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Chapter Text

When the initial greetings were over and the royals had withdrawn into the castle, leaving a servant behind to show Gwaine and Lancelot to their chambers, Gwaine wasted no time bringing up the first detail of the courtyard that had caught their attention. 

"Who is that?" he asked the servant, pointing to a shadowed corner. 

"The Fool, m'lord," the man said quietly, as he finished pulling bags from the horses and motioned for the nearby stableboys to take the two mares. 

"Your jester is chained to the wall?" Gwaine said, careful to keep his tone amused. 

"A Fool, m'lord," the servant corrected. "There is a jester, but the Fool... it would be unseemly for it to step foot indoors." 

"What does the Fool do then?" Gwaine asked. Lancelot still hadn't spoken, but Gwaine could sense him at his side, listening intently. 

"Whatever it is told," the servant said. He smiled a little, finally seeming to understand these visitors really didn't know anything, and explained further. "A Fool must use his magic to entertain as commanded. Tricks, flowers, sweets... though more frequently, as you can see, it is directed to sacrifice itself for comedy." 

They had drawn closer, passing nearby the chained man on their way into the castle, and the servant was right. They could see.

The cobblestones surrounding the man were dark, stained with layers of blood, most of it dried. The man wasn't wearing very much clothing, so the wounds all over his body were painfully clear. Burns, cuts, bruising. One ankle and foot swollen—perhaps broken. His hands were dirty, both with mud and blood, and the fingernails overgrown. The man sat slumped against the wall, his head down and long black hair obscuring his face. 

As they passed, he looked up, and Gwaine heard Lancelot stifle a gasp. 

It wasn't a man—it was more of a boy. Maybe fourteen, fifteen. 

His face had a long white scar on the cheek and a bloodied lip. And sunken, hopeless blue eyes, that barely seemed to see them before he dropped his head again. 

"M'lords?" the servant said, and Gwaine realized both he and Lancelot had stopped, their feet frozen in shock and horror. "Would you like to order the Fool to entertain you before I take you to your room, m'lords?" 

"No need," Lancelot said smoothly, his tone betraying none of the fury Gwaine caught in his eyes. "Lead on." 

