This, thought Merlin, is why I detest hunting.
Not the heat. Not the work. Not the killing of poor defenseless animals. All of that was terrible, but he would hate Arthur's hunting trips anyway.
Because they always went wrong. Every sodding time.
Like now, for instance. Merlin's pulse beat in his head, a vicious tattoo on the inside of his skull. He groaned quietly and tried to decide whether opening his eyes would be worth the effort. He tried to bring his hands to his forehead and was met with the rather unsettling realization that his hands were bound above his head. With a sigh, he let his head droop back onto his chest.
"Merlin!" A voice hissed.
Go 'way, he thought.
"Merlin, are you awake?" There was that voice again. "No," he muttered. Why wouldn't it let him sleep?
"Merlin!" That sounded a lot like....
His head jerked up "Arthur!" Not his best idea. The cave-why were they in a cave?-spun sickeningly. Merlin blinked furiously, trying to see and get his bearings.