Disclaimer: Merlin isn't my property, nor is Whistle Down the Wind.

Whistle down the wind,

Let your voices carry.

Arthur had never experienced this kind of despair. Even when Morgana had overthrown Uther, even as he and his few faithful friends had hidden in that cave and struggled to find a way to win the battle that was already lost, even then, he'd been unable to give up. Then, he'd struggled on. Then, he'd had hope. Because then, he'd had Merlin.

His heart sank lower at the thought of his friend. When Merlin was around, it was impossible to lose hope. He had a way of turning situations around and making things better, which made up for his usual annoying personality and general uselessness. Of course, now Arthur knew that Merlin was not useless. As king, he could hardly have appointed anyone less than the greatest sorcerer who ever lived as his Court Magician. And Merlin was insanely powerful and loyal, and Arthur's knights were faithful, and Gwen was a beautiful and gracious queen. And everything had been perfect.

And then Merlin had been taken.

Soon after he took the throne, Arthur had removed the ban on practicing magic. He had been seriously considering doing so for a while, and when Merlin confessed that he was a warlock, Arthur's decision was made. Most people had been happy with the change, or at least tolerant of it. The transition was shaky, but progressing well. Then came Uther's Faithful—a group of fanatics who had taken on his father's name and made him into a martyr for their cause. They started out simply enough, vandalizing the castle and spreading rumors that Merlin had murdered Uther and enchanted Arthur. Then, they escalated to burning the homes of sorcerers and killing anyone who didn't follow their cause. Soon, reports came in that they were kidnapping sorcerers and experimenting on them. They had learned how to bind magic, and they were on their way to discovering how to steal it. Worst of all, they had a potion that could temporarily strip a sorcerer of their identity and put them under the complete control of Uther's Faithful. Many of these poor souls had been sent to attack the people of Camelot, who defended themselves and usually ended up killing the sorcerers. This did nothing to help the tenuous trust between the magic and non-magic citizens.

Arthur, Merlin, and the knights were often out hunting the members of Uther's Faithful. The group was small, no more than two dozen strong, but its followers were zealously devoted and its leaders were smart, ruthless, and good at disappearing. Arthur worried for Merlin on these missions, and for once, he didn't mind saying so. Merlin went after Uther's Faithful with everything he had, and they seemed to be just as eager to destroy him. More than once, Merlin had to be carried home. Arthur knew it was only a matter of time before he didn't come home at all. And Arthur had been right. It just hadn't happened like he had expected.

Hunting. They had been hunting. Arthur laughed harshly at the thought. He should have known better—their hunts never ended well. But he and Merlin hadn't been able to get out of the castle just for enjoyment as friends in so long… it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

An ambush, a blow to the head, and then the horrifying experience of waking and finding himself alone. No battle. No Uther's Faithful. No Merlin.

Arthur had started tracking them immediately, but even then, deep down, he'd known it was hopeless. They had been attacked in the morning, and it was now late afternoon. He wasn't at his best—disoriented and ill from the knock to his head—and Uther's Faithful had made an effort to cover their tracks. He was exhausted, but he had to hurry because he was losing light. He only hoped that the dark clouds that were gathering wouldn't turn to rain and make this task even more impossible.

He pressed on as quickly as he could, trying not to think about whether Merlin was still alive and if he had been hurt and why they had been able to capture him and what plans they had for him. Because Arthur knew they had plans. The ambush had been perfectly executed; it must have taken them months to coordinate it. They knew exactly what they were going to do with Merlin, and Arthur didn't. That scared him more than anything.

Night came swiftly, and with it the rain that had been threatening to fall all day. Arthur had to move much more slowly to find the trail, and soon he lost it. He had no idea which way to go next. His stomach clenched. No, no, no, NO! He looked around frantically, ignoring burning of his eyes. There had to be some sign, something to show him the way. But there was nothing. It was a moonless night, the wind was whipping the rain into his face, and he could barely see his hand in front of his face, let alone the trail.

Arthur forced himself to put emotion aside and think rationally. He could stop for the night and move on in the morning. The storm might not last long, it might not destroy all signs of his quarry. Or he could make his way back to Camelot at first light. If he got horses and gathered the knights, he might be able find the hideout of Uther's Faithful, and Merlin might still be alright, and they might be able to save him.

Might.

Like Hell.

Arthur gritted his teeth and chose a direction. Away from Camelot, towards Merlin. On he trudged, and on, and on. Branches torn at his exposed skin, and he fell again and again on the uneven ground, bruising himself all over. He welcomed the pain, focused on it. It was easier to deal with than the ache inside.

He tromped on blindly. Eventually, his foot came down on nothing but air. Down the ravine he fell, doing his best to protect his head as he tumbled over rocks, logs, and who knows what else. He landed in an ungainly heap at the bottom.

Arthur didn't think he could get up again. Physically, he was exhausted and in pain, but it was the despair that was really crushing him. He stopped fighting and let the hopelessness fill him. All the emotions he had gone through in this horrible day swelled inside him. Pain, worry, fear, guilt, helplessness, despair, and rage clashed in his chest. He buried his fingers in the dirt, gripping the earth in his shaking fists as he pushed himself to his knees. Everything he was feeling came rushing to the surface in a roar, as he tried to block out the rain and the misery. It was a call, a curse, a prayer, a plea…

"MERLIN!"

Drown out all the rain…