A/N: I don't own BBC Merlin (if I did the series would have had at least one year where magic was being brought back). I do own most of the plot, though part of it is inspired by actual Arthurian Legends.

THIS FIC HAS TWO MAJOR CHANGES TO THE OVERALL PLOT OF MERLIN!

In episode 3x12/3x12, where Morgana takes the Throne from Uther, she doesn't fire on the people, Morgause orders the soldiers to, leading Morgana to halt the arrows in mid-air. Not to mention leading to a slight discord between the two sorceresses. IT WILL MAKE SENSE! (However, Morgana won't just be magick'ed better or back to how she was a couple of years ago).

In 4x12/4x13 she doesn't force the knights to fight for food, Helios does and Morgana halts it, insulting the need for barbaric sport, (She liked hunting and fighting yes, but she never really like the duels etc, and they at least had rules and honor). Agravaine extracts the information about Arthur's whereabouts from Elyan, trying to get back into Morgana's good books, what with the rivalry with Helios.

Also, I did change a few of the things that happened, however Morgana still kills her sister, uses the formorrah on Merlin and kills Uther.

Edited!


Prologue: Visions Of The Future


The shock of icy water knocked Merlin into consciousness; his lungs clambering for the heavy warm air surrounding him. The first thing he registered was the pain, there was a steady burning sensation the type you get when you're arms are pulled further than they're meant to go. He shifted slightly causing a spasm of agony to shoot through him. Taking a shuddering breath as he opened his eyes, blearily seeing the stone walls around him before blinking his eyes shut. Focusing on his other senses he felt the pulling on his arms and realised his arms were strung up, the biting cold of the metal digging into his wrists , the information spurred him to open his eyes again, he was he dangled from the ceiling in the centre of the room, his feet a foot or so from the even stone floor.

His normally bright blue eyes were flat and foggy as he slowly took in his surroundings, the room was circular, light filtered into it from windows near the ceiling a good 20 feet above him. His uneven breathing catching in his throat as he noted the four unmarked doorways, raised from the ground level and situated about halfway up the wall, higher than Merlin himself was. Merlin craned his sore neck to look up at the water running down the walls slowly filling the room, the splashing of the water must have been what shook him awake. 'How did he get here?' Merlin struggled with the thought, not sure of what had happened, the last thing he remembered was riding out of Caerleon with Gwaine. A wave of pain shot through his skull, as if someone had been looking for the information. Shuddering to himself and feeling strangely dirty he reached out to his magic, he felt the warm close friend rise up inside of him before sputtering against something and receding. The warlock tilted back to look at the chains again, they weren't spelled to contain magic, so what had happened to his? Merlin started freaking out and struggling, the shackles cut his wrists and blood ran down his arms.

He froze as a shivered as the air caressed his naked skin, his clothing was missing. He looked down at his thin body it was littered in bruises, 'What had happened? Was Arthur ok-' another wave of pain shot through his head, he stopped trying to think of the past. Instead he felt something bubbling up inside of him, he reached of it hoping it was his magic, it wasn't. The absurdity of his situation hit him and made laughter bubble to his lips, it escaped before he could stop it; growing hysterical as he fully realised his surroundings, his memory was foggy, his brain sluggish. The mad laughter died in his throat as the floor below him started shifting, rolling as it rose, his blue eyes widened as Merlin struggled to kick away from the water, blood trickled down his arms as the water unfeelingly rose to meet him. It was as cold as death with none of its mercy. Ever so slowly it inched its way up his unprotected body, his legs going numb with the cold, but still it carried on up over his hips and just a bit further, stopping at the most excruciating point where the chains still bore his weight but he still needed to tread the inky black water at the same time. Shivers started racking through his worn body, is felt like hours but haltingly his struggles slowed to a stop. No one watched as the greatest warlock of the age hung in the middle of a dungeon, pale as death and floating on the water, his lips blue as he took a slow shuddering breath and his eyes drooped as he fell into slumber's deep caress.

...


...

Arthur stared out at the countryside unseeing, his thoughts locked up in his head. The warm sun rained down, soothing the aches and pains that racked his body, even if he never let anyone see them. Quietly Gwen joined him on the ramparts, silently afraid he'd come up here to end it all.

