Hey all! So I'm trying to ease my way back into posting - no promises as to frequency, since there's still a lot going on IRL (work is crazy and my husband is still having health issues) BUT I have this sitting on my computer so I thought I'd share.
As mentioned in my previous post, I can't really tease much more from An Iron Blood Tale: Soot and Blood without dropping major spoilers, but I have been pecking at this little side project on those days when I need a break from AIBT, and it's been fun so I figured why not post it. (If you're wondering, AIBT is still my main project, but I won't be ready to start posting anything from that for some time yet.)
This is very much a side project, the premise just popped into my head one day and I started jotting it down. It's whumpy slavefic, so please mind the content warnings. I may eventually start posting this on AO3? But I'm still kinda undecided on that so we'll see! For now I thought I could at least share it here on tumblr.
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Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity & restraints, self-harm, emotional distress, size difference, nudity but nothing nsfw happens
Rating: mature
Word Count: 2,220
Chapter Two
_____
"He did it to himself," Sefton was whining, yet again, as they walked down the hall. "I won't have those ridiculous unfetterates reporting me to the Civil Ministry. I have witnesses. I didn't touch the brat. He simply went mad."
"Yes, you've made that quite clear, Lord Sefton."
"Heavens knows what set him off. I've done nothing but spoil the pet."
"Mm. Slaves can be unpredictable."
"Well, I've never in all my years—nothing like this!"
They came to a closed door towards the end of the hall, plainer than the rest in Sefton's sprawling home, and stopped. "He's in here, then?" Rowan asked, glad to change the subject. It would forever be the worst part of his job, listening to nobles moan about the shortcomings of their bondslaves like it was somehow the property's fault rather than the owner's. A common pitfall in his line of work, of course, but nonetheless exhausting. "Shall we see him? I'm sure it's nothing I can't handle."
"Yes, well. They say you're the best, you and your brother." Sefton produced a metal key from some inner pocket of his fanciful robe, almost comically large. Rowan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I've heard it over and over again: if anyone can knock an unruly slave back into line, it's the Banks brothers. Well, let me tell you, unruly doesn't even begin to describe this one. Undisciplined as all Abyss. And for the price I paid! It's practically criminal. Here we are." He pushed open the door and flipped on the light, revealing a stark, barren room hardly larger than a closet, windowless and clearly used for the express purpose of punishment. The ceiling's florescent bulb bore down on a small, curled figure lying on the ground.
Based on Sefton's complaints, Rowan had been expecting a thrasher, but instead he found himself looking at a thin, pitiful creature laying soundless on the uncarpeted floor, body rigid with terror. The boy could be no older than twenty-one or twenty-two, though he looked younger, as pleasure pets often did. Sefton had the boy bound within an inch of his life—metal manacles clasped around his ankles and connected by a chain, a thick leather mask strapped over his mouth to gag him, and, perhaps most ridiculously, a saints' bridle around the boy's neck. Saints' bridles were commonly used to control a wild slave by restricting his movements, and this one was no different. The thick metal collar locked around the boy's throat was adorned with two metal wrist cuffs clasped at either side, so that his hands were pinned at his neck, elbows bent. Though Rowan couldn't see it from his position he knew there would be a metal handle welded to the back of the collar as well, perfectly suitable for attaching a leash or simply grabbing and moving an unwilling body.
It was excessive. Rowan was no stranger to a saints' bridle, having had to use them on a few notable occasions to break an unruly slave—though really that was more Carver's area of expertise—but this boy was so obviously broken already, and he was clearly going nowhere. He'd hardly even reacted to their entrance, except to begin visibly shivering. His eyes, blinking rapidly against the harsh light after laying in pitch dark for Heavens knew how long, stared resolutely into the middle distance, refusing to look at either man standing above him.
"Hoi, pet! Acknowledge your master when he enters a room!" Sefton let out a long suffering sigh. "Do you see what I mean?"
Rowan bit back a scathing remark about how, exactly, a bound and gagged slave was supposed to acknowledge his master, and stepped into the small room. He moved slowly, standing over the slave to block the harsh light from his eyes, but his proximity only seemed to make the boy shiver harder. "How long has he been like this?"
