shock, and his fingers finally went limp, dropping the blade to the ground.
Four bodies littered the hall when Arthur yanked his sword free and turned to Merlin.
“What, you didn’t feel like helping?” Arthur asked, shit-eating grin crossing his face. He flicked his overlong hair out of his eyes and beamed back at him, as bright as the morning sun. Dirty, bruised, and exhausted, he looked like he’d just made the funniest joke he could think of and was waiting for Merlin to share his laughter.
Merlin scowled. “God, I hate you.”
“You just saved my life!” The grin got wider, and Arthur waved a hand to indicate the entire castle as if Merlin had built it up just to help him.
“Finding someone else to hate is too much effort,” Merlin argued, leaning down to pick up his bag. He started toward the front of the building and hoped Llamrei felt like waiting for them.
Arthur snorted and padded after him. “And going on a huge quest to save me wasn’t?”
“See? This is why I hate you. Nitpicking,” Merlin spun around to point at Arthur, poking him a couple times in the chest for good measure.
Arthur laughed, a full belly laugh, and grabbed Merlin by the shoulders to drag him close. He ruffled his hair aggressively, the most affection he knew how to give. Swatting at him, Merlin tried to duck away but let himself get pulled into Arthur’s warm, solid side. For the first time since he admitted to his magic, it felt like they might be okay.