Chapter Text
The door opens with a loud bang and Gaius jumps out of his skin, nearly dropping his brand new and very expensive vial. He glances half-accusingly at the door, through which the King of Camelot has just entered the room. All this excitement—it’s not good for his heart.
Arthur’s expression is thunderous and nowhere near apologetic about scaring an old man half to death. “Gaius, have you seen my idiot servant?”
“I thought he was with you, Sire,” Gaius raises a curious eyebrow. “I sent him to gather some herbs around mid-morning, but he should have been back by now.”
While Merlin disappearing at inopportune times is by no means an unusual occurrence, it certainly is strange that he’s gone now. It’s a rare moment of relative peace in Camelot, where nothing would demand Merlin’s disappearance—no slimy foreign envoys, no magical monster of the month. Not even the weather is anything out of ordinary.
Arthur looks pointedly out the window. It’s just gone past sundown, and it’s only going to grow dark soon. “Well, he’s not,” Arthur grits out, looking supremely annoyed. “Well. If you see him, tell him he can look forward to an exceptionally full day tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Sire,” says Gaius worriedly. “He always turns up eventually.”
“I’ll make him wish he didn’t,” Arthur mutters viciously. And then, as dramatically and with as much commotion as the way he entered the room, he storms out, slamming the door shut in his wake.
Gaius sighs.
Merlin isn’t back the next morning.
Once again, Gaius’ door opens with a loud bang. He really should’ve been expecting it, but this time, he does drop the vial. He sighs none-too-quietly at the mess it creates on the stone floor—the merchant who sold it to him had just left Camelot a fortnight ago, it would be some time before he passes by again.
“MERLIN—“ Arthur bellows immediately. His trousers are on backwards, but it doesn't look as though he noticed.
“He’s not here, Sire.”
“Well, where is he?”
“He didn’t return last night,” replies Gaius, “I thought he might have stayed in the antechamber.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake, if he’s passed out in the tavern again—“
“I don’t think he is, Sire,” Gaius interjects, thinking about all the previous times Merlin was most certainly not passed out in the tavern and also likely fighting for his life. “He’s been gone almost a whole day.”
Arthur sobers rather quickly at that, the mirth and annoyance evaporating from his countenance as the seriousness of the situation begins to dawn. He stares at Gaius with mild alarm. “You’re not suggesting that something has happened to him?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow as if daring Gaius to suggest otherwise.
“I’m suggesting that perhaps it’s worth looking into,” Gaius replies with a severe nod. There’s a sense of unease trickling down the back of his neck. He adds, “he doesn’t usually make a habit of disappearing off without informing me.”
Arthur rounds up his best knights.
“Check the tavern—”
“He’s not there,” Gwaine interrupts him immediately.
Considering that Gwaine has not moved from where he is currently standing, Arthur favours Gwaine with a look he usually reserves for a particularly thick nobleman and drawls, “have you checked?”
“No, but he’s never usually in there,” answers Gwaine, his easy tone belying his furrowed brows. “Not sure why you’d think he was. Despite my very best attempts to drag him there, he hardly ever goes.”
Arthur clenches his jaw, decidedly not thinking about what Gwaine’s very best attempts would involve, then turns to look at Percival. “The stables, then—“
“His horse is still there,” Percival tells him. “I saw her when I stabled mine after the patrol this morning. If Merlin went somewhere, he must've gone on foot. So he couldn’t have gone very far.”
“Right,” Arthur sighs, not liking what he is hearing. He likes the way his stomach seems to tie itself into knots at the thought of Merlin going missing and being in danger even less. "Looks like it’s time to send out a search party.”
“Perhaps it would be prudent if you stay here, Sire,” suggests Leon hesitantly. He must’ve seen something foul in Arthur’s expression because he hastens to add, “we don’t yet know what we’re dealing with.”