"Since the doctor left. I wasn't going to take any chances."
"And when was that?"
Sefton sniffed haughtily. "Early this morning. Four, perhaps five or so. I called her in as soon as I realized what he'd done."
Great Saints, it was well after lunch. He'd been bound for eight hours at least. Fucking nobility. "I'll need to examine him."
Sefton made an impatient gesture. "Go on then."
Rowan knelt down in front of the boy. This close, even with the leather gag covering half of his face, it was obvious that the slave was beautiful. He had a boyish, innocent face with fine-boned features and a straight nose, and his coloring was plain but pleasant. Beneath the blotchy flush of fear and pain was pale, smooth skin, with a scattering of faint freckles across his nose, and chestnut curls tumbled about his face, many currently stuck to his temples with cold sweat. His eyes were brown but not overly dark, the sort of color that would look golden in the right sort of light.
His body, hidden inside in a plain white, shapeless shift, was compact and slim. More of those faint freckles dusted his bare shoulders. He looked, in Rowan's professional opinion, slightly underfed. Dark red marks scorched his wrists and ankles where the manacles had bitten into his skin during the last eight hours, but besides that Rowan saw no obvious signs of injury. The rest, he knew, was hidden somewhere beneath the white shift.
The boy's hands were shaking where the saints' bridle trapped them at his neck, and his chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, but still he kept his eyes locked forward into the middle distance, refusing to look up at Rowan.
Completely petrified, then. Rowan sighed. Not a good starting place. It would make his job harder.
"Where exactly are the wounds?" he asked stiffly.
"On his front. Have a look, but I warn you, they're disgusting."
Rowan sighed again. "Right. On your back now, little one," he said, and carefully pushed the boy from his side onto his back, the skin of his shoulder cold and clammy under Rowan's palm. The boy went without resistance, but Rowan earned his first reaction as he touched him—a quick, sharp intake of breath through his nose, and a flinch like he'd been slapped.
The white shift was knee-length. Rowan lifted the hem and pushed it out of the way. The boy was naked underneath, as expected, and the lithe body was every bit as lovely as his face, smooth skin with only a light dusting of fine body hair, and a pretty cock nestled between his thighs. It was an exceptionally beautiful figure that would have made Rowan enough money to last him an entire year, if not for one jarring, awful flaw. His heart sank.
Over his shoulder, Sefton hissed in revulsion. "It's a fucking shame, I tell you," he said.
Rowan gaped down at the long, angry gashes that marred the boy's front, two long, bright red wounds that traveled from the bottom of his chest to the soft flesh of his belly, just beneath his ribs. The skin looked like it had been sliced open with a blade. At the tops of the gashes, on his chest, were several small, shallow scrapes, as though it had taken a few tries to work up enough nerve to press the blade in. "Saints in Heaven," Rowan breathed. "He did this to himself?"
"Yes!"
"How?"
"With a kitchen knife. He snuck out of his room in the middle of the night and got his hands on one."
"But—why?" Rowan couldn't keep the sharp edge of accusation from his voice.
"Saints only know why! I was asleep in bed when it happened, and my wife and staff will attest to that. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. He simply went mad, I tell you."
Yes, I'm sure you had nothing to do with it at all, Rowan thought bitterly, and looked back at the wounds. They'd been cleaned by Sefton's doctor and expertly sealed with clear medical adhesive, but no amount of soothing salves or vanishing ointments would every truly hide them. They would scar, and badly. It was a devastating blow to the boy's value.
"I called the doctor right away," Sefton repeated. "I'm good to my slaves. I keep them fed, bathed, clothed, all their needs met, and can you believe that this is my reward? The little shit is damaged goods—literally, now. Do you have any idea how much he cost? I've only had him six months. I've hardly gotten my money's worth!"
Rowan was watching the boy's face as Sefton ranted. The bleak, thousand-mile stare was slowly melting away, his silent, tenuous composure breaking, chest rising and falling more quickly as his fear rose closer to the surface. Tears started to gather in his eyes, and he blinked them fiercely away.
