Do not ask me where this came from.

I'm not kidding. Seriously, where the heck did this come from? It's not even one of the stories I've already begun. It was Saturday night (the 24th of March I think) and when I say 'night' I mean, night. 11pm. And so what do I do? Go to bed? Pshhh yeah right. No, I write this freaking story. I ended up writing until about 2am. I don't even… *face palm*

I'm surprised I still surprise (and disappoint) at myself, especially since this has been sitting in my laptop for so long now. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I figured I just need to post it already. I can always edit it later right? So here it is. My first attempt at writing major Merlin!whump. Enjoy?

Edit 6/13/2013I edited portions of this. Nothing changed, but some wrong words and bad punctuations and such.

Safe and Sound

One…

Merlin remembers the day like it was yesterday. Actually, it was a week ago. Was it only a week? Seven days felt too short. It must've been longer. But no. No, it really was only a week ago.

He and Arthur had been riding. It was a nice, cool day and Merlin was not complaining. However, he had been teasing Arthur about the little "lover's spat" he and Gwen had. The best part was it had been over him (the Queen claimed her friend was being overworked –which he was– but the King insisted his Court Sorcerer was just fine with the magnitude of work he had). Merlin relished the face Arthur made when he conjured freezing water to dump over his king. Of course, the King got his Court Sorcerer back by pushing him into the river, but that was fine. It was all fine because even through all the teasing and the shoving, they both were laughing.

Two…

Then the ambush came. One minute they had been chasing each other like little kids, the next Arthur was flat on his back, surrounded by large men with even larger weapons, and a dagger was digging into Merlin's throat. Amidst his confusion, Merlin remembers thinking about how wrong it was. Magic was back in Camelot. Arthur had accepted it and everything was supposed to be okay. Morgana was gone, Mordred was defeated and the world was supposed to be good.

Arthur didn't have his sword. Why didn't he take his bloody sword? Oh that's right. Because Merlin was there. Merlin and his brilliant, powerful magic. Well, his magic is all but brilliant now. He tries one thing, even if it's small and stupid, and the men would be on Arthur in less than a second while Merlin's own throat would be sliced.

And why? Why did they do this? These men, these mercenaries? The answer is simple.

They were bored and wanted to have some fun.

Three…

"Don't worry, we'll take good care of your precious pet, Kingy," a man had cooed, his hand caressing Merlin's face. From the way the other men looked to him, he was obviously the leader.

Merlin remembered the anger flaring in Arthur's eyes, remembered how he tried to fight them. He was doing a good job too. Until a big, burly man with muscles that would've made Percival envious came up behind Arthur and hit him in the head with the butt of his sword. Merlin winced, feeling the phantom pain his friend would have upon waking.

This was his chance. Merlin knew this was possibly his only chance. Arthur was (mostly) out of the way, and as long as Arthur stayed alive, it didn't matter what happened to Merlin. Right as he gathered up his magic, a strong, vile smelling potion was placed under his nose causing his mind to become startlingly blank; every spell, every simple thought, he tried to think of only slipped through his grasp. Then, without warning, someone forcefully tipped Merlin's head back, exposing his bare throat. For a frightening moment, Merlin was sure that they'd kill him. He was sure that when Arthur woke up, he'd see his best friend lying a few feet away from him, his throat slit and his eyes lifeless – but then someone pinched Merlin's nose and the potion was shoved down his mouth. The effects were practically immediate. As the darkness, and nausea, closed around him, Merlin heard the leader's voice whisper roughly in his ear. He felt the man's hot breath. Merlin's skin crawled as the words, and the voice, hit his ear.

"Don't try anything stupid," the man had said, almost wistfully, his tone implying he very much wanted Merlin to 'try something stupid'. "You know," the man combed Merlin's hair with his dirty fingers, "I'm going to enjoy breaking you, little pet."

The last thing Merlin saw was a foul grin and decaying teeth.

