Each hollow tap announced a jarring pinprick of pain; though barely conscious, Merlin was growing increasingly aware of this rhythmic order which numbed his fingers and set his skin ablaze. His eyelids flickered delicately – declaring his waking presence – as his mind reluctantly churned, recalling their last waking moments.
A steady bustle and a sense of readiness hangs in the air as Arthur is hauled from sight. Morgana leans over to gloat triumphantly --
"You're going to regret many things."
--- and his eyelids droop as he feels iron fingers pinching his arms, hurling him ungraciously over a shoulder. His senses crumble, and he can remember no more.
His sluggish mind begged him to return to blissful senselessness; but with a low groan he stirred, levering his eyelids upwards. Taut apprehension twisted his stomach and made his toes curl as the strident, melancholy tune grated boundlessly at his ringing ears; the sharp, pricking pain not ceasing with Merlin's awakening.
He had to find Arthur.
Though his eyelids sagged wearily, a sickly light illuminated the cave - with no apparent source, seemingly only to emit from the glistening walls – and bathed the inhabitants in an ailing blanket of emerald. His limbs were restrained and his head swam dizzyingly, warping tunnelled vision, while his chin bumped against his chest haphazardly, offering the sight of bloodied fabric and rolled-sleeves. Bound to a wooden chair, stranded in the centre of a vast cavern, Merlin was undoubtedly vested by his cruel captor.
Hazy and unfocused, his watery eyes fell upon a figure - who knelt with ease at his feet - tenderly upholding his subject's limp hand. Intense concentration warmed his steely eyes – so much so, that Merlin initially failed to notice his striking tattoos. Uncounted and untold; they blossomed from his temple and danced over his umber features, spiralling into the abyss of fabric he donned.
Next he studied – with faltering, fascinated horror – the man's foreign apparatus, and the cause of his constant pain. Undeterred by Merlin's audible whimper, the artist worked purposefully. A stick – protruding an inked needle point - penetrated his victim's skin, the cause of the abhorrent, steady tapping coming from a hammer-like tool that knocked the needle into the flesh with cool, confident skill. Black ink bubbled at the surface – a stark pattern again Merlin's sallow hand, turned palm-down against the wooden arms – and formed a pattern where infused under the skin.
An unremarkable double-bar; one on each hand. However – to the warlock's unawareness - such arrangement was crippling upon a sorcerer's hand, and a sorcerer Merlin was cursed to be.
Panicked eyes swivelled wildly, sweeping over dire surroundings. Above his head, stalactites hung - suspended like spears, bearing ghoulish blood that glistened and dribbled. Otherwise, the cavern was bare - shrouded in impenetrable shadow - with no visible exit; and it appeared that his tormentor was his sole company. Nonetheless, an omnipresent, stifling presence unnerved Merlin.
There was only one explanation -- she was here.
As though summoned by thought alone, Morgana slunk from the shadows. She appeared sinisterly enthralled by the artist's sharp, rhythmic movements, her jade eyes sweeping the stage; settling upon her hostage with triumphant glee. Merlin's heart fluttered, his senses flooding back with unwelcome gusto, choking him in burning tendrils of pain that licked at his raw, swollen hands - still relentlessly worked upon.
Neglecting formalities, the witch appeared devotedly transfixed by Merlin's progressing tattoo.
"Do you recognise the marks?"
YOU ARE READING
Heavy is the Head ▻ Merthur
Fanfictie"There is no way Merlin is screwing the Prince of Camelot." ↴ Little did he know, Gawain had never been more wrong. ♖ ♔ ♖ In which Merlin learns love, lust and loss through the wicked hand of his enemies, and Arthur realises that his most corrupt si...