Gwaine swallowed against a well of nausea, and they stepped away, leaving the boy behind, crumpled against the wall, surrounded by his own dried blood.

~~~

They hatched a plan, conspiring quietly in the late hours of each night as they gathered more information. Neither of them could imagine leaving the boy to an endless future of pain and suffering.

A rescue of a sorcerer was not in their orders from Arthur. Their orders were to gather intel on the workings of Essetir, learn the nuances of the royal court, catalog any weaknesses, and most importantly, determine if an attack of Camelot was in the works, as Arthur suspected. 

But the Knight's Code demanded it, and they agreed that Arthur would plot a rescue himself, if he knew. 

So they watched and listened, plotting to take the boy in the courtyard with them when they left. He wasn't very big, and Gwaine's horse was strong enough to carry both of them, if they put all their packs on Lancelot's. 

The chains were multi-purpose. When a pompous young lord had proudly boasted about his hypocrite of a king, they'd learned that the chains were actually magic themselves. Hatred ran deep, it seemed, but not so deep that the nobility wouldn't stoop to using the very thing they despised. The chains both held the boy captive—and forced him to obey any command, no matter how inhumane. 

And the only key was hung round King Cenred's neck.

Grimly, Gwaine shared with Lancelot some of the more dubious skills he'd gained during his travels. Lancelot just smiled, told him he was a man of many talents, and began planning a distraction he could orchestrate so Gwaine could steal the key. 

The night before the final round of competition, the steal went off without a hitch at the nightly feast. After an appropriate amount of mingling with the guests—who were all consumed with the mysterious fainting of three important noble brothers—Gwaine and Lancelot retreated to their chamber to wait.

At last, the festivities died down and the castle fell silent. They crept from their room and down to the courtyard, where they split in different directions—Gwaine toward the boy, Lancelot the stables. 

The courtyard was deserted, as they had found it to be every night this week. The boy was never guarded, and the guards on the walls never bothered looking down, their attention always directed outward. Gwaine moved silently across the cobblestone, approaching the dark red patch where the boy sat curled against the wall. 

"Hello," he said softly, as he drew closer, not wanting to startle him, "Hey there..." 

The boy jumped anyway, his head coming up as his body pressed back against the wall. He made a small whimpering sound, and Gwaine quickly knelt, holding both his hands up. 

"Don't be afraid, lad," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you. I'm not going to demand anything." The boy looked at him, eyes wide, looking shiny black in the darkness. "I'm going to come closer," Gwaine said. "I have a key, and I'm going to remove your chains." 

The boy didn't move, and so Gwaine eased forward, the key extended so that the boy could see what he was doing. He reached for the cuff on his arm, and the boy flinched, but let Gwaine take it and insert the key. It went in stiffly, and it was difficult to turn, as it seemed caked with something. Blood, probably. But he managed to turn it and the cuff clicked open. He moved to the other chain, this one attached to a thin collar at the boy's neck, and made a soothing shushing sound as the boy whimpered again, screwing his eyes shut in fear. 

"Can you walk?" Gwaine asked gently, as he took the collar and laid it slowly on the cobblestone so that it wouldn't clink. 

The boy didn't answer. Instead, he clutched the wrist that had been chained with the other hand, and brought his knees up to bury his face in them. He was still pressed up against the wall.

"My friend and I would like to help you," Gwaine said, trying to speak in a way that might get through to him. "Will you come with us?" 

He caught a faint crackle of sound, and leaned closer, hearing the boy rasp into his legs, "—please... please... don't hurt me..." 

"Shhh," he said softly. "I won't hurt you. You have my word, lad." 

"Gwaine," said Lancelot behind him, and Gwaine turned to see him standing there with the horses, their hooves wrapped in spare clothing and silent on the stones of the courtyard. 

"Come now," he said, turning back to the boy, "You'll ride with me, on my horse, until we're out of the city and you can go free." 

Nothing. Lancelot stepped up and knelt beside them. "I'm Lancelot," he said, quiet and warm. "This is my friend, Gwaine. Can we be your friend, too?" 

It was simple, almost childish. But against all odds, it made the boy raise his head, and Lancelot smiled at him. "Good," he said, though the boy hadn't answered audibly. "I'm going to help you up now." He sent Gwaine a glance, and it was all Gwaine needed to stand up to stride to his horse. He mounted, then watched as Lancelot helped the boy stand and practically carried him to the horses, where he passed him into Gwaine's arms. 

The boy slumped against him, trembling, whispering, "Please," over and over. He was skeletal and sticky with fresh blood, his hair dirty, his body unclothed but for a threadbare pair of short trousers. 