Four…

The next six days were full of horror. Merlin was taken to a camp. At least, he's almost positive it was a camp. Or perhaps in was an outdoors castle? Throughout his entire stay, Merlin was kept sedated. Not too much so he was unconscious, but enough to make him delirious and completely unable to escape. There were other people at this camp, but whether they had magic or not was unknown to Merlin. He knew there were no warlocks there; the Great Dragon himself said that Merlin was both the first and last of his kind. Merlin feared he'd be the last sooner than the much preferred later.

Every day was the same routine. And every day Merlin could do nothing to defend himself. He was aware of what was happening to him, but only just. Once in a while, his magic would expel from him, throwing whoever was nearest him as far away as possible – maybe even killing them. The thought, though once would've made Merlin's blood curl, brought comfort instead. The fewer torturers there were meant less people would be killed for their sick amusement and twisted pleasure.

Five…

The mornings were for target practice. Some of the mercenaries had magic of their own; others were just exceptionally skilled in weaponry. Merlin remembers the first day, as he stumbled around and tried to keep himself alive, he saw a boy that could be no older than twelve die. Sheer luck was the only thing that Merlin could say kept him alive. Or perhaps his magic. For an unknown reason, as Merlin feebly dodged the knives and axes and whatever else they were throwing at the "pets", Merlin had stopped, right in the middle of the field. In the spot where he would've been standing, had he kept moving, a dagger was thrown. Rather than hit Merlin's chest, it plunged into the forehead of the little boy. Merlin rushed over to him as quickly as his addled mind and juddering body would allow, but the boy was already dead. Dark, red blood dripped down the side of his face; his eyes were open, but unseeing. Merlin covered closed the boy's eyelids and whispered a Druid blessing. (He only hoped they were the right words.)

Six…

Afternoons were filled with bruises and pain. This was when Merlin got to have the wonderful job as a punching bag, or even the delightful option of being a canvas. If the latter option was chosen for him (since he never actually got a say in it), Albion's most powerful warlock would have the privilege of working with some of the most talented tortures in all the land. By "work with" they meant "work on".

(Because, obviously, even torturers needed to improve their skills.)

The paintbrushes? Knives. The color they would use? Blood-red. The best part? If a brushstroke accidentally went too deep and severed a serious artery, there was always the ability to be healed – after waiting until the canvas was at the brink of death, of course. And what would the fun be if the victims were completely healed? No, they'd only be healed to a certain point. Their skin would still show scars and bruises, but it would no longer be life or death. (Merlin learned this the hard, painful way on his first day. If only he couldn't brought out his magic...)

At the pain, the magic pulsing through the warlock's veins would start to react, and it would react violently. Even drugged and disoriented, Merlin managed to deviate his magic from drifting idly throughout his body to being the gift he could use and control. It took much effort to gain that control –Merlin had to fight with his intoxicated brain to the point of a migraine– but it was always worth it.

The first day, Merlin hadn't been able to get command on his magic; his system had been too poisoned with the potion and too worn out from the events previous to the ambush. Merlin's five senses had been dulled, his mind couldn't concentration for even the shortest of time spans, and he felt as though he hadn't slept in a week – it was only due to his magic's survival instincts that Merlin hadn't died yet.

The next day was a fight that Merlin counted as a win. For a split second, the warlock managed to purge his body and mind of the drugs. With his grasp on reality, he let his magical proclivity take over, doing to the "artists" what it will. (There were four other mercenaries in the tent, along with four other "canvases".) It was only for a moment, but even that was enough time for the warlock to feel the men's lives drain from them; their insides bursting so that blood poured from their ears, eyes, and nose.

Before the drugs took its course over his body again, the Court Sorcerer wished desperately for his friends. For Arthur and Gwaine. Leon, Percival, and Elyan. If only he could see Gwen's face one more time. Her smile would make everything seem better. Merlin thought that before he was sucked under again. Now, rather than only feeling weak, disoriented, and numb, there was also an excruciating throbbing in his temples.

Merlin would never escape them, would he?

