Chapter Text
They search. It’s clear that the group that took Merlin was also heading North, following the same trail they would have taken if Merlin hadn’t disappeared. With every passing moment, fear and guilt curl up in Arthur, climbing the ladder of his spine and wrapping around his throat until he’s choking on it.
Another feeling, the kind of instinct too inclined to notice patterns and regard happenings with suspicion, is growing in him as well. It’s too big a coincidence that Merlin would be so anxious coming this far North, hunting down this group of bandits, and then be taken by a group which Arthur suspects belongs to those bandits.
The scent of death grows stronger the farther North they go.
Much to Arthur’s annoyance and reluctance, they must rest the horses at midday. The men are tired, strain thrumming between them like a spider’s web, alerting the monster at the center that something is terribly wrong.
Arthur must be worst off for it. He notices Gwaine keeps casting him worried glances, keeps smiling reassuringly whenever Arthur meets his eyes. Arthur imagines his scent is absolutely terrible with stress, more than what a Prince should feel for his manservant.
Perhaps the truth will come to light much sooner than he’s ready for, and it will not be in a manner of his choosing.
He can’t think about that now. Merlin is missing, his absence like a physical wound in Arthur’s stomach, slowly bleeding out. He’s dizzy with it, swallowing back all the saliva he can’t help but make. His head is frozen and fuzzy, no thought but find him, find him, kill whoever took him, find him echoing in his head like so many war cries.
When he first hears Percival’s panicked shout, he barely registers it. There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him to attention, and he blinks to awareness to find Leon looking at him, his face pale, his eyes wide.
Arthur swallows. “No,” he whispers. No, they didn’t… They didn’t find him, did they?
“You need to come see this, Sire,” Percival says behind Leon’s shoulder. He’s a big man, with a natural steadiness that comes from a complete assurance in the fact that he can physically best most living things, but he’s jittery now, shifting his weight and looking nervously beyond their little clearing.
Arthur breathes in, catches the scent of fire and carnage, and follows where they lead.
It’s a pyre. The air around it is cold, and there is no smoke. It hasn’t been lit for a long time. There are no fresh bodies. Merlin is not here.
He exhales, fighting down the surge of panic, and steps closer to investigate. The smell is awful, a lingering heavy cloud of burned flesh and melted armor. This fire was, at one point, hot enough to char the very sigils from shields, to melt helmets into place around open, screaming skull mouths. What bones are still intact are blackened, the rest shattered like too-dry bricks. The dirt around the pyre has been torn to shreds, deep claw marks and many footsteps rendering it impossible to tell numbers or movement beyond the trail leading in, the drag of the bodies, and then the retreating footsteps of whoever made the pyre, leading back the way they’d come.
Arthur frowns at the pyre. There is something odd about it. Not the number of bodies, nor the fact that he is certain from what is left of the armor that this is a pile of soldiers. Perhaps those fallen from the garrison that prompted them to seek the help of the Crown in the first place.
No, what strikes him as odd is…
“There aren’t enough limbs,” Gwaine says, nudging what’s left of a severed leg, its owner lying at the edge of the pyre, mouth opened in a scream. “I count twenty skulls, but not enough legs and arms to match them.”
Arthur cannot help but agree. The pyre is made up mostly of skulls and torsos, the occasional arm and leg, but certainly not enough for twenty fighting men.
Unease curdles low in his stomach. He swallows it down.
“Animals might have taken them,” Leon suggests. “We don’t know when this was lit.”
Yes, but what animal takes entire limbs? What animal would not have nibbled on the melted flesh available to it, or perhaps dragged a particularly chosen cut to its lair, not leaving even bones behind? There are no gauntlets without forearms, no boots without feet. There are enough weapons for twenty men, but not enough hands to have held them.
What could have made a fire this hot?
He knows the answer. Merlin basically told him.
A dragon.
This is a feeding ground.
“We’ll bury them,” he decides. These were sons of Camelot, after all, and they deserve to be laid to rest. The ground is soft and broken enough that the pit is dug easily, all his Knights putting themselves to task and carefully digging a large enough hole, then pulling the bodies in, piling dirt on top when the task is done. When they’re finished, all that lingers in the clearing is a giant black spot, the occasional shield or broken piece of armor the only evidence that there were bodies here at all.
Arthur looks up to the sky. The clouds are soft white, more like bubbles on water than actual clouds. The sky itself is a bright winter-clear blue. It’s insulting, he thinks, that the day should be so fair.
The horses seem a little unnerved, but not panicked. The beast is not nearby.
He swings up into his saddle, watching as one by one his men follow suit. Some of them are pale, others steely eyed with determination to see the culprits brought to justice. He should tell them about the dragon, about Merlin’s fears – but how to explain that without giving away Merlin’s magic? How to warn them about what lies ahead when Arthur does not know himself?
