Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: This is LONG overdue, I know. :) Now, this was supposed to be longer, but after some deliberation (and after a reminder from carinims01 that this was indeed a possibility), I have split this chapter into two parts. This one, unfortunately, only has only a fraction of the whump I had planned for this chapter (the larger fraction will come in the second part), and since the second part is still giving me trouble, is still incomplete, and is a long way from being satisfactory enough to post, this is what you're getting. ;)

Thank you all for your support and reviews, everyone. This story's nearly at 200 reviews, which is really, really incredible to me because that's more than what PMMP has and that's getting incredibly near SMN's count. :D

Thank you, carinims01, for requesting a Knight's scene multiple times. It was refreshing to write, and I hope you enjoy it. And another special thank you goes to OceanMintLeaves-thank you again for the supportive pixie dust and for ranting about Legend of Korra with me: it effectively prevented me from tearing my hair out. ;P

Chapter title courtesy of the Hamlet quote I used. Please don't get TOO angry with me, and enjoy:

"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first."
― Katniss (Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games)

Part I: Villain's Smile

Merlin winced as thick ropes dug into his wrists as the black-clothed man—was it unsurprising that it was the one he had bitten?—tightened his bonds. His heart constricted in their presence, but he would sooner bite off his big toe than let them see his fear of them or their inhuman, dead eyes.

Pushing aside his fear and hatred and shifting his shoulders uselessly, the warlock smirked in a nonchalant, but slightly amused tone, "Is that really necessary? I'm not going anywhere."

The beetle-black eyes glinted dully, and the creepy grin beginning to sneak onto the man's face was the only warning Merlin had before he sent a stinging back-handed blow to his face. One of the man's rings caught the skin above his eyebrow, cutting him jaggedly and drawing blood.

Merlin stumbled backward into the other man only to be pushed forward. With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn't regain balance, and he fell, only just managing to twist his body so that he wouldn't face-plant into the stone floor.

A shock laced up his hip bone and shoulder as he landed, but before he could feel the pain, one of the men, now giggling, grabbed a fistful of his cloak and dragged him forcefully to his feet.

Blood ran down his temple and into his eye, and the warlock coughed after the pressure around his neck had been relieved and spat a mouthful of blood as he raised his eyes to meet the enemies' triumphant gazes and threatening fists.

Knowing it probably wasn't prudent to do so and completely prepared to face the consequences of doing so, Merlin said insolently, "I'm getting the feeling I did something to offend you."

He was rewarded for his sarcasm with another hard blow to the head and sneering laughter.

With a diabolical smile and unfocused eyes, he, slightly incoherent, mumbled musingly, "You do know that if you keep hitting me, I'm not going to be lucid enough to hear your leader's glorious victory gloat. I'm sure that's going to be his favorite part of this, so I don't suppose he would be too happy with you for ruining his big moment."

Their laughter abruptly stopped, and after they blinked at him for a moment in mild astonishment, they swung their blank gazes to each other.

Despite his ringing head, Merlin studied their reaction and frowned, realizing that they expressed no confusion or an air of arrogant and mocking superiority when he referred to their master as a male… therefore proving that their master was most likely not a female.

Very astute, Merlin, the groggy warlock told himself sarcastically.

Suddenly, that eerie, high-pitched, giddy giggling erupted from the unbitten man while the other, Merlin's special torturer, released raucous, cruel, cold chuckles. The cacophony made the warlock, who felt a shudder that had nothing to do with the poison slide down his spine, flinch and cringe reflexively from them. He swallowed hard against his now-parched throat, biting back the creeping terror and horror at the sound of the two laughs, both of which sounded so different yet similar.

There was nothing behind their laughter. No feeling, no emotion…absolutely nothing. Completely hollow and empty.

"My, my, isn't that fascinating?" The one he had bitten said darkly, raising his voice an octave as he might have were he cooing to an infant. Merlin detected the smallest glimmer of genuine interest beneath the emotionless shadow drawn over his dark eyes, and when the man took hold of Merlin's chin, he, fighting panic once again, tried to jerk out of his grasp with little success.

"You're every bit as amusing as I heard you were, you know that, sorcerer?" he continued. His friend giggled, and with a smirk, he squeezed Merlin's cheeks, shook the warlock's head back and forth, and whispered airily, "Wit, boy, will only keep you and your King alive so long."