Seven…

The nights were the worst. Being the Kingy's "pet" meant that many people wanted him, and it should be an honor to serve them. After all, he served the Kingy, right? He was a good little pet for the Kingy.

If Merlin could've, he would've spat in their faces and torn their brains apart with his mind. He was not the "Kingy's pet". Arthur would never even think of doing something that vile to Merlin. Arthur and Merlin were more than friends, yes, but they were not each other's play toys. They were two sides of the same coin. They were brothers. They would kill for the other.

But Merlin couldn't say this, couldn't even get his hands to form a fist. He hated it.

At night, the savages would each pick someone to spend the night with. There was always a fight for Merlin, for the Kingy's precious pet. Half the mercenaries were more civilized, only taking the (few) women, while the other half would fight viscously, sometimes a death would occur, for Merlin. If only Merlin wasn't so damned out of it. If the drugs weren't in his system, he'd show them exactly what he could do. He was not the Kingy's pet. He was no one's pet.

He'd remind himself that every night, when his clothes were torn off and his body was manipulated in ways he never wished to experience. Sometimes they were gentle. Mostly they weren't. Merlin wasn't sure which one he would've preferred. The gentle ones caressed him, going slowly and thoughtful. Their hands would linger on his chest, his thighs, his lips. When they grasped him and entered him, it didn't hurt (that doesn't mean it wasn't welcome though). The other ones were controlling and demanding, sometimes moving too fast for the warlock to keep up. They weren't hesitant to leave bruises; the next day they would look pridefully upon the marked skin of the warlock's pale flesh. Those men would bind him to the bed –some using magic– and would thrust and thrust until Merlin was bloody and raw. One man was so impatient, so desperate for heat, he didn't even wait to open Merlin up. He simply dropped his trousers and ripped Merlin's clothes off with a mumbled spell. Shoving Merlin forwards onto the bed, the man lifted the pale hips and sank in, only to begin thrusting wildly almost immediately. Gasping and withering beneath the man, Merlin didn't even realize when the man had been (magically) yanked off of him. All the ex-manservant could feel was an intense pulsating pain beginning at his arse and traveling throughout his entire body. Not even the blood that dripped out of him could be felt; only the pain. So much pain.

When the other men entered the tent to see what all the commotion was about, they found the man lying supine with his nose, ears, and eyes dripping with blood. Looking toward the bed, they saw the outlines of the Court Sorcerer, huddled into himself muttering naïve words of comfort. From then on, there were guards –who possessed magic– placed outside of Merlin's tent. Those who didn't mind the audience kept fighting for their night with the Kingy's pet. Of course, said "pet" got no say in the matter.

Occasionally, one or two more would join. The two (or three) of them would take different angles. One fondling his front, one pounding in back, and if there was a third, he'd be choking Merlin with his own personal sword.

Every night, he'd tell himself his magic would fully return in the morning or that he'd be rescued; but every morning, he'd wake up, experience one moment of freedom –of feeling his magic course though his veins, of having a clear mind– and then have someone stick the fowl potion under his nose and down his throat once again.

It had been seven days yet no one came for him.

Eight…

Merlin finally allowed himself to scream – cringing and whimpering no longer enough to keep the agony inside of him. His voice was scratchy and rough from the lack of spoken words he (hadn't) said throughout the week – also because he'd been choked gods-only-know how many times, both with hands and…other things.

Eight lashes. Only…some amount more to go. His back felt wet and sticky. Focusing on it for too long only resulted in Merlin wanted to vomit. His head felt light, and this time, it wasn't only due to the potion. Gaius had said that blood loss caused dizziness and light-headedness. Vaguely, Merlin wondered what else did it causes.

Nine…

Another scream tore from Merlin mouth.

The whip was designed to rip the skin and muscle to pieces. Merlin was sure his back was a bloodied mess already, and there hadn't even been ten lashes yet. He stood there, naked, in front of all the people in the camp, both the victims and the victors. He was bruised, bloody, and positive that many of his ribs were cracked.

But he was not broken.