"Shhh," Gwaine said. Lancelot draped a cloak over the boy, then stepped away and mounted his own horse while Gwaine tucked it in.

When they were both settled, Lancelot looked at him and nodded, then spurred his horse forward. Silently, they moved across the courtyard and through the partially open gates to the city, making their escape with a precious load of intel and a terrified boy sorcerer.

Chapter Text

The boy fell silent not long after they passed through the city, and when Gwaine looked down to check on him, he found that he'd fallen asleep. Huddled against Gwaine's chest under the cloak, he didn't stir for hours, not even when it began to rain. 

They rode all through the night and well into the morning. The rain continued steadily, keeping them permanently drenched. Neither Gwaine or Lancelot complained, and Gwaine knew they were thinking the same thing—the rain would help cover their tracks. All the same, they took the road toward Mercia, not directly toward Camelot, and when the morning dawned, rode in the forest by the road rather than on the road itself. 

At last, the rain stopped, and the sun strove to peek out now and then between retreating clouds and leafy branches. Gwaine's horse wearily plodded after Lancelot's as he turned further into the forest, coming to a stop after another several minutes in a tiny clearing out of the sight of the road.

"Is he still asleep?" Lancelot said, as he dismounted and unclasped his sopping cloak. 

Gwaine made to answer, but in the end, he didn't have to. 

The boy jolted upright, his head smacking painfully into Gwaine's chin. Disoriented, Gwaine shook his head to clear his vision, and the boy slipped completely off the horse. He hit the ground with a cry, then pulled himself up onto all fours and crawled a few desperate paces before he suddenly froze. Gwaine saw him clench both dirty, scabbed hands into the wet, green growth beneath him.

Gwaine looked at Lancelot, seeing his surprise reflected on Lancelot's face, and watched him lay his cloak over a branch. "Hello," Lancelot said softly to the boy, taking a careful step closer. "Do you remember us? I'm Lancelot. This is Gwaine. We met last night." 

The boy looked up slowly, wounds from the latest cruelties plain on his face, and his fingers gripped harder on the ground. "Is this... grass?" he rasped. 

Gwaine stared at him, completely lost, and then at Lancelot. 

Lancelot looked horrified, then sad, and he knelt, placing one hand on the ground. "Yes," he said. "Grass. Moss. Ferns." As he said each one, he touched the respective growth or leaf, and the boy stared down at the ground again. 

"It wasn't a dream..." Gwaine managed to hear, though it was nearly inaudible. Finally understanding, he clenched his jaw, then swung off the horse. 

"How long were you in that castle?" Lancelot asked, his voice full of sorrow. 

Gwaine looked up in time to see the boy collapse onto his bottom, seemingly unable to hold himself up any longer, and draw his legs up against him. The foot that had looked possibly broken days ago now looked almost black with bruising. He didn't answer Lancelot.

Gwaine reached into Lancelot's saddlebags, pulling out a wrapped round loaf and wedge of cheese, smuggled from the feast last night, and a full waterskin. "Here," he said, slowly stepping toward the other two and extending the food toward the boy, "You must be hun—" 

They were snatched from his hands in an instant, and the boy was tearing into the food before Gwaine had even finished speaking. 

"Wait," he said immediately, kneeling and reaching out, "You can't—" 

"No!"

Gwaine saw a flash of gold, and the next instant he was flying through the air. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and for several moments he lay gaping at the treetops, struggling to draw in air. When he finally did, it was another minute before he managed to sit up and tune in on the scene. 

Lancelot still knelt on the ground, his hands slightly up, palms out and fingers open. The boy had devoured half the food already, and had also scrambled back enough to put his back against a tree. A cut on his chest had broken open, and fresh blood was dripping down his skin. 

"—not going to take it," Lancelot was saying, his tone soothing. "It's just that we want you to eat slowly. Your body isn't used to that much food. You have plenty of time. I promise, we won't take the food." He glanced toward Gwaine, the worry on his face shifting to relief. "Are you all right?"

Gwaine grimaced, but nodded. Normally, any kind of attack would have him instantly on the defensive, but this was different. He'd never seen magic without a spell like that, and by Lancelot's expression, he figured Lancelot hadn't either. But the act hadn't been one of malice; it'd been driven by fear and desperation. 

Of course a starving, tortured youth was going to react aggressively to a seeming threat. 

"Right," Lancelot said, slowly standing up. "Let's get the horses." 

They did, leaving some distance between them and the boy. He was still eating far faster than anyone in his condition should be allowed to, but it was evident that control was out of their hands in that regard.

The day was warming, now that the rain had been replaced with partial sunlight. They removed the horses' burdens, laying any damp items over branches and logs to dry, and tethered them twenty some paces away, in another clearing where the undergrowth was mostly grass and young wildflowers. 

