This is my first Merlin fic so be gentle...?
"Someone grab him!" There was a flurry of shouts and cheers as the young man staggered away from the crowd, blue eyes wide.
"Please," he tried to reason, "Stop this, just stop." His hands trembled as he raised them in a calming gesture, and his voice was quiet and tired.
"Sorcerer!" Someone shouted. He couldn't see who it was in the sea of faces as they rapidly circled around him, eyes narrowed and lusting for blood. Another flurry of enraged shouts erupted from the villagers, and in the chaos the first rock was thrown. It sailed in a smooth arch and struck the boy's forehead with a sickening wet thump, a stream of red smattered down his cheek. With a gasp he instinctively raised his hands to protect his head, eyes watering at the pain. More stones were thrown, falling down on him like deadly raindrops and striking him with the more force than a well-aimed punch. They were molded like bricks, most of the stones having cracked away from the cobblestone streets. A village woman winced as her husband wound his arm back and threw with all his might, hitting the boy in the stomach and sending painful gasps shooting through him. He doubled over and dry-heaved, his throat strained even as nothing came out-or in. I can't breath, He thought in a panic, eyes flashing. He gulped and choked like a fish, hands wrapped in agony around himself, yet the villagers weren't done.
"Disgusting creature!"
"Get out of here!"
"Sorcerers aren't welcome in Camelot!"
"What on Earth is going on here!?" That last voice rang out over the crowd, bold and sharp like a lightning strike. The boy blinked through the trails of blood dripping over his face, struggling to focus his blurry vision. There was a smudge of red among the blurs that approached him, and he blinked until he could make out the faint shape of a person, staring at him with confused eyes.
"Careful, Sire," someone warned and another voice joined with
"That man's a sorcerer!" The red boy's eyes instantly became guarded.
"Is this true?" He demanded venomously. The boy, hardly on his feet, stared up and, impossibly, he laughed. It was a low bitter sound that bubbled from his throat before he could stop it, a disbelieving smile tilting his bloodied lips. Was there no mercy in this city? His reaction seemed answer enough and the Red Boy before him grabbed him roughly by the arm, jerking him upright. He let out a cry of agony, body screaming in protest and struggling to hold him together.
"To practice magic in Camelot is to commit treason." The Red Boy ground out, wrenching his hands behind his back and securing him with something coarse and thick. Rope? Chains? His mind was too muddled to tell. Another hysterical laugh escaped him.
"I seem to have figured that out myself, thank you." The boy choked, grinning weakly. The only reply was a fierce shove forward and he staggered, leg snapping out from under him in fatigue.
His knees cracked against the cobblestone street, but he was too numb to care. His hands and feet were growing cold, and a warm wetness was dripping down from his matted hair, smearing along his cheeks and nose, creating a hideous image that the villagers observed hatefully. He avoided their gazes, eyes staring straight ahead unseeing. He could save himself. He could end all this with the blink of an eye. He smiled sadly, eyes glassy. The Red Boy was shaking him and yelling for someone, but it was like he was on the other side of a pane of glass, no sound seemed to reach his ears. The Red Boy was trying to pull him to his feet yet his body refused. There was a ringing in his ears and a flash of gold hair and blue eyes in his vision before everything melted into sweet silence.
The boy was crumpled in a broken heap in the corner of his cell, folded in on himself like a piece of discarded paper.
"Get up." Someone called. Nothing. Not even a twitch of the finger. The guard nodded to the fair-haired boy and retrieved a bucket of water, swinging and letting it loose through the bars. It stopped short and exploded from the floor, splatters of it washing over the prisoner's face. With a gut-wrenching gasp he jolted awake, eyes watering at the sudden return to pain. The fair-haired boy approached the bars, lip curled in disgust. Still, something in him cringed at the sight of the boy before him. He looked like a dead man, blood blossoming around him like a blanket, purple bruises on his face. He could only imagine the state of his body beneath his clothes, given the way he held himself as if he were afraid to relax. The fair boy buried this thoughts under a veil of anger.
"Name?" He demanded briskly. The prisoner blinked as if going over his words and trying to understand. Name? Oh…
"Well I'd like to know who I'm giving it off to first." He answered, the quip dulled by the rasp in his voice. The fair boy's hands curled into fists.
"I asked you a question." He hissed threateningly.
"And you won't get an answer until I know who I'm speaking to." The other pressed, swallowing his fear as best he could, "I think I…I deserve to have that right." Suddenly the fair-haired boy felt sick. He didn't want to give his name, didn't want this sorcerer to know who he was. It was irrational, though. Right?
"Arthur Pendragon."
"Ah." The prisoner nodded lazily, "Wish I could say it's a pleasure, Arthur Pendragon."The way he said his name made rage flutter in the fair boy's stomach. He said it like it was some cheap joke.
"Your name, Sorcerer!" The prisoner blinked in surprise, as though he had forgotten all about it.
"I…." He blinked, struggling in the fog to speak. His mouth didn't seem to be working properly. He opened and closed it, testing and then deciding it was still okay. "Merlin."
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