He had been, perhaps, twelve years old when he realized he sensed more in the world than the other people in Ealdor. They could not feel the electric dance of an oncoming storm, sense the falling of the year as it settled into winter or its rise as it rushed toward spring. No one else sensed the vibration of life; could close their eyes, settle their minds into the stone and feel the turn of the earth. No one else heard the music of the stars. He had wondered what it was like to live without the world pulsing through him.
Now he knew. It was hell.
Imprisoned in the darkness with the Deiradh Chroí locked around his neck, Merlin was separated from all that. He could neither heal himself nor seek for anything beyond the border of his own body, and the stone was a dead, silent mass beneath him. All the while, instinct kept searching for a weakness in the collar's magic and never finding one. In return, the Deiradh Chroí left him with dizzying headaches. He knew it hadn't blinded him when the inquisitors returned, torch in hand, to continue their work. They had come back four times, he thought, or five. He wasn't sure. Time had lost its hold on him, and so had numbers. They had brought food and water a time or three, a lukewarm broth that kept him going just enough for them to hurt him again.
But how long had it been since they had last come? He would never know. Long enough for cuts to itch as they began healing, and for him to develop an infection deep in his lungs. Often enough to mangle his broken arm as they pulled him up by his wrists, and to forget how many times they had done it.
He stifled a cough and closed his eyes. The chain around his neck rattled with the slight movement, loud in the silence. They had become dark friends, the silence and the blackness. When they were there, he was alone, and alone was better than the pain that came with the light. Alone, he had only his own wandering thoughts and the waiting to worry about. There was less to fear.
Above, the door screeched on its hinges, echoing as it slammed open. His stomach twisted, and he turned his face toward the floor as though to hide. The sound of his hammering heart nearly drowned out the approaching footsteps.
Hands grabbed his shoulders and shoved him onto his back. "Good morning, Pet," Gaunt leered down at him. "No questions today. Just gathering tokens. Our king meets with your master in a bit, and he needs to make a point." They sat him up, sending his head to spinning so much he hardly felt the tug on his shirt. He didn't miss the knife when it bit into his skin once, thrice, half a dozen times and more. A thousand tiny stings burned as they peeled the blood-crusted fabric away from him. "Right, then. Sorry about the shirt. You won't be getting a new one, but at least it's warm down here under the kitchens, eh? Your master's other men- the knights we captured before- they're finding the dungeons to be a bit colder. But never mind that." The hands released their grip, and he sank back to the floor. The stone was cool under his now-bare skin. He closed his eyes.
"No, no, no. Wake up, Pet. No sleeping now." Gaunt's hand dropped onto his chest. "I am sorry about the next bit, but we need a token. Proof you're alive, because otherwise your master might try to say we just ripped up your shirt and dipped it in pig's blood or the like. He might not believe you're still down here, and we need something to prove otherwise."
The pressure on Merlin's chest increased as Unseen stretched his arms out again. Dull pain in his twisted arm flared anew when Unseen's hand tightened around his wrist. He felt a thin blade press against a fingertip. There was a wet ripping sound. He choked on a scream. His magic flared anew, only to be caught by the Deiradh Chroí. Its magic sent him reeling, falling back into blackness deeper than the cell's long night.