Then they sat to eat as well, talking quietly, and well aware of a watchful, haunted pair of blue eyes watching their every move. 

"We've no need to hurry, I think," Gwaine said, and Lancelot nodded. 

"The rain was a stroke of luck." 

"Then we'll take the day," Gwaine said. "Catch some sleep, let the horses rest." 

"And him," Lancelot said softly, tilting his head just slightly toward the boy, who was sucking the crumbs off his fingers, still watching them. "Maybe treat some of those wounds, if he'll let us." 

"I don't like the look of that foot," Gwaine said grimly. 

"Gaius won't either." 

Gwaine huffed a laugh. "No. He won't like any of it." 

Neither voiced the very real possibility that the boy would run long before they reached Camelot.

When they'd finished their sparse meal, Lancelot lay down to sleep first, pillowing his head on a saddlebag and dropping off within a minute. 

Gwaine retrieved a spare dry cloak from the other saddlebag and slowly approached the boy. "Here, lad," he said, unfolding it, then crouching so he could lay it over him. "Get some more rest, if you can. We'll be on the road again at nightfall." 

The boy watched Gwaine stand up and kept watching as he moved away. When Gwaine looked back out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy clutching the fabric of the cloak close, the same way he'd grabbed at the greenery on the forest floor. 

It made him grimace again, pained at the obvious implication. This boy hadn't had even the most basic necessities for months. Probably years. 

He'd been chained to that wall so long, he thought grass was a dream. 

Gwaine busied himself with various tasks, taking care to choose those that were non-threatening. He shifted wet items, allowing them to dry on all sides; he unpacked and repacked the free saddlebag, better storing food items and spare clothing; and he stepped over to the other clearing to further tend to the horses. 

When he returned, he found that the boy was asleep, still slumped against the tree trunk, his head turned to the side and face obscured by long, dirty black hair. With the boy safely asleep, Gwaine felt comfortable polishing his sword. 

He had set both his and Lancelot's slightly damp sheaths aside to dry, cleaned and polished both his sword and the small knife he kept in his boot, and was halfway through Lancelot's weapon before he woke up.

"Never slept that deep this wet," was the first thing Lancelot said, as he sat up and patted ruefully at his tunic and trousers. 

"Speak for yourself," Gwaine said, "I've fallen asleep in my bathtub." 

Lancelot laughed quietly. He stood and held out his hands for his sword. "Your turn, then." 

"Best be done before he wakes up," Gwaine said, nodding at the boy, and Lancelot nodded, understanding without further detail. 

Gwaine handed off the sword, then flopped on the ground and put his head on the saddlebag. "Just a few hours," he said, closing his eyes. 

"Hm," Lancelot agreed, already polishing. "Need to find a stream and clean him up before we return to the road." 

Gwaine grunted, then was asleep before he heard if Lancelot had anything more to say.

Chapter Text

He was shaken awake, and Gwaine opened his eyes to find Lancelot bending over him. 

"The sun will set within the hour," Lancelot said. "I've explored the near area, and I think there's a stream not far west." 

Gwaine sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "The boy?" he asked. 

Lancelot shifted out of the way, and Gwaine saw that the boy seemed to have just woken too, groggily watching them through half-lidded eyes. "Good then," Gwaine said, with a gentle smile for the boy's benefit. He stood and pulled his cloak off the branch it'd been drying on, carefully rolling it and stashing it in his saddlebag. While he'd slept, Lancelot had brought their horses to the clearing and loaded the rest of their gear. 

Lancelot quietly approached the boy and knelt several feet away from him. "We're going to find a stream," he explained. "We need to refill our waterskins and let the horses drink. You can ride one of them, if you'd like to come." 

The boy didn't answer. Gwaine hesitated in the background, unsure how to convince the boy to come with them, but Lancelot didn't seem to have the same uncertainty. 

"You probably don't really remember what a stream is, either," he said softly. "I'd like to show you, if that's all right." 

The boy's fingers tightened on the cloak still draped over his lap. "Can I have some more bread?" he asked, keeping his face down and mostly hidden behind his hair. 

Lancelot smiled at him. "Of course. Once we get the horses some water?" 

There was a small, almost imperceptible nod, and the boy’s eyes flickered up to look at them. Lancelot smiled again and shifted closer. The boy flinched, as if he expected to be hit, but he didn't release a powerful blast of magic, and in a moment, Lancelot had lifted him and carried him over to Gwaine. Together, they settled him back on Gwaine's horse. Gwaine draped the spare cloak over his scabbed, skinny little shoulders, took the reins, and followed Lancelot as he led his own mare into the forest.