With each lash, Merlin's mind became clearer. He could almost push away the fog in his head; almost touch his magic within himself. The punishment was turning out to be very beneficial, albeit excruciatingly painful.

Honestly, Merlin hadn't meant to kill his (sixth? eighth?) person, but he was just so tired of it all. Tired of the pain, of the constant daze, of everything. He had just wanted it to stop. He wanted to be left alone, left to die in his misery. His magic immediately obeyed his pleas. The Court Sorcerer's latest "Kingy replacement" had keeled over, right in the midst of his thrusting and caressing. Blood dripped from the man's ears, eyes, and nose, just like the others.

The leader –Merlin never bothered learning their names; as if he'd remember them in his state anyway– decided he'd had enough of Merlin's uncooperativeness and that the "little bastard should be properly punished for once".

He remembered being dragged out of the tent by one arm and his hair, stopping in the middle of the field. There was a post there, with chains daggling down it. On the chains were fetters and in the fetters were spikes. As the men cuffed Merlin, the spikes inside the shackles pierced Merlin's wrists, causing him to let out a single cry. One for each wrist. The spikes weren't long enough to pierce straight to the bone.

Merlin could feel his blood trailing down his arms. In some sort of sick, twisted humor, his blood actually tickled him. He would've laughed had he not been too busy trying not to scream. Merlin's feet tried to find purchase on the ground, but his legs were too strained to hold himself up; the warlock's arms took most of his weight, causing the skin around Merlin's wrists to tear even further because of the spikes. Waiting for the tenth blow, Merlin tried to prepare himself.

It never came.

Instead, the battle cry of an enraged man echoed through the forest. Merlin watched as a man –one single man– burst through a clump of trees, effectively killing at least five mercenaries before the other men could even begin to move from their stunned positions. (They never expected anyone to find their hide-away, let alone actually attack them.)

"Kill him!" the leader finally shouted. Many of the enslaved people ran for cover, screaming. Almost all of them would escape with their lives that night.

Merlin watched wide-eyed, as the single assailant fought at least twenty heavily armed men. The man moved with such purpose and determination, Merlin thought him to be a god – a god with power in his steps and fire in his eyes. Within minutes, it was down to the final seven. These men were the toughest of them all. They had stood back to watch and wait, to see if they're comrades could defeat the sole attacker. Since they had not, it was up to them to kill the man off, gather the runaway slaves, and disperse to find more men wanting to join in on the "fun". The leader was part of this group.

The whole time, Merlin stayed chained to the post. He wanted to help this man, his savior. If only he could reach his magic…

The fight began. They all ganged up on the man, but the lone invader was too smart and too quick. He danced around them, slicing open the gut of one of the men. One down, six to go.

The second man fell minutes later, after making a mistake that seemed small, but turned out to have a greater price than he would have known. His hand was severed in a single swipe, and then his heart kissed the attacker's blade. However, much to Merlin's horror, his deliverer was tiring fast. The mercenaries also realized this, but their smiles held perverted glee.

As his blood continued flowing out of his body, Merlin tried to focus, to stay awake long enough to reach his magic. The potion was nearly out of his system. Just a few more moments. He just needs…to stay…awake…

A minute later found the lone man surrounded. The five mercenaries gathered around him, about to make sure he never saw the light of day again. Then, as if someone had simply lit a candle in a dim room, Merlin's mind was clear. He could think again. He could feel his magic. Merlin was sure he'd never feel so happy again in his life. He was wrong. He felt joy a moment later when his clear mind finally put a name to the familiar face of Merlin's savior. Arthur.

Arthur…

Suddenly, Merlin didn't feel quite so happy. Despair and hatred flooded his veins.

"ARTHUR!" he shouted. Magic burst though Merlin's entire body. He felt his back arch and his eyes shut as the gold light erupted out of every pore. After being held in for so long, the magic was glad to be set free. It was free and it was angry. It burned, but the familiar sensation was a comfort compared to the hell Merlin went through. Before he succumbed to the tugging of unconsciousness, the warlock had one moment that he used to hope –to pray– that Arthur was safe and alive.