He sets his sights on the trail of footprints leading away from the clearing, clicks his tongue, and guides his men to follow him into the dark, oppressive grip of the trees.
Merlin
He’s cold.
He’s freezing.
Instinctively, he reaches out, trying to warm his hands or the air around him, to stop his teeth from chattering and his muscles recoiling from the lack of heat, but when he tries, something draws him up short. There are weights around his wrists, blisteringly cold.
He opens his eyes. He’s in a cave, or rather, a cell that has been dug into rock. There’s a shaft of sunlight illuminating a set of narrow steps on the other side of thick iron bars, worn with time and many footfalls, slightly wet with morning dew. The cave itself is cool, bluish stone, shimmering with threads of quartz and other shining pieces of rock.
There is a blanket around his shoulders, thin and ineffective.
There are manacles around his wrists. He focuses on them, wills them to snap, to shatter from him, but when he tries, the cold bites back into his fingers and makes him seize up, hissing through his teeth.
He knows what these are. Cold iron. Designed specifically for the suppression and incarceration of magic users.
The realization should make him afraid, and perhaps he is afraid, but it all feels numb, as though his fear is another bit of magic being willfully smothered by the grip of the cold iron around his wrists. He flexes his fingers, trying to warm them, and draws the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
He isn’t quite sure what time of day it is. They came for him in the night, no more than an hour after Arthur had sent him away. Stupid, Merlin thinks to himself with a bitter huff, to separate himself from the Knights and be so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed, but he finds it hard to think about anything at all when Arthur is angry with him. He simply hadn’t been paying attention.
A grave mistake, but hopefully not one that will cost him his life.
His stomach aches sharply with hunger and his head is throbbing dully from a blow that hurts whenever Merlin carefully tests the raised bump on the back of his skull. A coward’s way of attacking, Arthur would say. No one with any decency strikes an unarmed man when his back is turned.
Arthur. Is he alright? Did the group go onto ambush the Knights while they slept. Even now, are they bled out and dying in a clearing somewhere, with no one the wiser? Merlin frantically tries to reach for Arthur in his mind, seeking out their mental connection, but the cold iron tightens around his wrists, squeezes his throat like a serpent, and he cannot. He can’t extend his awareness any farther than his own skin, which is such a disconcerting feeling, he has no idea how normal people stand it.
He hears voices. One younger, soft, with a warm lilt that Merlin registers as Northern, perhaps from beyond the border. Another, gruffer, older. Both of them men. Merlin breathes in deep, catches mingling scents of Alphas, Omegas, women.
How many are there?
The sunlight streaking through the opening to his prison breaks, bodies moving across it, and then a set of boots comes into view, swiftly followed by a second. Two men walk carefully down the steps, mindful of slipping.
They could be father and son. Hell, the older man could be Merlin’s father, if Merlin didn’t know any better. They have the same nose, the same face shape, the same thick dark hair, though the older man wears his longer, to his shoulders. He’s an Alpha, the red in his eyes mild and thin. The younger man, an Omega, has a round-faced youthfulness to him, his eyes a deep ocean-blue almost completely eclipsed by gold, his hair a wild mop of ink atop his head. They’re both wearing old travelling garb, frayed at the edges and marked with mud stains that never quite came out.
The older man smiles. “Good, you’re awake,” he says, as though Merlin is a poor injured vagrant he rescued from a storm and not someone who was attacked and beaten and dragged into cold iron against his will. “Can I get you anything? Water?”
“I’d settle for your name,” Merlin replies, though his mouth is very dry and water would be most welcome. “And perhaps a key to these cuffs.”
The man shakes his head, smiling fondly as though they are not strangers, prison guard and captive, as though he has known Merlin all his life and is familiar with his idiosyncrasies. “Emrys, I think we both know I can’t do that.”
Emrys.
Merlin’s eyes narrow. The fear tries to rise up, but it’s shoved down again, smothered by that awful chill creeping through every inch of his bones. He forces himself to rise to his feet, shivering though he is, and bares his teeth in a snarl.
“If you’re calling me by that name,” he says, stepping close to the bars, “then surely it’s in your best interests to stay on my good side.”
He notes with pleasure how the Omega swallows, eyes darting nervously to his companion, his shoulders naturally curling in with the instinct to gentle and soothe an angry Alpha in his midst. Even behind the bars, even chained as he is, Merlin intimidates him. Good – he can use that, if he can ever get the Omega alone.
The older man presses his lips together, eyeing Merlin with no wariness, more something like resignation. “Mordred,” he says, turning to the Omega, “go fetch our guest some water, would you? There’s a good lad.”
Mordred bows his head, steals one last look at Merlin, then hurries back up the stairs and out of sight.