"It's highway robbery, I tell you, selling head-botched slaves. This morning I called the dealer I purchased him from, and do you know what they told me? That the return period lasted only one month, and if I tried to bring him back now it would be treated as a normal sale. A sale! What in Saint Hyram's name do you think I'd get for him in this state? I hope you have some use for him, Mr. Banks, or else I'll have to take him to one of those dockside fuck-houses in the lower city and hope someone there will offer fifty scolar to take him off my hands. A damned waste of money, he's been—"
"That's quite enough, Lord Sefton," Rowan snapped, and Sefton's mouth clicked shut. He looked a bit surprised to have been barked at, but made no reprising remark, doubtless because he wanted Rowan's money and knew Rowan would offer him more than some drug-slurred fuck-house pimp.
Rowan yanked the shift down to cover the boy, who was by now choking back quiet sobs behind the leather gag, and stood to his full height. He was taller than Sefton and used that fact to his advantage, glaring down at him. "You called me here to do business, not cry over financial losses. Tell me, what do you assess the slave's value to be in his current condition?"
Sefton grumbled his annoyances and then they got to bartering.
It didn't take long. Sefton wanted a price far too high for a disfigured pleasure pet, which Rowan made abundantly clear and beat him down to a more reasonable eight hundred scolar. It was still more than he wanted to pay—more than the slave was worth in his current state, certainly—but there was no way in the six Abysses that he was going to leave the boy in this house.
"Go have your man draw up a bill of sale," Rowan said after they shook on it. "I'll be taking the pet with me."
"Bless you, Rowan Banks," Sefton said, though he still sounded a touch sour. "You've no idea what a relief this is." And then he was gone.
The only sound in the small room was the slave's shallow breaths.
Rowan looked down at him, still splayed on his back exactly as he'd been left, arms trapped beside his head in the saints' bridle. He looked so small and young, so frightened. It was a shame. A boy this beautiful could have been placed with a well-suited master and spoiled rotten until he purred like a kitten. Instead, Sefton had somehow driven him to commit an act of self-violence unlike any Rowan had ever seen.
He knelt down beside the slave again, watching the way the boy looked anywhere but Rowan's face. A fucking same—that was one thing he agreed with Sefton on, at least. This whole mess was a fucking shame, through and through.
Rowan sighed.
"Come on, up you get. You've spent enough time wallowing." Rowan reached for the boy, ignoring the way he flinched when his hands came close, and pulled him up into a sitting position, arranging him so that they were face to face. Once again the slave stayed exactly where he was put, shaking awfully in Rowan's grip, shivering like a reed.
Rowan studied him more closely this time. The boy kept his eyes, damp with fresh tears, turned down toward his lap.
"Look at me," Rowan said, gentle and firm.
The slave exhaled shakily through his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, as though the command had caused him physical pain. His hands tangled into his own curls and clutched tightly.
"I said look at me," Rowan repeated, a bit more firmly, and touched the boy's chin to lift his face.
The boy did as he was told this time, looking at Rowan with large, red-rimmed brown eyes, a familiar desperation in them that Rowan had seen many times in the faces of abused slaves, but never in such a way that pulled at his heartstrings so dearly, and he wasn't entirely sure why. As he looked, a single pitiful tear rolled down the boy's cheek, and he gently brushed it away with his knuckle.
"You belong to me now, sweet boy," he said quietly, "and I'm going to get you out of here."
_____
Thanks for reading! lmk if you liked or if you want to be added to a tag list for future posts.
“Think about it, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer crowed. “Just imagine! A prince bowing at your feet! Serving you. In any manner you wish!”
The implications of the last statement sent shudders into his body and the crowd rose in volume and even more in price.
Arthur shut his eyes. This was him now. A slave. His past life forgotten save for the appeal of selling him off to a new master. He had tried to escape so many times and had the scars to count them, but he could escape no more now. He had accepted it months ago.
Suddenly, a voice rose.
“Twelve hundred gold pieces.”