The next thing Merlin knew was that he was slumped over, leaning against someone's shoulder, and his legs were weakly flexed, knees bent to the left, covered in some sort of soft material. He opened his eyes to find he was still in the field, but Arthur was closer than he had been before.

"You came back," Merlin whispered. He was too tired to lift his eyes, so he simply let their gaze stay where they were – on his bandaged wrists.

"Of course I did," Arthur said softly. No trace of 'prat' could be heard in his voice.

One of Arthur's arms was slung across Merlin's shoulder, carefully avoiding the whip marks; his other arm was encircled around Merlin's front, resting his hand atop the other on Merlin's shoulder. (Are they rocking back and forth?) Now that his eyes were open, Merlin could see that the soft material covering his legs was a Camelot-red cloak. Torpidly, he realized it was Arthur's. With Arthur being so close to him –his arms wrapped soothingly around him, his own cloak covering Merlin's lower half, and what could only be Arthur's chest and shoulder Merlin was leaning against– everything became too much.

Merlin was suddenly hyper-aware of how bare he was and how close he was to Arthur and he just needed to get away because this was too much human contact and Merlin didn't want to touch anyone else for a long time and all he could smell was Arthur and the stench of the other men and he had to get away because it was just so overwhelming and-

Merlin jerked back from Arthur's arms. The movement caused the gashes on his back to widen and a cry emitted from Merlin's lips as he scrambled away from his King.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, voiced coated with worry. He reached for his friend only to have Merlin jerk away again.

"No wait," Merlin pleaded. "Please, just wait."

He knew it was silly. It was Arthur. If anyone were to hurt him, it wouldn't be Arthur. Still, Merlin just couldn't take it now. It was too much. Everything was just too much. He curled into himself, making sure to keep the cloak firmly around him. Merlin sat on his shins, his arms curled protectively around his stomach. He winced as he felt the cracked ribs he sported. He winced again as he realized that Arthur could probably see all his bruises. Everything, Arthur could see everything.

"Too much," Merlin whimpered. It was all just too much.

For a second, the King looked at his friend with confusion and concern, but then Arthur's normally crystal-clear blue eyes darkened. Arthur's eyes looked at Merlin –into Merlin– with an intensity and fierceness that was rarely seen on the King's face, especially when regarding his bumbling, idiotic Court Sorcerer. Then, Arthur's gaze moved across the field to where a group of bodies lay dead. A look of pure hatred was held in the king's eyes; murderous hatred. Had the men not already been dead, Arthur's eyes told the story of how he would've killed them in the most torturous and measured way possible, and Merlin knew. Knew that Arthur knew.

Merlin hugged himself tighter, his gaze locked on the ground. Everything hurt. His back, his ribs, his legs. He wasn't sure if he could walk, the way his arse was feeling. And Arthur knew. Usually, Merlin would keep all his injuries away from Arthur and Gwen (and when he was sober, Gwaine). Those two (occasionally three) would take one look at Merlin and automatically could tell that something was wrong. Gaius was no better – in fact he was worse. Only this time, there was no escape. Arthur knew.

"Merlin." The king's voice came out slowly and quietly, as if he didn't want to scare the other man. Part of the warlock felt annoyed that Arthur thought him to be so fragile, but the majority of him was just relieved that Arthur was staying right where he was and coming no closer to him. "Merlin," Arthur said again, "I need to look at your back." He kept his voice calm and even, never quickening his cadence.

Shaking his head fiercely, Merlin whispered, "No."

"We don't want it to get infected; it needs to be treated." Slowly, Arthur stood up and made his way towards his injured friend. He was only a few paces away from Merlin, but Arthur stopped after every step, waiting for Merlin to tell him no. After what felt like ages, the King slowly knelt beside his Court Sorcerer. Merlin swallowed nervously, but did no more.

"May I touch your back?" Arthur asked.