Lancelot was right. It wasn't long before they could hear the quiet murmur of running water, and not much longer before they emerged on the low bank of a small stream. It ran larger and faster than it normally might have, swollen from the heavy rain the night before, and the water was clear and cold. 

The horses immediately bent their heads to drink their fill. Hearing a small sound, Gwaine turned and looked up at the boy. He was hunched over the saddle, his hands gripping the pommel tightly and his eyes on the stream. There was a mixture of confusion and wonder on his face.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" Gwaine asked, without thinking. 

The boy glanced at him timidly, then stared at the stream again. "Can I... touch it?" He sounded so young, and so innocent—once again wholly enamored with a normal part of nature. 

It made Gwaine want to ride back to that castle and kill every last one of those evil, torturing bastards. 

"Of course you can, lad," he said. He stepped closer and lifted the boy, careful to avoid the worst of the injuries, then deposited him gently on the bank. 

Instantly, the boy leaned forward and plunged both hands into the water, then gasped and pulled his hands back. He stared at them for a moment. Slowly, he reached out again, putting one finger in the water, then lowering both hands in again, playing with the stream like a boy half his age.

Gwaine had to turn away, suddenly unable to bear the sight, and busied himself refilling their waterskins. 

Several minutes later, he looked up from the task when he heard Lancelot speak. 

"Can I ask you a question?" 

Lancelot had settled next to the boy, who still sat on the bank, both hands and feet in the water as he leaned over his legs, his hands swishing back and forth slowly. 

"I'd like to clean some of your injuries," Lancelot continued. "It will help them heal faster. It will help with the pain. Would you let me do that?" 

There was no response. Lancelot turned and looked at Gwaine, looking unsure of himself for the first time. Gwaine was just as lost, but he stood up anyway and stored the waterskins in their packs before approaching the bank again. He sat on the other side of the boy, letting his boots settle in the water, and waited for a moment, watching the blood and dirt rinse slowly off the boy’s bony hands. 

“I had a little sister, once,” he said at last. The words came out of nowhere, something he’d never shared, not even with Lancelot, and yet for some reason, he found himself continuing. “She was a lot younger than me. And small. She had dark hair, and she liked to braid it. I would bring her flowers, and she’d tie them in her hair, and nothing ever made her as happy as those flowers. Except water.” 

He leaned over, cupped a handful, and lifted it to watch it slowly trickle away. “She’d play in the streams for hours, just like you,” he said. “Her name was Elaine.” 

The boy sat up, still looking down into the stream, his hands coming to rest on his knees. “Water,” he whispered to himself. “‘A stream.’” 

“What’s your name, lad?” Gwaine asked gently. 

The boy stared down at his bruised toes. “Merlin.” 

“Merlin,” Gwaine repeated, meeting eyes with Lancelot over the boy’s head. “All right, Merlin. If you’ll let us, Lancelot and I would like to use the stream to clean some of these wounds you’ve got there. What do you say?” 

Merlin curled inward a little, his hands gripping his kneecaps, and he turned his head just enough to glance up at Gwaine quickly with his eyes. Gwaine could read the fear in them, and it made him lift his hand and place it softly on the boy’s back. Merlin shuddered slightly, and Gwaine almost did too: he could feel the bumps on his spine and the painfully sharp edge of his shoulder blade. 

“Easy,” he said quietly, “I won’t hurt you. It’s only washing the blood away, nothing more.” With his other hand, Gwaine slowly loosened the fingers of one of Merlin’s hands, lifted it, and flipped it over, exposing a group of five partially healing cuts along the inside of his forearm. Whoever had forced him to create them had instructed a specific shape: they formed a starlike image. “We’ll start here, all right?” 

Merlin didn’t answer, but he didn’t protest, and Gwaine bent to scoop another handful of water from the stream. He poured it over the wounds, and with his thumb, he brushed some of the dried blood loose to run off with the water. Merlin took a sharp, trembling breath, his entire body shaking slightly as he watched Gwaine continue to clean the cuts. 

“There’s no infection,” Gwaine said, trying to provide a distraction by explaining what he was looking for. “That’s good. That means the skin is already healing, and it will heal faster now that it’s clean.” 

Finished, he let go, and Merlin pulled the arm to his chest, curling inward again for several moments. Gwaine looked over his head at Lancelot again, and Lancelot nodded. He looked relieved. 

“What do you think, Merlin?” Gwaine said, putting his hand carefully on the boy’s back again. “I’d like to clean your other wounds too, if you’ll let me.”

Merlin turned his head a little, looking up at Gwaine through his hair with another darting little glance. He ducked his head back down, giving a quick, scared little nod. 

Gwaine smiled, and kept his voice soft as he bent down and cupped a handful of water to wash carefully over a gash on Merlin’s leg. “All right. One at a time now. It won’t take long.”