And the crowd fell into a hush.
The hatch above sliced the weak light like a cutting wire, casting a grid on the damp stone walls below. Connell watched through half-closed eyes as two water droplets slid down the wall toward a patch of light. He wasn’t betting on any droplet in particular; simply observing their progress.
Doran spoke, his voice raspy from dehydration. They weren’t quite thirsty enough to start licking the walls, but it was only a matter of time.
“Hey, Con,” he rasped. “What time d’you think it is?”
The first dozen times Doran had asked this question, Connell had tried to make out the hour by the subtle variation in the darkness. The next dozen times, he’d responded with sarcasm. Now he didn’t even bother to reply.
“I’d wager it’s lunchtime,” said Doran. “Hey, Con. What’ll you wager it’s lunchtime?”
“Doran, we’re in a pit. What do you expect me to wager, rat bones?”
There was a pause.
“I don’t think all of these bones belonged to rats,” said Doran.
Connell had been trying not to look too closely at the pitiful heap of bones against the far wall. Now it loomed hugely in the corner of his eye, a portent of a future he didn’t want to contemplate. He turned back to the water droplets, but they had already been absorbed into the stone.
“Hey, Con.”
When Connell didn’t reply, Doran kept repeating his name until he snapped.
“What?”
“D’you think Toby and Luca made it to Fleetside?”
There was a long silence. This time Doran didn’t try to break it.
The top of the pit opened with a scream of metal. Piercing sunlight streamed down. Connell and Doran scrambled to their feet, squinting up through watering eyes. Connell could just make out dark figures high above. He had the image of hunters looking into a trapping pit to see what they’d caught for dinner.
There was a muffled discussion, too far up for Connell's straining ears to hear. Then something was thrown down. A rope ladder. It unrolled as it fell before jerked to a stop a few feet above the damp ground.
“They can’t seriously expect us to climb up,” said Connell.
Doran was already testing the ladder’s bottom rung to see if it would hold his weight. He cast Connell a scornful look.
“What else are we going to do? Stay here and starve?”
He had a point. Still…
“What if they cut our heads off once we get to the top?”
“It’ll be a better death than that poor bugger got,” said Doran, nodding to the heap of bones.
That was all the convincing Connell needed. If he was going to die, he wanted to die on his feet, under the sky, with the gods as his witnesses. Not here in a hole like a rat.
Doran was already scaling the ladder. Connell took a steadying breath and pulled himself up after.
They emerged several long minutes later, sweating, panting, dizzy with hunger and vertigo. After so long spent in the dark of the pit, even the pale gray sun was blinding. Connell wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve. The figures swam into focus—not Dogs of Guye but a dozen armed men who wore no uniform. Still, Connell could tell they were soldiers. It wasn’t just their weapons, but their air of casual menace and the readiness with which they held themselves.
Gods above and below, Connell was sick of soldiers. Nearly as sick as he was of waiting to die. He almost hoped this lot would just kill them and have done with it.
“You’re the freedmen they call Connell and Doran?”
The question was asked by a wiry, weathered, quick-eyed man in a dark orange greatcoat. He had no symbols of office on his breast, but it was clear from the way his fellows regarded him that he was the leader here.
Connell and Doran shared a speaking look. They had no friends in this place. Anyone who was looking for them by name meant them harm.
Their fear must’ve shown on their faces. The soldier held up his hands.
“We’re no enemies of yours, lads. Got you out of that pit, didn’t we? I’m to bring you to Robert Black. Orders from the man himself.”
“Why?” asked Doran, only remembering to add “Sir” when Connell elbowed him.
“Something to do with his boy,” said the soldier, shrugging. “Anyway, you ought to be thanking your lucky stars Black spared a thought for you, busy as he is. The Dogs meant to leave you down there. They were taking bets on how long you'd last.”
Connell and Doran shared another speaking look. This time it was horror that echoed between them like the sound of a scream too deep in the earth for any living soul to hear.
“How long were we down there, sir?” Doran asked.
