"MHHHHHHHAGH!"

He had promised, had swore to himself that he wouldn't do this. Pledged he wouldn't give that bastard the satisfaction. That had been 20 lashes ago, and the pain, heavens the pain was insurmountable. At least they had gagged him. He didn't know if he possessed the strength of character not to plead for clemency. Never had he thought he'd long for the stocks. He'd even supply the potatoes if it could free him from his present hell. The searing pain and putrid stench of sweat, rust, and salt turned his stomach. How much longer would…

Relief. Sweet reprieve. It must have been over. He was finally free. At long last he could breathe…

"Why did you stop? I said 50 lashes, and this pathetic whelp has only felt 37. Finish it."

With a wry chuckle, or at least what could pass for a chuckle with the hard leather pressed against his teeth, he acknowledged the ugly truth. The torment would never be over, not with Uther on the throne. A deluded king drunk on power and blood lust determined to make his son the same. How easy it would be to snap his neck. How simple to slow down his heart long enough for the country to mourn his loss and bury him alive. How righteous it would be to blister him from the inside out until only the charred remnants of a soulless body remained. No one would even know that a doddering manservant and not some deranged enemy of the state had overthrown the corrupt monarch. And Arthur would be free of the lies…

"Look at his back! He can't recover from this. He's learned his lesson."

Arthur, he thought. There was the rub. He couldn't kill Uther, because Arthur wasn't ready. He didn't know the truth-actually Merlin had shielded him from the truth though he was beginning to regret that now-and still idealized his father. If Uther were to die of magic, Arthur would never fulfill his destiny. Arthur needed to love all the people of Camelot, learn that he was their servant in every way they were his, and read a book or two before he could ever unite Albion. Instinctively, Merlin knew that this suffering would bring about some revelation of truth. He just prayed that it was about Uther and not the magic bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, yearning to protect him from this physical threat. The irony was overwhelming.

Uther said he was borderline seditious; Arthur said he was brainless. But both of those were falsehoods. To be whipped for calling Arthur a prat superseded comprehension. Liar, Murderer, Sorcerer, Betrayer. Those were crimes, of which he was guilty, for which he deserved punishment. His perfunctory sins should have sent him here. His deliberate ones, those in secret, those in the dark stillness of night should have sent him to hell. Yet, to be whipped for calling Arthur a prat was beyond comprehension. Was insubordination even possible when you ranked above your master?

"Arthur, I am King of Camelot, not you. You do not make decisions about the punishments of inept servants. Obviously, the stocks do nothing for his behavior. Perhaps he will learn from this. Since you're obviously too weak for the task at hand, Sir Caradoc here shall take over. You will leave and return to your duties."

Emrys, the Old Religion named him; a name of power, position, and wisdom. But how wise could he be? Surely, allowing that blasted torture to continue made him the idiot that Arthur always said he was. It was only after the brief shuffling of feet, the loud thud of the dungeon door, and silence that Merlin realized he had been lost in his own interior monologue. Merely, Uther's muffled commands remained.

"Sir Carodoc,…Gaius…finished….."

So slowly that he began to fear he had accidentally delayed the proceedings with his magic, he heard the horrifying whistle of the cat' o nine tails.

"One."

APOV

He had never felt so weak. He slipped down the cold stone wall of the alcove, his journey to his chambers forgotten. What was left of his dinner lay in a concealed mess by his side acerbically assaulting his senses. Helplessness. That was the only word capable of identifying this feeling. It bubbled over him as a black sticky film leaving him in total darkness. The warrior inside of him raged against the eternal night , desperately searching for the enemy who's destruction might end this torment. There was always a plan, always some valiant gesture that would right the wrongs of wicked men. Only this time, there wasn't.

Perhaps that was the real issue. There was no monster to kill, no sorcerer to vanquish, no rival to thwart. There was only what was and what had been. There was no enemy here only injustice, and no way to correct it.

His father was wrong, not misguided, and decidedly not acting for the greater good. He had known that his father was a harsh man, but Arthur has always sought to please his paternal guardian. Desired his approval. Only now did the young prince see how such an accommodating spirit could corrupt his already fragile soul. He was disappointed, disillusioned, and refused to blindly follow any man again. He would submit to his father's will, but he would never forget.

Merlin embodied innocence. With his dopey smile, guileless eyes, and life-endangering integrity, Merlin was the very best of humanity. Even a Unicorn could recognize that. And his father had him flogged. To death the small scared voice in the back of his head screamed. He wasn't trying to be difficult when he had stopped. He could see the gut wrenching white of Merlin's ribs as his flesh flopped open like a skinned beast of the forest. How could he continue? Yet, his father sought to punish the boy more to teach Arthur a lesson. Merlin was not in trouble for disrespect. Arthur was in disfavor for allowing it.

The shocking truth of it all was that Arthur enjoyed Merlin's quips. The other servants quivered in fear and bowed in nervousness. Merlin would call him a clotpole to his face, but admittedly, only when Arthur was behaving as such. Sure Merlin complained and antagonized him, but he also complimented Arthur when he saw fit. However, because Arthur had to earn that respect, it made it all the more precious. Merlin was a good man, but more importantly, a loyal friend. His father would scoff at the concept of a peasant befriending nobility, but Merlin never acknowledged any importance of rank distinction. And over time, neither did Arthur.

He was not his father and for once, he did not desire to be.

Author's Note: I do not own Merlin, it is property of BBC. I only own this crappy laptop and an original Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers Poster.

This is my first foray into the world of fanfiction so I would ask that you review and tell me the truth. I am currently looking for a beta, and if you would be interested in betaing my story...Bradley will get invisalign. Not really, but a girl can hope. So, please click that small button at the bottom of the page.

In addition, if anyone can name the quote from another BBC original in this piece you'll get a shout out next chapter, virtual cookies, and mad props.