Merlin fixes his eyes on the older Alpha, squaring his jaw when he sees that the man is watching him closely. “Do I get to know your name, then?” he challenges, refusing to be cowed. He might be behind bars, he might have cold iron stifling every weapon he has, but he’s yelled in the face of Kings and faced down a dragon in his mind. He refuses to be broken by the regard of this strange man with a too-familiar face.
The man tilts his head. “My name is Balinor,” he says, heavy, weighted, like Merlin should know that name. He doesn’t, at least not that he can remember. His lack of recognition makes Balinor’s eyes grow soft, dark with regret. He clears his throat and straightens, folding his hands behind his back. “I have reason to believe you’ve been speaking with Kilgharrah.”
Merlin stiffens at the dragon’s name. He wets his lips, looking Balinor up and down. Now that he knows to look for it, he can smell the faint scent of ash clinging to Balinor’s skin, the heady press of a power that can only come from a creature of old magic hanging around his shoulders like a second cloak.
Fear prickles along the back of his neck. He does not trust a man who invokes a dragon’s name so lightly.
“Am I supposed to know that name?” he asks, keeping his voice as level as he can.
Balinor smiles, shaking his head fondly. It’s really starting to irritate Merlin, how Balinor looks at him. Like Merlin should be happy to see him, like Merlin’s lack of recognition is more painful than his anger might be.
Mordred returns, carrying a waterskin and a bundle of what Merlin sincerely hopes is food. His stomach rumbles, giving him away. He watches as Mordred comes close to the bars of his cell, crouching down to place the items within reach before quickly stepping back.
Merlin’s fingers twitch. If he could get Mordred close enough, if he could draw blood, it would be enough to give him a temporary Voice. He rebels at the idea of any Omega giving him a Voice that is not Arthur, but Arthur is already angry with him, what’s one more sin? What price would Merlin not pay to see himself back at Arthur’s side?
To his surprise, Mordred flushes, dipping his head to one side in a demure gesture – mistaking Merlin’s quiet appraisal of him as genuine interest. He turns away with an angry, disgruntled hiss, tugging at the cold iron around his wrists and hissing again when they don’t budge.
“You can deny the dragon’s influence on you all you like, Emrys,” Balinor says mildly, “but I can see it. Smell it on you.”
Merlin whirls around again, glaring at the older Alpha. “You don’t know a thing about me,” he snarls. “When I get out of here, I’m going to leave a hole in the Earth where you stood so deep and dark not even the sun itself could find your bones.”
His attempt to goad Balinor doesn’t work. If anything, the man smiles even wider. “We’ll see.” He nods to the food and water. “Eat. Rest. I’ll have someone fetch you more blankets, some proper boots. It’s cold in here, aye?”
Merlin doesn’t bother with an answer. He doesn’t move towards the food and water until Balinor and Mordred are gone. The cloth the bread is wrapped in stinks of death, like the shroud of a corpse, but the fare itself is hearty and calms the cramps of hunger in his belly. The water, too, soothes his parched mouth.
He looks around him, searching for a particularly pointy rock or something heavy enough he can try bashing the cuffs open, even though he knows it’s no use. They are locked and require a key, but that doesn’t mean Merlin can’t try.
His cell is utterly barren. He has only the cloth and waterskin to his name. He contemplates the items. If the cloth were wet enough, he might be able to bind it around the bars, might be able to twist and compress it enough that the metal bends. The bars themselves do not look particularly well-kept. They are enough to keep in a man of his admittedly average strength when not imbued with magic, but they might buckle or warp given the right kind of pressure.
Alas, the cloth is not long enough to make a knot. Even when he manages, he has nothing to twist it with, no excess to exploit. When he tries anyway, the shroud tears in his grip, falling in tatters to the feet of the bars.
He snarls to himself, slamming his fist against a bar and relishing the way pain radiates hot up his arm, soothing the chill bite of the cold iron, if only for a moment.
These men, whoever they are, are in league with a dragon. He cannot let Arthur get close to them. He has to get out.
He thinks of Mordred, his natural submission, the way he’d looked at Merlin with something close to admiration. If they call him Emrys, and if the dragon can be believed, then he is their King, isn’t he? They will want to obey him, they must on some level. Just a few drops of blood would be enough, and then Mordred would have no choice. He didn’t have a mating bite, there is no Alpha whose word could overpower Merlin’s Voice, should he get one.
The thought of touching Mordred makes his chest ache unhappily, impotent rage making his heart race, making the hard knot of bread in his stomach sit heavy as stone. If Balinor is smart, he will not let Mordred speak to Merlin alone. If Merlin is convincing enough, Mordred might be compelled to try.
Such is the way of Omegas, he’s found. They are endlessly curious creatures.
Arthur
They reach the garrison with no more interruptions, much to Arthur’s annoyance. There had been no sign of Merlin or his captors on the road – the path they followed led right to the main road and became impossible to differentiate from the natural traffic of normal folk.
