TITLE: Gone

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Three/Priceless

RATING: T (language and mature content)

A/N: Yet again, THANK YOU. All of you. I sincerely and thoroughly appreciate each and every follow, favorite and review! You guys are fantastic!

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Merlin.

Chapter Three: Priceless

"Merlin!"

The young sorcerer awoke with a staggering start at the voice. It had cut through the darkness and agony that had seemed to be all he had known for ages. He was unaware of exactly for how much time he had been lost in that awful place, but it no longer mattered.

Arthur was calling for him.

Arthur was there.

If Arthur was there, Merlin knew he was safe. He knew everything would be alright.

He tried to cry out in reply, but promptly found himself gagged with a piece of cloth that tasted of sweat, mud and iron. No, not iron.

Blood.

His blood.

Blinking back the still lingering shards of darkness and disorientation, the servant glanced around frantically and hopefully for his master.

What he saw instead made whatever blood that was left in his broken body turn cold.

The scenery in front of him was moving, slowly growing farther and farther away, as if he was moving backwards. Not only that, but in front of the distancing backdrop, marched men Merlin wished he did not recognize. They were members of the party that had attacked Merlin at the Cauldron.

Arthur wasn't among them.

He wasn't sneaking up behind them.

There wasn't even sign of him lurking in the passing trees.

Arthur wasn't there at all.

The cry that awoke Merlin was merely a memory, an echo of the last thing the young man had heard before he had plummeted into that black and pain filled world.

Lolling his head to either side, Merlin could see that he was lying in some sort of uncovered wagon. Surrounding him were weapons and supplies. The weapons would have been appealing had he not had several pairs of eyes walking not a foot behind the cart. Not to mention the fact that Merlin severely doubted wielding a weapon of any sort would do him much good in his current state, if he could even manage to wield one at all.

He knew that the only thing keeping him alive was the magic that he could currently feel pulsing through each fiber of his being. Every last drop of his power was focused on his fatal wounds. This gave him nothing left to help him escape. He couldn't merely will one of his capture's swords to start slicing down the others. He couldn't utter the simplest of spells through his gag, and even if he could there was little hope that it would actually work. He couldn't even call for Kilgharrah.

He was powerless.

He was alone.

And most of all – Merlin was scared.

He was powerless.

He was alone.

And most of all – Arthur was scared.

The young king was not entirely sure as to how long he had been running, or how long there had been that pang in his side. It didn't matter. It was nothing compared to the ache in his gut, and his heart. His legs were also growing weary from his nonstop pursuit and having spent most of the journey to the Cauldron carrying his sleeping wife. And then there was his arm. It was still quite sore from being pinned underneath a stone. But, again, none of those things mattered.

All his focus, all his energy, was filtered into one thing and one thing only.

Find Merlin.

He had watched his servant take two, probably fatal, arrows to his body. He wasn't even sure if his friend was still alive. And even if he was, what horrors was he facing? Merlin wasn't much of a fighter when in peak condition, and he certainly was far from fighting fit in his current state. Chances were, if he was still living, he was dying.

The thought spurred the young king on at an even quicker pace. He wouldn't believe Merlin was dead. He couldn't. The fool servant never allowed his master to abandon hope, and he wasn't going to do so now when it was Merlin's life at stake.

And yet, that wasn't entirely what made Arthur's legs continue on.

There was something more that pushed Arthur forward, that ate away at him if he slowed even for a moment.

Guilt.

This was all his fault.

Merlin was dying, or dead, because of him.

The servant had led his master to the Cauldron and the sorceress that saved his wife. He had been by Arthur's side every step of the way in this journey. He had even been captured as leverage. And then – he had been forgotten.

Arthur had been so overcome with joy after being reunited with his queen. He had briefly imagined that he was going to lose her, again, and that thought had plagued him. To have it eradicated from his heart and mind to have Guinevere restored and returned to him, flooded him with elation and love. It clouded his head and everything else save for her face faded from his thoughts.

He couldn't be blamed for being happy that his wife was safe and once again her beautiful and kind self. But he could be blamed for just about everything else.

If he had remembered Merlin. If he had gotten to him sooner. If he had fought harder.

Arthur was drowning in "if"s.

Bending down to examine a broken branch, Arthur surveyed his surroundings as he took in greedy gasping breaths. Marks in the mud betrayed signs of some sort of wagon. Footprints also peppered the ground. These men were on the move and in too much of a hurry to cover their tracks. Arthur was glad for the easy trail, but discontented with at the quick pace they were moving at. They were carrying a severely wounded man and several of their troop were also most likely injured. They should've been slow and easy targets. Arthur should have descended upon them by now. It was as if they were running for something, or to something. Arthur doubted they were running from him. They had ambushed four of them without hesitation. They wouldn't fear one man, even if he was a king. With their speed, these men were on a mission.

But what did that mission have to do with attacking them? With Merlin? Surely there was some mistake. Why kidnap a lowly servant, a dying one at that?

They were definitely no bandits. The only thing they stole was Merlin.

Little did they know, they had taken something the king valued higher than any possession or amount of money. Something one of a kind. Something priceless.

Something he would kill to get back.