After the man violently thrust the warlock away from him, Merlin, his blood boiling, refused to rub his sore jaw and retorted instantly, "And hiding behind threats will only keep you alive so long. Would you like to bet who wins this race?"

The dark eyes flashed murderously, and without a sound, the man pressed his forearm to Merlin's throat and forcefully shoved him into the dungeon wall, pinning him there and cutting off his air.

In vain, the warlock gasped to breathe and struggled against the man's arm, and he instinctively reached for his magic, only to feel a waterfall of pain and nausea crash upon him. His knees weakened, his face paled, and the floor and ceiling reeled and spun around him… Merlin collapsed, falling limp to the floor and fighting the urge to cry out and noisily and pathetically gulp down air.

"Oops." The man tsk'd mockingly and knelt so that he could whisper directly into the warlock's ear. "I wouldn't be so cocky, sorcerer…especially with your magic gone and no one around to save you. I have to admit, though: your strength of will is admirable, but I'm rather disappointed. I would have thought you would be more…well, more."

Before Merlin could catch his breath or subdue the rolling, rushing waves of sickening wooziness and agony, the man wrenched the dazed warlock to his feet once more, and tightly gripping his upper arms, he and his still giggly companion none-too-gently led him—stumbling—through the maze of corridors.

Gray, black, brown, and orange swirled and whirled about him, making his head throb and twinge, and feeling as though he had snorted a liter of water up his nose the pressure and pain in his head was so great, he forced himself to focus on the shifting floor and his funny-looking boots in a stubborn attempt to keep from falling because, as wonderful as the prospect of unconsciousness sounded, he knew he'd only be dragged back to his feet just as well as he knew that he needed to stay conscious. So, all in all, he was quite grateful that with every step, his vision began to sharpen, his mind began to find its footing again, and the pressure and fire in his head began to subside.

He recovered and became fully aware of his surroundings the moment the threesome stopped in front of a double set of doors.

"I would ask you to behave," Merlin's oppressor hissed as he began to open the door, "but I know you have yet to learn how to behave."

"I'd rather be chained in these dungeons the rest of my life than be enslaved as you are," Merlin snarled in response.

Twisting his expression into a grotesque smirk, the man cut through the rope binding the warlock's hands,(Really, if they were just going to cut it off, what was the point? Merlin wondered in annoyance), being sure to nick the flesh of his wrists in the process, and whispered jeeringly, "Would you now?"

With that, the doors were thrown open, and Merlin was sent sprawling into the center of the gloomy circular room. The door slammed behind him, and he was left alone.

Ignoring the new bruises forming and eyes widening in horror at the sight above him, he quickly rolled onto his knees and gaped.

He was in what could be no better described as a torture chamber.

The only light came from two feeble torches at the front of the room, and despite the darkness, Merlin could see it all. Things unimaginable. Weapons and pieces of twisted iron he had never seen before and had never thought existed. Chains and ropes hung from the ceiling, whips of varying length, texture, and thickness, some covered with burs of metal, coffins filled with finely sharpened spikes, welding irons, knives and daggers of all shapes and sizes…

Vials upon vials of that poison sat like a silent vigil on one of the long benches.

In his horrified astonishment of the torture instruments, Merlin didn't notice that, in a shadowy corner—so dark, so cold, so damp, so dirty—was a man, his head of salt-and-peppered hair lank with sweat and flopping lifelessly into his collarbone, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling until a low, whimpering groan reached his ears.

The warlock's heart stopped and bile rose to his throat when he located the source of the noise and saw that the entire torso was covered in smears and droplets of crimson…

"Lot," Merlin choked, appalled by the act of sadistic cruelty, hateful derisiveness, and the most disgusting, barbaric humor…

Some monster had carved a Druid symbol into his chest.

"No…" he whispered angrily.

The protector and physician in Merlin immediately rose to the surface, and even though his limbs trembled so violently he had qualms that he'd be steady enough to support himself, he found hidden reserves of strength, forced himself to his feet, and lunged to the Escetian king.

As he drew nearer to the king, he hesitated and bit his lip at the gruesome sight that looked all the more gruesome up close. He quickly evaluated him and saw that, other than the artful cuts on his chest—cuts that were not life-threatening and torturously shallow yet skillfully deep enough to leave noticeable scarring—there was no injury beyond that of some bruising on his arms and ribs and one inflamed burn on his shoulder.