He swallows back his aggravation and greets the Captain when they arrive.
“Your Highness, it’s good you have come.” Captain Rhys is a gaunt-looking man, and not in the way that appears natural. He is not normally so thin, Arthur thinks, nor so pale. His armor sits on him like it once belonged to a much larger man. “We lost another half dozen men this morning. They simply never returned from patrol.”
How many pyres have been burning up here, Arthur wonders. How many men have been lost to the ravenous appetite of a dragon.
“I need to know your normal routes, places where your men have disappeared, and every sign of bandit activity, related to this group or not,” he says, orders sharp. “If they even sneezed near here, I want to know about it.”
Rhys nods and gestures for Arthur to follow him. “I have it all compiled for you, Sire. Right this way.”
Leon follows him, leaving the others to tend to their horses and unpack their things in the barracks. Thankfully, there is plenty of room for them – it is a bittersweet silver lining, but Arthur has learned to accept those when they come, no matter how much it pains him.
Rhys leads him to a central room, a large table dwarfing the space, covered with maps, lists of fallen men, reports of sightings and interactions with this particular group of bandits. Arthur strides to the head of the table and, at a nod, Rhys leaves them to it.
Arthur’s hands are shaking. He didn’t realize it until he tried to pick up the first page. He breathes out as slowly as he can make himself, setting the parchment down, and sinks into the nearest seat, his head in his hands.
Leon’s warmth comes closer, his hand firm and reassuring on Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ll find him, Arthur,” he says, and Arthur could break down in tears over how easily Leon can read him. He knows Arthur is an Omega, and Arthur doesn’t care what he thinks about Arthur’s regard for Merlin – it is enough to have him acknowledge it, to try to soothe Arthur’s distress.
“If there is one thing I know about Merlin, it is that he is very bad at dying,” Arthur says, the joke falling flat.
Leon squeezes his shoulder and takes a seat beside him. Arthur forces himself to look up, to meet his eyes. Leon’s face is soft with sympathy, his eyes gentle on Arthur’s, as fond as they have ever been, in a way his own father so rarely is.
Leon is quiet for a moment, considering what he says next. Then, “I know Merlin will do everything he can to make it back to you.”
Arthur swallows, closing his eyes. He shakes his head – Leon can’t know that. Arthur can’t even hear him anymore, can’t find him inside his own skull. How is he supposed to find Merlin in all of Camelot’s wildlands? That is such a larger space to search.
He shouldn’t have sent Merlin away. This is all his fault, and he can’t even blame Merlin for getting himself captured like a fool. He wouldn’t have been out there if it weren’t for Arthur, his anger, his inability to handle the idea that Merlin would still keep secrets from him. He thought they were past that!
They could have gotten past it, but Arthur had to screw it up. Again.
He runs his hands through his hair again, a little less shaky but no calmer. How could this have happened? How could he have not seen this coming? He’d even spoken to Morgana before he left, like he always does, and she hadn’t said a damn thing.
He looks up suddenly. “Leon,” he says. “I need you to do something for me.”
Leon frowns, nervous in the face of Arthur’s sudden fervor, but he nods.
“I need a raven,” Arthur tells him, searching the table for a spare bit of parchment and a quill. “I need to send a letter to my sister.”
“…Morgana?” Leon echoes, frown deepening in his confusion, but Arthur is already writing. With a sigh, Leon gets up and leaves the room. For a long moment, there is only the frantic scratching of Arthur’s quill. His penmanship is awful, ink splattered about all over the page, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to send this off as soon as possible.
When you are asleep, he writes, search for a house in the middle of a clearing. It is guarded by a black hound. I need to speak to you.
It’s as much as he dares write, so openly. He tears the parchment so it resembles the size of a scroll, dusts sand onto the ink so it dries quickly, and rolls it up.
He pauses. He has no wax, nothing ready to melt and seal this. He twines some string around it, binding it tight.
He stares at the scroll, lower lip caught between his teeth as he considers.
Because of Merlin’s magic, Arthur can walk through other people’s minds. Because of Merlin’s magic, Arthur has been able to find him with nothing but a pull in his chest. Because of Merlin’s magic, Arthur is…different. Not magical, but perhaps he is not trying hard enough.
He looks to the door.
He puts his thumb against the sharp nib of the quill, pressing down until he draws blood with a hiss.
He smears it across the knot of string.
“No one may read this but Morgana,” he says, in a voice that is too monotone to sound like his own. He doesn’t feel anything when he does it, no surge of power, nothing unlocking in his chest to indicate he’d done something any more significant than dirty the string. Nothing to suggest that his little incantation might have worked.
But it’s better than nothing.
Perhaps the power of belief, of hope, can be magic enough for now.