Chapter Three

You know you should have fought back earlier in the day, when you awoke in the tent to find your magic once again bound to the cuffs around your wrists. You should have tried to escape. Tried to run. You should have found some way to distract the knight who greeted your dreary, sleepy eyes before he grabbed you and hauled you out of the tent, barely giving you time to get on your feet. Tried something.

What good would that have done? Very little, and in its place, possibly earn you more bruises and more distrustful glances from the knights around the camp. The knights surrounding the tent are already glaring at you in a mixture of fear and disgust, a few looking ready to unsheathe their swords and lunge at you. Kill you while you are defenseless and scared. Frightened, to be truthful, terrified and confused.

You glance down at your wrists, the cuffs hiding the black and blue bruises decorating them from your being dragged earlier. How did they know you possess magic? You scan your surroundings, the knights, searching for a familiar face.

Oh, that's right. If you had the energy you would have smacked yourself in the head for your stupidity. You probably massacred all of Camelot, didn't you? Of course they would know of your magic. Hell, who wouldn't after that?

You are becoming very distracted by the glares of the knights surrounding you, waiting. Their figures seem to blend in to each other, becoming one massive, powerful force, one growing in size as you find it hard to breath. You feel like a mouse cornered by a pride of cats. No, lions. Lions that are biding their time, enjoying the emotions they are forcing from you before they pounce. Kill.

No, no need to make your stay more unwelcome than it already is.

One of the faces in the mass, curses you in a foreign tongue, spitting in your face. You flinch, but otherwise remain your terrified self, not even shutting your eyes. You've had worse than spit on your recently, so that was nothing. In fact, you want to laugh at the disparity of it. On a grand scale it's probably the best thing you've had on you since-

Do you really want to remember that?

'No,' you remind yourself. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to dispel the memory.

You yelp, as suddenly you are pushed down on your knees, feeling two cold swords against your throat. One of the knights separates himself from the massive red body of fighters and begins to pace around you, and you feel yourself shaking. Too close. Your very sensitive personal space is being violated. There're too many people close to you, enclosing you. You find it hard to breath again. You can't seem to get enough air into your lungs. Get away from me! You find it hard to concentrate on anything, battling an eternal war between your present and past. Your memories are once again demanding attention. Or maybe they are happening now? The memories feel real enough. They threaten you, saying they are going to happen again. Tears begin to fall down your face. Get the fuck away from me!

You hear it before you feel it, the sickening sound of bone cracking. The left side of your face explodes in pain, the right meeting the dirt below. Loud shouts. Someone pulls you up off the ground by your hair, screaming in your face. It grabs your full attention, rescuing you from your mind. You almost want to thank him. Almost.

"Answer me sorcerer!" You missed the question.

"Please…stop touching me." Is that your voice? You sound pathetic.

The knight, whose height you swear is growing every second, bellows in laughter. He begins to pace around you again before sending a powerful kick to your stomach, making you double over in pain. He makes some more noise, but you don't think it's directed at you. Hopefully.

Another metal-clad kick meets your gut, and another. And another. You can't even scream anymore. You mouth just opens in agony, ready to make its owner's apparent pain known, before it realizes your voice just doesn't want to be found. Someone else clad in red, picks you up whilst screaming at his surrounding allies, and carries you back into the tent.

He hasn't left yet. Who he is, you don't know. You don't care to know. You never even looked at his face. You're too busy staring at the back of the tent, trying to forget everything. Maybe if you try hard enough, you may even disappear. After all, things and events once thought impossible have all been making their jolly selves known as of late, why stop the madness now?

"Are you still in pain?"

'No', you think. And once you disappear, you'll never be in pain again.

You hear shuffling and movement behind you, the mysterious knight growing somewhat agitated by your lack of response. Leave it to you to piss off your 'knight in shining amour.' You're just begging to be decorated in more black and blue. No, green as well, you remind yourself, looking down at your now bruised, sickly green wrists. Who knows, at this wonderful rate by the end of the day you'll be a walking, talking rainbow!

You stifle a weak smile. Well, that's one way of coming out, I guess.

A faint sound of laughter escapes your lips, and very soon you find that you can't stop laughing. And you thought your sanity cracked days ago.

'Emrys…'

Your voice catches in your throat, and your eyes grow like saucers at the recognition of the tone... the name... that telepathic connection.

"Are you in pain, Emrys?" the voice behind you repeats in that same familiar wise, bland tone that has often sent a cold shiver up your spine.

You hastily turn your body around, hissing in pain as you momentarily forget your recent beatings. Your eyes lock on a Camelot knight. Staring in disbelief, this couldn't be him. He's too tall, too old. He looks the same age as you are now. He's sporting the crest of Camelot upon his chest. There is no way in Avalon…

Shakily you find your voice, blundering out the three syllables in disbelief. You have to be wrong.

" Mordred?"