Heavy is the Head ▻ Merthur

FOURTEEN - Rage, Rage

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~ DYLAN THOMAS, DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOODNIGHT

➣

Arthur awoke to icy water filling his nose, his mouth. He gasped and choked, gulping for breath and scrambled to his feet, head whipping around in panic, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Still shackled, still trapped - however, Arthur was instantly aware of a lone figure protruding from the darkness beyond the barred cell door, hidden in shadow and ominously motionless. The candle atop the stool had died during his slumber, but now a flickering torch provided illumination - nonetheless failing to diminish the freezing chill that pinched the Prince's skin - and the ruddy flames made the figure's features gaunt and twisted, casting dancing shadows upon the bars that separated them. And yet - despite the corporeal shadows that shrouded the figure - Arthur's stomach lurched with recognition and his skin prickled; as though the cold droplets upon his face were shards of glass, and their trickling pathways carved deep gashes.

Morgana - his own kin. Nonetheless, Arthur knew it was she who had plotted the attack - who had imprisoned the pair and orchestrated Merlin's torturous symphony of pain. He realised he wasn't surprised. Instead however, he was solely consumed with a suffocating, crushing fear. It was unbearable to fathom the boundless, cruel suffering Merlin would've endured at her hands. What had become of Arthur's lover?

As though the Prince had voiced his concerns aloud, Morgana smiled. An introduction or greeting was not necessary; she noted the horrified recognition within Arthur's eyes, and relished it.

"He's alive." She drawled casually, placing down an empty decanter - Arthur realising it was the source of his rude awakening - and slotting the torch into a bracket on the wall. Stepping forward, she gripped the iron bars and surveyed her prisoner with savage, starving intent; such a piercing stare that her victim involuntarily shuddered, and adverted his gaze.

Countless questions bubbled to Arthur's lips as he stood, swaying slightly in the frigid atmosphere, lips frozen and barren. After a moment the words emerged, unplanned and ungracious in their tumbling haste.

"How a-alive... is he?"

Through the bars, Arthur watched as Morgana's lips curled triumphantly, and his stomach twisted with sickening fear.

"Why don't you judge that for yourself?" Her coy simper contained a hidden order, as two barbaric men materialised from the shadows behind her. Between them hung a limp figure, who - in the murky depths, untouched by the fire's glow - stumbled faltering, seeming uncertain and dazed.

Thrust carelessly into the cell, the frail figure fell heavily at Arthur's feet, collapsing in a crooked pile like a stringless puppet - the door clashing hastily shut in his wake, the resounding peal grating Arthur's ears and echoing around his head as he stared in despondent dread at his lover.

Merlin's hair plastered his forehead, cemented by sweat and rusted blood, shadowing his face in dull, pallid shades. His cheeks were sallow - a ruddy glow long forgotten - but Arthur couldn't advert his gaze from the sickening sight.

Increasingly disturbing, however, was the tattered bandage that wound haphazardly around his eyes - secured in an untidy knot at the back of his head. Foreboding bloodied stains made dark, hollow pools where Merlin's oceanic eyes should have twinkled, and Arthur felt bile rise in his throat. He looked away; he couldn't help it.