“All the more reason for me to go,” Arthur snaps. He knows that Leon’s suggestion is more than reasonable—the king needs to stay close to the castle and be well-protected instead of gallivanting headfirst into danger, especially with no heir and no consort. “He’s my servant and under my protection.”
“Merlin is a friend to all of us,” Leon counters, evidently not backing down. “We will find him, Sire, I will make sure of it.”
Arthur receives the message loud and clear. You’re not thinking straight. Distantly, he knows that Leon is right. But it’s rather difficult, he finds, to think rationally when his mind is going Merlin Merlin Merlin, where is he, is he alright, at a pace that makes it nigh impossible to think about anything else.
Arthur purses his lips and nods. Further arguments would only delay them, and he knows that Leon is a fantastic tracker. Even if he missed something, Gwaine is with them.
It doesn’t matter if Arthur wanted to be the one to find Merlin first. He may not like the decision to stay behind, but then again he doesn’t have to.
They found a discarded sack of herbs lying on the floor in the outskirts of the forest.
“There was a scuffle here,” Leon declares, squinting at the soil around where the sack was found. It doesn’t bode well for Merlin. “Two men, I’d say. No horses.” He stands, gesticulating vaguely at the ground around them. “One was knocked out. The other dragged the one who was knocked out, all the way up to—“
“Here!” Gwaine shouts from a considerable distance away. When the others reach him, he is frowning, a scrap of red fabric held between his fingers. “This was caught on that branch there. They must’ve snagged his shirt when they were dragging him away.”
“Merlin’s?”
Gwaine favours him with an unimpressed look.
“Sorry,” Percival holds his hands up. “Had to ask.”
“The man has two shirts,” Gwaine points out. “This red just happens to be one of the two colours Merlin wears.”
Percival concedes with a tilt of his head.
“There are hoof prints here,” Leon notes with a sinking feeling, examining the ground around them. “Two horses for two men. It was two against one, then. One waiting here.”
The first thing that comes to Leon’s mind is he can’t imagine how Arthur will take the news. Then, inevitably, a rush of shame for not thinking about Merlin first. Merlin, his friend who was taken. Gods. He wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“Shall we follow the tracks, then?” Gwaine's face is hard. His jaw is jutting out in a challenge, as though he has made his mind up and nothing Leon says will convince him otherwise. He knows that Gwaine has arrived at the same conclusion: that Merlin’s disappearance is by design, not by accident. It wasn’t a simple routine trip gone wrong or even a robbery gone awry. Merlin didn’t trip over his feet and break his neck, the way Arthur worried he might. Whoever captured Merlin were organised. They planned it well in advance and targeted Merlin from the very start.
“We won’t have long,” Leon peers at the sky, squinting against the sunlight. Despite the blinding brightness, rolling rain clouds are looming in the distance. They must make haste before the rain comes and washes the prints away.
So they ride, hard as if the devil itself was nipping at their heels, careful not to lose the tracks. It’s the height of summer, the solstice just a fortnight away, and the sun is relentless upon their back, the way it always is before a storm. Now that they know for certain that Merlin has been taken, every passing moment becomes that much more precious.
It would be difficult, though perhaps not impossible, to mount a rescue mission without knowing who they are up against. And Leon for the life of him can’t think of why anybody would have a personal vendetta against the ever-cheerful Merlin. Unless, of course, that it’s Arthur they’re really trying to get to. It is a well-established fact in Camelot that, despite the differences in status and upbringing, Arthur regards his manservant as a close friend and confidante. The whole of Camelot has witnessed how they rib and mercilessly tease each other one second before following each other to the jaws of death next.
Naturally, it’s all a bit scandalous for some of the more reserved nobles that King Arthur would trust and demonstrably favour his servant to such an extent. That he would even tolerate such shocking behaviour from a lowborn, of all people. But they don’t see what Leon sees. And from what he sees, he hopes to god that he won’t see Arthur lose Merlin.
In Camelot, Arthur is losing his fucking mind.