"Bastards," the warlock cursed, his dry throat constricting with wrathful and concerned tears.

Much to Merlin's surprise, Lot sighed again at the sound of his voice and weakly lifted his jade eyes, and they, delirious and blurry with pain, stared at him sightlessly before growing wide with animalistic fear.

"It's Merlin, Lot," Merlin reassured firmly, his heart wrenching with the sight of a so prideful a man reduced to this cowering creature. "It's Merlin," he repeated more gently.

After a moment, Lot's dulled eyes lighted with recognition, and trying to smile reassuringly, the warlock threw his gaze frantically to the manacles holding the king's wrists above his head. In the poor lighting of the room, he could not see them well, and he reached up and hurriedly trailed his fingers across the cold metal until he hit a little uneven bump.

The inevitable key hole. Of course.

"Mer—" Lot began to croak breathily.

"Don't," Merlin cautioned, casting his eyes about and searching through the metal around him in search of an irresponsibly placed key. He pursed his lips and withheld a growl of frustration. "I need to get you down," he mumbled quickly, desperately. "Save your strength."

Not bothering to heed the younger man's words—or perhaps not even registering them—Lot persisted. "Something…" he exhaled. His words began to slur. "…Neeta know."

Recognizing the deteriorating coherency of his speech as a bad sign and realizing that Lot knew who, what, and perhaps even why, Merlin paused in his search and whirled to Lot. "Stay with me, Lot," he said. "You need to tell me what you know. Who did this to you?"

Lot's uneven breathing hitched as his eyes rolled back into his head, and when they snapped back for one second of complete clarity, he only had time to lock his pained gaze with Merlin's before he shuddered and succumbed to the pain of his injuries and finally fell unconscious.

Merlin spat a curse under his breath, and the beast of anger reared its head once again. Snarling incomprehensibly and full of self-loathing for not being able to do anything to help, he once again began his vain search for the key through the rest of the nameless metal objects around him…

The words of a snake: "Looking for this, Emrys?"

Merlin stiffened in recognition, and trying desperately to make excuses for the owner of the cynical voice and knowing bitterly that there was none to make, he closed his eyes and battled to overcome the keen sting of sadness, disappointment, hurt—all of the harbingers and symptoms of betrayal.

For one may smile and smile and still be a villain. (1) He had known. He had seen this and had dismissed it, hadn't he? His first impression…never again would he dismiss it so readily. Charisma, charming demeanor, good-humor, bravery—weapons that had blinded him. They all had been blinded.

Stormy eyes, face, and heart mercilessly hardening to stone, Merlin turned to face the traitor and said with a tone colder and more dangerous than any mid-winter blizzard, "Why, Kay?"

~…~

Percival clutched his stomach and cringed sheepishly as his stomach gurgled loudly. Both Gwaine, who had finally rejoined them from the lovely land of unconsciousness, and Lancelot's eyes flew to the giant of a Knight and gaped incredulously.

"Are you bloody serious?" Gwaine mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Only you would be hungry at a time like this, Perce," Lancelot commented, trying to smile and failing.

"And didn't we just have a feast?"

Drawing his knees to his chest, Percival rolled his eyes and glared at the floor. "Would you care to remind me how long ago that feast was?"

Gwaine scowled, and Lancelot sighed softly, his dark eyes following Percival's to the hay-covered floor.

The three of them had no sense of time in their small, stinky cell, and it felt like a whole lifetime ago that they had heard Arthur call out to them and even longer since they had a seat at Lot's table. The seconds that ticked diligently away felt like hours and still managed to slip by twice as fast, and as he and Lancelot, both in a bit of a mild, mindless shock at how easily and quickly they had been captured and subdued, waited for Gwaine to regain consciousness, their conversation, which consisted of much useless cussing, raging, and grumbling in concern and anger at Gwaine's state and their predicament, had hardly helped matters.