"Arthur," She whispered quietly, "Arthur, please answer me."

"What is it Gwen?" He replied quietly, still staring absently ahead.

"Did you really have to do it?" She inquired, just as quietly, Arthur made no response, "Arthur, he was our friend, he was your friend, he's saved both our lives many times over!"

"Don't you see Gwen, I had no choice, if I'd let him stay, what would that say?" Arthur scoffed, "Some would think I was bewitched. No. If I wanted to change things he could not be here."

"You mean?"

Arthur nodded, still not looking at her, "I intend to parley with the druids as soon as I can. It will take time."

"Oh, Arthur!" Gwen exclaimed, putting her hand on his arm, "I am with you on this, whatever you need."

"I only hope I'm not too late."

"No. You won't be." She put her hand on his face, turning him to look at her, "You are a great King, Arthur. You will accomplish this."

Arthur leant into her embrace, "Every time I close my eyes I see them. I see him leave and I see Gwaine chase after him."

"They will come back Arthur. They know how much you care about them."

"This time I'm not so sure."

...


...

The man paced in his small cell, the dank floor was covered in straw and the walls were cool rough rock that were wet to the touch, the grate he'd been forced through was shut above him. Meals and water were thrown through in, once daily, leaving him to either catch them or scavenge them from the floor. Sighing he stopped moving and sat down against the wall, his trousers sucking up more filth as he lay back his head against the cool rock as it naturally tilted to the right, his lank once brown hair dangling in his face. Sat there, you could almost believe he was at rest, but if you looked closely every muscle in his body was tensed, prepared to jump into action at a moment's hesitation. His left eye was bruised and swollen, but not bad enough that he couldn't see through it. More bruises and cuts littered his face and body, there were scars along his torso, tokens of recent healings, and absently his right leg twitched remembering the feeling of the blade slicing it. Through the dirty light filtering in through the bars the subtle glint of a slave collar could be seen around his neck and below it over his exposed heart was a tattoo of a circle with a red dragon in the forefront, wrapping its limbs around it; the emblem of the Knights of the Round Table(1). His only hope was that Merlin managed to reach his destination that it all hadn't been for nothing.

A dull ringing started to travel through the cells as footsteps marched closer. Every so often the creak of a grate opening could be heard as the slaves were chosen. The caverns echoed with jeers and prayers as the damned walked past. The leader stopped outside of Gwaine's cage. So it was time then. The former knight slowly got up as the grate clattered open and a rope ladder was dropped down. He clambered out and looked at the ten or so other slaves gathered around him. Irons were clapped on his wrists as he was forced to join the line. They marched back through a circular route picking up a couple more men along the way and into the upper levels of the dungeons where they were separated off into holding cells to await their turn.

Time passed slowly for some and quickly for others waiting in the holding cells, it made no difference to Gwaine, not anymore. It was towards the end of the night when some guards came to escort Gwaine to the entryway. It was a large iron grate that needed to be winched up. He looked out onto the arena; he could just see the crowds on the level above, protected by their steep walls and decked out in all their finery. A passing glance paid to decorum as they hollered curses and jeers, made bets and lost fortunes. One of the guards pushed him forward, causing the former knight to stumble. His glanced back glaring at the guard, taking note of his face. The guard paled slightly when one of the others removed his shackles and handed him a battered sword. Rolling his shoulders Gwaine turned to look back at the proceedings.

"Tonight! The spectators have had the joy of being able to buy their own fighter!" The announcer paused, letting the tension build, "And for our final match we have a fight of six against one!" Some of the crowd gasped and booed but most of the mob cheered. "We have six fighters!" The opposite gate rose clanking loudly as six men were shoved into the arena, each holding their own weapon, three had swords, two had spears and one who towered over the other's held a mace.

Gwaine eyed them warily as he sadly took note of their names, whilst the announcer waxed and waned about their talents before moving on, "And to face them we have the so far undefeated knight of Camelot! SIR GWAINE!" He called loudly; the sarcasm could be heard from miles away.

Walking out into the arena he ignored to spit and curses flying towards him, eyeing up the six men, wondering who would attack first. They all moved to get a good position, Gwaine needed to keep from being surrounded. He grit his teeth knowing that the only way to survive was to keep moving, otherwise it just be a slaughterhouse. The final echo of the gate thudding down against the hard ground before it gave way to sound meant one thing. Begin. Puffs of dust rising from the impact of the six men moving meant he had to fight or die.

