"There is no way Merlin is screwing the Prince of Camelot." ↴
Little did he know, Gawain had never been more wrong.
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In which Merlin learns love, lust and loss through the wicked hand of his enemies, and Arthur realises that his most corrupt si...
Atop a wind-ravened heath, a Seer gazes towards a looming mountain range, draped in cold shadow by clustered clouds.
"Emrys has been blinded, and he cannot see good or bad, nor magic or might."
The words tear from his lips, hallowed and haunted - but the wind whips his cry into oblivion, mocking Albion's loss.
"Magic has fallen."
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Guttural, tortured screams - so primal and harrowing - echoed through the stone tunnels from afar, reverberating around Arthur's head until they consumed him whole. The tormented, broken howls that tore from achingly familiar lips rang unsteadily in the dank air, stamping out any kindling of hopefulness the Prince had previously clung to.
He clenched his jaw and buried his head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut, mouth set in a hard line. The servant's sobbing cries were interrupted only by a piercing harmony of pain that tore from his throat and spoke only of unbearable pain; resounding wails filled with such undue agony and misery that Arthur felt unwelcome tears prick his eyes.
Tears of pain, despair or condolence; it was all irrelevant as they streamed steadily down his cheeks, carving trenches through the blood and grime that blanketed his drawn features as the bewailing sounds ceased to end.
Merlin - it was surely his voice that sang the horrors of torture. What were they doing to him? Who were they?
Fettered and shackled, the degraded Prince huddled in a state of wretched, despairing sorrow. The only illumination flickered from a small candle atop a stool in the farthest corner, casting a weak, empathetic glow upon the cell's lone inhabitant. Chained to the wall like a lowly animal, Arthur's shoulder throbbed incessantly - though almost disturbingly, hurt no more than a mere bruise. Whoever had imprisoned him must have done something to ease the pain; yet this notion brought only fear.
Huddled against the chilled, barren rock wall, the royal found no solace in the shrinking candle. It was a constant reminder of time passing - where he could do nothing to ease Merlin's misery - and the fast-shrinking wick. The flames licked at the jagged walls, providing no warmth; merely a ghostly glow that illuminated the prisoner's loathsome chamber.
The cave walls arched high enough that Arthur could stand tall, and just wide enough that he could lay down - not that he wanted to. It was deathly cold, his breath misting before him like a puff of smoke curling from a chimney. The walls and floor were uneven and damp; he might guess he was trapped in a small, modified cave - a side-chamber in a maze of mountain tunnels - and that Merlin was being kept in some distant chamber.
It could be any hill or mountain range; Arthur didn't know. He possessed no sense of time since his fall, and was barely aware of how many hours had passed - save the gnawing hunger that clawed at his insides. No food had been left, or passed through the barred iron-gate; beyond which lay heavy darkness, and nothing more. Only water, and a shred of cloth to clean his wounds.
He had begged and prayed and rattled the bars, hollering until his throat was raw and sharp - but his lone reply was just a ghostly, mocking echo of his own sobs. Wretched thoughts constantly plagued his feverish mind; what was the last thing he had said to his servant?
"Come on Merlin, stop being such a forest-fairy and loosen up."
The words smouldered like coals in his heart. Regret fed flames that licked at his insides, scratching his throat and making his eyes water. Why had he been so terse and abrupt?
Arthur was scared. Furious and vengeful towards whomever had captured the pair, but almost solely consumed by fear. He was desperate to escape, desperate to know if Merlin would ever grace his presence again; desperate to know if his lover still harboured breath in his body.
Dressed in just a shirt and trousers - robbed of his chainmail and cloak - Arthur felt the biting chill attack his curled fingers. In the blissful silence between the screams, he was met with only deep, pressing silence; no footsteps or voices, or anything to distract his whirling mind. Even the air smelt dank and heavy, like the lowest depths of Camelot's most guarded vaults. He could do nothing but watch the wax drip, and replay the events in his head.
It had all happened so fast.
Had the knights fled? Arthur remembered sending Leon away, but that was the extent of his recollection. Thereafter, hazy fog swamped his memories - he hadn't even caught glimpse of the figure who had led the ambush. The last thing Arthur remembered was Merlin clutching him closer as his eyelids drooped shut and darkness invaded.
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Hours later, when silence finally fell, it brought an unsettling array of anxious unease that swamped the fragmented Prince, drowning his belief that Merlin might still be alive. Heavy weariness dragged at his limbs like the chains that coiled around his body, making his movements slow and sluggish, and - had he more energy - he might've rattled the bars and begged to hear Merlin's voice once more.
Alas, he remained frozen and motionless as the candle danced its farewell.
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a/n - I hope you enjoyed this little catch-up with Arthur!
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Stay tuned for the next chapter,,, where Merlin and Arthur are reunited ;)