“Two days,” the man replied. “And no wonder you’re jumpy as cats, you must be bloody starving.” He took some bread from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and tossed it to them. “Thought so,” he said, as they fell on their portions like wolves. “I’m Tyburn, by the way.”
The name was vaguely familiar. From Doran’s reaction, he knew it.
As they followed the man—away from the pit, thank all the gods; Connell would be glad to have no more dealings with pits for as long as he lived—Doran leaned in and hissed, “Willy Tyburn, Con! He’s the Terror of King’s Road! His gang held up Lord Ambrose’s carriage, remember? The Duke wouldn’t leave the grounds for months without an armed guard.”
As usual, Doran had spoken louder than he intended. Tyburn cast an amused look over his shoulder.
“Belonged to the Duke of Chesten, did you?”
Connell and Doran exchanged guilty looks.
“Yes, sir,” said Connell. He turned his forearm to show the Duke’s mark branded there. He was so blanched from the cold that four-ringed annulet stood out like a blood-blister.
“We aren’t runaways, sir,” said Doran quickly. “The Dogs freed us.”
“I’m in the business of taking collars off slaves, lad, not putting ’em back on,” said Tyburn. “Whether in the Dogs’ camp or ours, you’re free men.”
Doran didn’t try to hide his relief. Seeing it, Connell had to tamp down a searing flash of anger. After everything Doran had put them through—after what had been done to them, to Toby, to Luca—even now, after all of it, the only thing he cared about was his precious fucking freedom.
Toby and Luca. Could they have run into Robert Black on the way to Fleetside? Luca had been a spy, after all, however difficult it was for Connell to get his head around; he and Black were on the same side. And they’d known each other in Lyonesse, hadn’t they? That brute Arkwright had said as much. Black had been one of Luca’s clients when he was still posing as a lord. But maybe that, too, had been a ruse, a cover for their meetings. Maybe Black and Luca were better acquainted than anyone knew.
The same thoughts were going through Doran’s head. In a voice too low for Tyburn to hear, he whispered, “Something to do with his boy. You don’t think…?”
Connell didn’t know what to think. But he hoped. He hoped more fiercely than he’d let himself hope for anything in a very long time.
They passed through the vast gates and emerged onto the moor. When Connell was here last, it had been an expanse of damp mist drifting over earth so barren even the snow seemed to wither as it fell. Overnight, a city had sprung up. It was a city of tents, thousands on thousands, vanishing into the far distance. Within those tents and bustling between them were twice, no, three times as many men—soldiers, Connell supposed, though few wore anything like a uniform, and some of those uniforms were in Ademar’s colors. At least half looked more like Midland peasants than battle-hardened rebels.
“Con, look!”
Connell followed Doran’s pointing finger to a group of men distinct not only for their richly-colored skin but their military bearing. These must be the Enkaaran mercenaries he’d heard about. They were certainly easier to imagine in battle than the peasants. Still, in their pale uniforms against the backdrop of gray tents and grayer sky, they looked lost, even a little forlorn, like a flock of birds blown off-course in a storm.
“Poor buggers came all the way to Castle Guye just to camp on the bloody doorstep,” said Tyburn, shaking his head. “That’s Northern hospitality for you.”
He brought Connell and Doran to a tent that would have been indistinguishable from any of the others except for its size and the sense that, somehow, the rest of the camp had been built around it. A line of people queued outside, all with that air of self-possession particular to freeborn men. They reacted with varying degrees of indignation as Tyburn pushed Connell and Doran past them and into the tent.
Judging from the bustle of activity within, they’d just entered the center of operations. These soldiers were clearly among the more seasoned. Connell even spotted a few faces he recognized from Redditch. Others were familiar from the wanted posters he’d seen in Lyonesse and along the King’s Road.
And at the center of it all was Robert Black.
He would’ve stood out even if he hadn’t been half a head taller than everyone but the barbarian who loomed at his right side. There was the red hair, of course, unnervingly similar to the color of dried blood, and the eyes that stared out of deep hollows, as hard and bright and calculating as a carrion bird’s. Connell had seen drawings of Black’s face on wanted posters—bad drawings, he’d thought at the time, but seeing their subject now, there was some truth to the depictions. He might not have the cartoonish menace of the posters, but Robert Black was the most dangerous-looking man Connell had ever seen.