He ducked under the swings of the blades, lashing out with his own, he slashed one from the navel to chest before ducking under another swing and knocking them off balance with his sword and stabbing his sword into them as they bounced off the sand floor. Neither were quick deaths, they would linger for a while, unable to do anything even if they did live out the match, chances are the jailers would kill them anyways; their terrible cries of the fallen called out to him. But he pushed past it and turned to regard the four men poised to strike. The metallic smell of blood; its' copper tang riddled the air, overwhelming the senses. Calling out to something primal in Gwaine. Calling for him to unleash his anger; to let go of everything else and to give in. So that all that was left was the rage. Until the only thing he needed was the pleasure of the fight.

He looked at the whites of their eyes as the men circled him, stepping carefully over the gore littering the coliseums floor. It was enough to make a strong man wretch. The four men were grinning, their wolf like teeth were yellow encrusted with blood and meat. In the mad battles some formed teams; they revelled in the safety and slaughter before turning on themselves. But in this case, there was no need for them to fight each other, he was their prey.

The first man with a sword charged sending the former knight into a defensive crouch, Gwaine hamstringed him, but barely managed to deflect the second's sweeping over the head blow. Hastily he skipped backwards out of the way of the spears, as the other men joined the fray. The first man tried to push himself up when one of his teammates stabbed him in his throat.

Gwained breathed the sickly sweet turning sour air, as the warm blood dripped from his fingertips; he'd dropped his sword moving away from them. The two with the spear prodded and poked at him and the one with a mace just watched with a smirk etched into his scared face. Suddenly one of the spearmen lunged, Gwaine ducked underneath the wide swing and grabbed the shaft, head butting the man to make him let go, and he turned blocking the other spearman's attack; pushing him away before swinging around and slitting the first spearman's throat. He twirled the weapon around again to face the second spearman; he heard rather than saw the first fall to his knees before his lifeless body hit the floor. The first spearman cried out in anger, and charge blindly, swinging erratically but with skill and it was all Gwaine could do to avoid him. He cried out when the spearman caught him in the flank and grabbed the others spear, yanking it towards himself he impaled the second spearman with his stolen spear.

Crying out he slowly pulled the blade out, holding his right side with his left hand he limped over to the swords and picked up his before turning to regard the final enemy. The man was grinning widely, swinging his mace back and forth. Gwaine's side was burning, as were the cuts on his arms and legs that he didn't even remember getting. He grit his teeth against the pain, barely moving out of the way of the brutes swing. He was exhausted and injured. He was so sick and tired of having to fight, he felt like giving in. Closing his eyes he lowered his sword and just stood there, breathing in and out. He could hear the tell-tale whistle of the mace being swung. He opened his eyes and acted without thinking, he'd let the swing go wide and had stepped in, plunging the batter sword into his adversary. He watched the man's mouth open in shock and saw the light leave his eyes. Gwaine flinched back from the man, letting him fall to the unforgiving blood-stained sand. He stared down at his hands as the red haze faded from his eyes as the world turned to a muted grey. Sound slowly came back to him, people were cheering. He turned in a circle staring unseeingly at the carnage he'd basked in, the tears of a fallen knight streaming down his battle stained face.

...


...

Morgana stared at the seamless wall in front of her. Her mouth set in a grim line, how had this happened? Her mind played the memories over and over in her head, cutting the images into her eyes. The white dragon had saved her but at what cost? A shudder ran through her otherwise motionless body. She glanced around the hallway, it stretched on for as far the eye could see without any deviations or openings or curves. Just what had Morgana gotten herself into. She started moving, choosing at random which was to go. It was strange, even though she was terrified, she hadn't felt more like herself in years. Everything was foggy in her head, she couldn't remember how she'd gotten here. She focussed, pausing for a moment, a thought was niggling at the back of her head, she forced her thoughts there and just let the memory come to her. She gasped opening her eyes, it was something to do with Merlin! But what she wondered, carrying on walking, but this time a feeling of unease surrounded her like a blanket.

...


(1) Note: I know that the actual emblem is slightly different, but I like the symbolism of this.