Merlin waited. A minute. Two minutes. He tried to keep his breathing under control, but hyperventilating was the only thing keeping Merlin from scrambling away from his King in a fit of terror. Finally, after what had felt like forever, Merlin slowly nodded his head.

"Good," Arthur said quietly as reached for a bag that Merlin hadn't noticed until now. "I'm going to go slowly, Merlin. I promise." Arthur produced a jar of ointment. "This will sting a little," his King warned.

Merlin tensed as Arthur's fingers brushed his back, rubbing the cold, sticky ointment on his wounds. They sat in silence until Arthur began talking, slowly, about what's been happening around the castle.

"Gwen's been worried about you, you know," he said quietly. "Hasn't had a decent night's sleep in ages. Corin's been asking for you, too. Wondering where his 'Uncle Merlin' has gone off to this time. Gaius, I think, has had it the worst, not eating and all-"

"Arthur. Please stop," Merlin said softly, his voice breaking at the end.

Arthur's mouth was still open for a second as he realized what exactly he'd been saying. Shutting his mouth, he cursed inside his head. This was why Gwen was usually the one to offer comfort; Arthur was rather rubbish at saying the right thing at times like this. He barely knew what to do when Gwen or Corin cried, let alone when Merlin was on the verge of tears (it's not like he could just hold Merlin close and kiss him – that wouldn't be the best idea, especially after this week).

"Right, sorry." Arthur finished cleaning Merlin's back in silence, ignoring the way his friend trembled because Arthur had no idea what to do about. Finally, the King reached for the bandages. "Merlin, I'm going to bind your back, is that alright?"

Slowly, Merlin nodded.

"You're going to have to move your hands," Arthur reminded him gently after it became obvious Merlin wasn't planning on moving.

Merlin hesitated for a moment before haltingly unfurling his arms. Arthur began the lengthy process of binding up Merlin's back as the warlock gripped his knees. The silence that passed between them was uneasy. Arthur could see how tense Merlin was, how scared he was. Arthur knew he needed to do something.

So he began to talk. This time, it wasn't about real life, but rather a fantasy adventure. There was a magical land, filled with strange beasts and beautiful forests. Arthur talked about a boy who wondered though this land. He described everything the boy saw right to the smallest detail. In Arthur's mind, the boy was Corin, his six-year old son, who loved hearing his father's bedtime stories; but as the king continued, he realized that in this case, the boy was Merlin. A younger version of Merlin; one where he was still innocent and care-free. Arthur remembered first meeting the boy, and how their friendship sparked. How naïve –and yet stupidly brave– that boy was back then. He remembered Merlin teasing him nonstop about Gwen, but then having the biggest smile at the wedding. He remembered everything they'd been through together.

Not for the first time, Arthur was reminded of how much he loved Merlin. There were times in his childhood where he'd wished he had a brother, someone to play with and tell everything too. It took a many years, but he finally got that wish. Merlin was the snarky, mischievous little brother Arthur had wanted all those years ago. (Of course, little Arthur wanted a younger brother who would look up to him and worship him, but all he could find was rebellious Merlin, which, Arthur found, he was okay with because who'd want a bootlicker for a brother anyway? They're no fun.)

As Arthur's story came to a close, so did the methodical process of dressing Merlin's back. That was when Arthur noticed another thing: Merlin was nearly asleep; his head nodded up and down as the warlock tried to stay awake. Realizing the significance of this, Arthur grinned. One moment, his friend had been terrified of Arthur, but now, Merlin was relaxed and calm, sleeping practically in Arthur's arms.

"I've got you," Arthur whispered gently. He slung the bag over his shoulder and went to pick Merlin up. As his hands slid under Merlin's knees –he was careful to keep his cloak wrapped securely on Merlin's thin frame– and he gripped Merlin's shoulder, he felt Merlin's body momentarily stiffen before relaxing back into Arthur's arms, a sigh escaping his lips. His head rested against Arthur's broad chest.

Merlin was finally asleep.

"You're safe, little brother," Arthur said as he walked toward his horse. "Safe and sound."