Robert looked up and saw them. It was like being pinned under a glacier.
“That will be all,” he said.
He didn’t even need to raise his voice. In a moment the tent was empty. Even Tyburn melted away. The only one who stayed was the barbarian. Black’s bodyguard, Connell assumed. His was not a comforting presence.
Robert Black came around the desk and leaned against it. There was a silence; Connell measured its length in heartbeats. When at last Robert spoke, his voice was chillingly devoid of feeling.
“So you’re the so-called friends who abducted Luca.”
Whether it’s magic-wielders oppressed under Uther’s rule or Arthur and the knights captured and collared, the following fics feature Merlin characters enduring slavery, escaping it, or rebuilding their lives after breaking free. Emotional, physical, or psychological, the impact of enslavement plays a significant role in the narrative.
Today's gen fic rec theme: Slavery
Note: Some of these fics are very dark and can contain mature themes. FF.net fics especially may not come with suitable warnings. Take care!
↓ Find the list of fanfic recs under the cut! ↓
⚬ Hell Bent by s0mmerspr0ssen, 35k, rated M
https://archiveofourown.org/works/42762729
summary: After Camelot is almost lost to Agravaine and Morgana, Merlin is about ready to reveal his magic to Arthur. But when he finds out Gwen is pregnant, Merlin’s priorities shift. Soon, he is focused on keeping little Prince Amhar safe from harm, no matter what. Merlin sets out to invoke a blessing on Arthur’s son, hoping to keep evil forces at bay, but things quickly spiral out of control…
⚬ Bought and Sold by PeaceHeather, 100k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532389
summary: While still recovering their relationship after "The Curse of Cornelius Sigan", Arthur goes missing and is presumed dead. Merlin, despite his anger toward Arthur, refuses to give up on his friend, and goes on a search that takes him farther from home than he's ever been. Can he find and rescue the missing prince? Will Arthur forgive him for the methods he uses to save him?
⚬ What Have Kings by antonomasia09, 30k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/951145
summary: Arthur is the king of Camelot, but his hold on power is tenuous at best due to an injury that won't properly heal. Merlin is a druid slave whose life Arthur saves on a whim. Together, they embark on a quest to reclaim the legendary sword lost by Arthur’s father, and to restore faith in the Pendragon name. Fusion with The Eagle.
⚬ To Rattle Your Chains If You Love Being Free by Bookworm8793, 32k, rated G
https://archiveofourown.org/works/28816674
summary: In a society where all sorcerers are enslaved and stripped of their magic, 12-year-old Merlin is sold away from his mother to serve Arthur Pendragon, son of the wealthy Uther Pendragon of Pendragon Industries. Though the life of a slave is harsh and taxing, Merlin just might find comfort and even friendship in his new home. And Arthur may discover that the system he's always accepted may not be as simple as he thought. Can the two of them bridge the social gap and change their world for the better?
⚬ Silence Cuts Loudest Through the Chaos by 1917farmgirl, 100k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/11112834
summary: Kidnapped by a mad king, Arthur and Merlin must rely on each other like never before. While Arthur struggles with choices that put his heart and duty at odds, Merlin struggles just to stay alive after being stripped of his magic and freedom. With impossible choices and heavy secrets weighing them down, can they manage to escape before all is lost?
⚬ Untie from an Old Life by 1917farmgirl, 12k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/48722077
summary: When Prince Arthur sets out on his first official journey to represent the Crown of Camelot, all he really wants is to prove himself and make his father proud. However, an undesired gift sets him on a path of self-discovery, and his life changes forever as the principles of his youth come crashing down.
