Ok, I had intended this to be much longer, but when I got to the end of this bit I just couldn't resist leaving you on one more cliffhanger, resulting in the shortest one I've written yet. Sorry CaptainOzone, I swear I'll try and make longer ones every few days, instead of short ones every day!

Thanks again to the reviewers, followers and favouriters! That imaginary pile of chocolate bars/bags of sweets/bananas was going begging for someone to eat it, and I was already sick to death of eating them. You can get too much potassium!

Well, hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter 4: Captured

To Merlin, the sensation of waking up was something akin to dragging himself out of a fast-flowing river of Gaius' porridge. He wasn't quite sure which way was up or down, though from the stiffness of his neck, and the demanding fight that gravity put up when he tried to move his head, he could just about assume that he was upright, in a seated position probably, leaning against a wall, or a tree, or a… (he considered the fact that he could feel nothing against his shoulder blades) …post?

This would probably be a bit easier if I could actually open my eyes, he thought irritably or even feel the rest of my body. Merlin's eyelids were outright refusing to respond to any of his commands, and he wasn't sure the rest of him was even there, let alone functional.

Taking the route he usually took when he found out his body was useless to him (which was often), Merlin turned towards his mind, and tried to piece together the events that had led him to this situation. The memories flooded back; him riding with Arthur, finding the army, being ambushed in the clearing, being pulled of the horse, pinned down, the club, and Oh god

"–ARTHUR!"

Merlin lurched forward desperately, his eyes flashing open, as the sensation flooded through his limbs once more, revealing every ache and pain he was feeling right there – the bruising down his left side from his unwelcome connection with the ground, the pounding of his head, the screaming of his shoulder blades and the cord that was cutting into his flesh at his wrist and ankles; his feet were bound before him, and his hands, tied behind him, were fixing him securely to – he'd been right – a wooden post, positioned in the centre of an otherwise bare white tent.

That wasn't all. Opening his jaw experimentally, Merlin could feel a warm, sticky substance down the left side of his head and neck, clotting against his skin – blood. His neck, too, it seemed, was not only suffering the effects of gravity, but also of a heavy shackle, a collar, that was clasped about his throat.

Merlin panicked internally. He wasn't quite sure why, but something about the collar filled him with fear. Fraught, he reached for his magic. He knew he could blast that collar off, break his bonds and escape this place – he was Emrys, the greatest warlock the world had ever known. These Saxons weren't going to know what hit them. All he needed was to–

"Oh, I don't think so" came a familiar voice.

For the second time that day (if it had only been a day – he had no idea how long he'd been out for) a Pendragon's voice caused his stomach to drop through his feet, and he franticly tried to look over his shoulder , an impossible feat in his awkward position.

"Now, now, Merlin, don't struggle! This will only take a moment…" Merlin could feel her hot breath against his neck as she leaned down behind him, her voice sickly-sweet, and struggled harder. "…and it really won't hurt that much, so long as you don't fight it too strongly." Her last words dripped with false pity, the mocking tone barely disguised.

Without warning he felt his neckerchief being roughly shoved in his mouth, another rag passed over his face and fastened behind his head to keep the gag in place. His wrists were starting to bleed from his manic endeavours to get free. A muffled gasp escaped him at the feel of her cold hands under his jaw as she pressed her palms against the metal of the collar. He tried to thrash his neck to get her off, but she was strong, and his head still hurt, and the cuff was heavy–

"Ábædan."

There was not a single Saxon in the camp who did not hear his cry.

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Hmm…I've never written anything this dark before. What do you think? I'm not sure, but I think this story gets even darker later, so we'll see how that goes.

Even aside from trying to write a long fic, I probably won't be updating this for at LEAST a couple of days…sorry! (although… some reviews might help put a little…oil in the gears *gazes up at potential reviewers with puppy-dog eyes*)