“Gods, how hard is it to dodge when someone is swinging a sword at you?” Arthur hollers, not bothering to look at the poor man he just knocked on his arse. “You have two jobs. Hit and avoid being hit. It shouldn’t be that difficult, surely? Carry on like that and you’d be dead before the battle even begins!”
Is Merlin hurt? Is that why he can’t return to Camelot and attend to Arthur? Has he forgotten that his job is to serve the King of Camelot, and that he should put that job above all else? Is something keeping him from doing that job? Is someone? Has he run off and deserted Arthur?
Sir Robin cowers from where he was unceremoniously sprawled on the ground. He’s flushing scarlet, but Arthur can’t bring himself to feel guilty. He knows that he is being unnecessarily harsh, but then again so will the enemy.
“Let me give you an advice, lad,” he hears Sir Bedivere mutters from the corner of his mouth. He is stretching out an arm to aid the green knight back up on his feet. It shouldn’t stoke his ire, but it does. “Always best to leave him alone when he’s like this.”
“And what am I like, Sir Bedivere?” snaps Arthur before he can stop himself.
“Sir Robin didn’t take your servant,” replies Sir Bedivere smoothly. It’s not an answer to Arthur’s question, but it’s an answer nonetheless. Bedivere lowers his eyes in deference, but it only belies his challenging tone.
“Who said anything about Merlin being taken?” Arthur grumbles, even as his stomach knots in fear at the image conjured by Bedivere’s words, “defeats me why anybody would bother stealing a servant who is as useless as he is stupid.”
Bedivere didn’t grace him with a reply, which only goes to show his boundless wisdom. He offers to spar with Arthur instead, and it’s an offer that Arthur takes gratefully.
Arthur doesn’t know how long they spar for, only that the sun is low in the sky and that his knights haven’t returned by the time they finish. He doesn’t doubt their ability—they are the very best that Arthur has seen. He tells himself that his knights not being back isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because surely it means that Merlin is still alive? They would’ve been back hours ago with Merlin’s body if Merlin had somehow thrown himself off of a gorge and broken his scrawny neck.
He doesn’t stand by his window, gazing off into the distance and anxiously waiting for his knights to come back. He doesn’t pace either, though it was a very near thing.
When his knights finally return, it takes only a glance at their grim faces for Arthur to realise that something is very, very wrong indeed.
“He’s been taken,” Arthur surmises immediately.
“We found this,” replies Leon, setting the red scrap of fabric on Arthur’s desk. He doesn’t look at Arthur’s face. “There was no other sign of him.”
Arthur glances at the fabric, his brows furrowed deep, before picking it up with a steady hand.
“We thought that it may have been the work of two men,” Leon continues, “we found the hoof prints from their horses. It is likely that Merlin was ambushed.”
“They know his schedule,” Arthur realises. His heart sinks. “They know his duties, what he gets up to. They know that he was going to go out to gather herbs for Gaius.”
“Everyone has seen him helping Gaius with the rounds, it wouldn’t exactly take a leap,” Gwaine adds. Arthur has never seen him so grave. “It could’ve been absolutely anybody.”
“Perhaps they had him followed,” Leon suggests.
“But why on earth would they go for Merlin?” Percival wonders aloud. “He’s a servant, not a lord. Who goes around kidnapping servants?”
“A servant to the King,” Arthur realises, suddenly nauseous. A trusted servant, no less. One who knows Arthur’s schedule better than Arthur does. One who knows who’s coming and leaving Camelot, who knows which decisions are in deliberation. Oh, gods. One who attends to Arthur when he holds court and is privy to the inner workings of Camelot.
The information Merlin has, at the wrong hand—
“Merlin wouldn’t give up anything,” Gwaine interjects, interrupting Arthur’s line of thought. There’s a hint of steel in his voice, as if he knew what Arthur was thinking.
“I know,” Arthur agrees, sinking heavily into his chair. He meets Gwaine’s eyes and sees the worry he refuses to show reflected there. “But I don’t think that it would stop them from trying.”