⚬ Destiny (Un)Shackled by s0mmerspr0ssen, 40k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/43806078
summary: With Priestess Morgause and the powerful warlock Emrys at his side, King Cenred is set on conquering all of Albion. King Arthur is determined to keep Camelot safe from Essetir's power-hungry ruler. After sending Gwaine to infiltrate and investigate the enemy, Arthur manages to strike Cenred an unexpected blow by capturing Emrys, considered a war criminal of the worst kind. But Arthur and his knights soon get an inkling that Cenred's war sorcerer might not be as evil as they thought him to be. Will a quest to save all of Albion be enough for both king and sorcerer to step back on the path prophecies have once foretold?
⚬ So Much More by kriadydragon, 10k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/524745
summary: AU of The Dragon's Call. Arthur rescues a slave boy. Destiny can begin.
⚬ Pain Has an Element of Blank by Emachinescat, 5k, rated T
https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495484
summary: Sequel to “I Should Not Dare to Leave My Friend.” Merlin is captured by slave traders who don’t need a magical artifact to contain his powers. After all, even the most powerful sorcerer in the world can’t run away if his legs are broken. Even contained, though, Merlin’s a force to be reckoned with – and he is determined to make it back home. Back to Arthur. TW: broken bones, slavery. Written for Febuwhump on Tumblr. Day 16: broken bones.
⚬ The King Worthy of Emrys by pumpkinmoose22, 24k, rated T
https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13053381/1/The-King-Worthy-of-Emrys
summary: Arthur never would have thought he'd find his former servant Merlin in a place like this. The new king had to convince the warlock to return with him to Camelot. It shouldn't be too difficult to do. After all, who would rather stay in a brothel than return to the white city?
⚬ How To Save a Life by PadawanGirl, 32k, rated T
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7338165/1/How-To-Save-a-Life
summary: When Arthur meets a boy, a slave, he feels the need to help save him. He can't explain it, he just knows it is meant to be. As if it is his destiny.
⚬ My Master's Word by CeriDouglas, 75k, rated M
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11645892/1/My-Master-s-Word
summary: When Prince Arthur goes to collect tribute from a vassal and visit his cousin, he doesn't expect to pick up a slave or find out that his aunt is a witch. Pushed beyond his father's ideals, Arthur has to choose between the laws he was trained to uphold and what he knows to be right. Slave!Merlin. Young Merlin & Arthur. Whump included. Rated M for mature themes.
⚬ Sold by DwaejiTokki, 43k, rated M
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11139229/1/Sold
summary: Gwaine and Merlin have run into trouble. That is, they've been captured by slave traders. While Arthur and company search, Merlin and Gwaine find new work for a nobleman in Lot's kingdom. Gwaine, in return for Merlin's safety, promises to behave...But what happens if he slips?
⚬ Silenced by Mississippi-moon, 18k, rated M
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13644478/1/Silenced
summary: Arthur discovers a certain secret about his manservant and his world suddenly flips upside down. The prince must send his best friend away, just for a little while so he can figure out what to do next. Merlin should be safe on his own, right? After all, he is a powerful warlock… Takes place after The Coming of Arthur, but Uther was still in his right mind after Morgana's betrayal.
The blue-skinned boy was clearly unwell as he stumbled into Shmi’s home in the Mos Espa Slave Quarter behind Watto. He covered in a horrid purple sunburn, bad enough to blister, and was sweating and feverish. And he probably had an eye disease too, solid red eyes with no pupil couldn’t be healthy on any species of near human, could they?
Watto said he had bought the boy “as a replacement for Ani” at a bargain price, and that she was to nurse the boy to make sure his money was not wasted. As far as Shmi was concerned, every wupipi Watto spent on sentient property could be eaten by the sarlacc and it wouldn’t be nearly enough, but she didn’t want the boy to die for his own sake. Being a slave on Tatooine wasn’t much of a life, but it was better than dying of heatstroke at what looked to be around twelve standard.
Newest chapter of my ongoing story Hold me tight. Let me go. just dropped^^ What kind of story is that you might ask? Here is the short summary:
Five years after getting raped by the prince at the castle he works at, a slave finds himself with new attention by said prince. And much to his dismay, the prince has gotten it into his head to make him his personal slave to ‚keep him company at night‘. Which is nothing short of all his nightmares come real.