During the time, the two had frequently shared loaded looks about the unsaid, but otherwise, the two had avoided what they should have been discussing—most of which included their worries for their King, whom was locked away in an unknown somewhere without Merlin, and their warlock himself, whom they had not heard from or seen since they had said their goodnights gods knew how longago. Instead, Lancelot and Percival, stewing with their own thoughts and allowing their respective companion to do the same, had been trying to convince themselves that there was a way out of this and had been waiting in the hopes that they wouldn't have to talk about their worries and that either help or a brilliant idea would come to them.

And so, they waited and waited and waited…

When they had no weapons nor any real knowledge of the physician's craft beyond that of how to patch up a wound well enough to get to a trained physician before passing out, even the hard-headed, intelligent, restless, and creative Knights knew that waiting was all they really could do.

But now that Gwaine was fine—awake and semi-lucid—there was to be no more sidestepping, no more waiting for some sign from their enemy…or even their two separated friends…

"It's been too long," Percival answered his previous question. "Why hasn't something happened yet?"

"I keep expecting—I mean, I'm surprised that Merlin hasn't shown up yet with Arthur in tow and obliterated our door to tell us to come join the party," Gwaine muttered jokingly with a shaky grin.

"Exactly," Percival mumbled, letting the word hang ominously in the air.

It went without being said: it took far more than a blow to the head to knock Merlin down, and it took even more to hold him down. The warlock, Percival knew quite well, was not one to trifle with and could make a very formidable and powerful enemy.

It was almost impossible to see Merlin under anyone's power but his own, and it frightened Percival beyond imagining to even think about what it was that was holding their friend now when he knew that the warlock's magic and loyalty surpassed all others'.

That left only one thing to consider: there was something far worse at work here. Something far beyond their understanding.

"I don't like this," Lancelot said, leaping to his feet and beginning to pace furiously. "He could be anywhere! He could be being tortured right now—how else would they be able to keep him from using his magic?"

Percival winced imperceptibly, an echo of fear from some long-forgotten memory poking at his insides. Fuzzy, half-formed images flashed before his eyes, images of blood and magic and faceless men and a shattering sky blacker than black above the destruction and carnage… Something important…

"Hell, he could even be dead!"

"Don't say that!" Percival snapped suddenly, returning to the present. "Merlin's fine. He has to be."

Lancelot gave him a tormented look. "Why else would they separate him from us and Arthur?" he asked with devastating logic.

Gwaine growled. "If they so much as touch a single hair on his head…"

"Why lock us up in the first place? Who wants us out of the way?" Percival countered, ignoring the roguish Knight's threatening. "I think those're the questions we need to answer before we ask that one."

"Lot—"

"Was far too genuinely happy to be drafting a peace treaty with Camelot to do this," Percival finished.

"Yes, I was going to say that he couldn't have drawn us here under false pretenses."

"How can you be so sure?" Gwaine asked, raising a brow at Lancelot's tone of confidence.

"He's most definitely not a good actor, and he wears his heart on his sleeve—I mean, isn't it obvious? He can hardly hide any of his disdain for Merlin, and, as Perce said, he was glad to be in negotiation with us, despite his disapproval of Merlin and Camelot's tolerance for magic. Remember, too—he did take some of Merlin's advice into consideration at the feast."

Percival and Gwaine mumbled their appreciation for the point, and Percival offered gruffly, "I might not like Lot or his attitude towards magic, but Merlin and Arthur both trust him."

Gwaine snorted. "As if Arthur's trust in Lot has any weight or bearing whatsoever in this debate. Merlin's? Yes. Arthur's? Hell no."

Percival and Lancelot's lips twitched into a weak smile at the joke, and Lancelot said in a wry, weary voice, "Well, I suppose that's narrowed it down."

"Hardly!" Gwaine exclaimed agitatedly. "Anyone inside or outside this damn castle—"

"Sarcasm, Gwaine."

"…Oh."

Percival ground his teeth together and burst out, "Damn it! There're too many factors, too many unknowns…"

"What do we know?" Lancelot prompted.

"That we're in some serious trouble right now."

"Thank you, Gwaine. That was incredibly insightful."

"Now, that was sarcasm."

Rolling his eyes, Lancelot whispered, "Judging by our separation and the facts—even without those judgments—I know that they most likely want information from us, and they will want to use us against Arthur to get it from him."

"But what about Merlin?" Gwaine asked. "If that were the case and they did want Arthur to suffer for whatever reason—and make him break and spill Camelot's secrets—why take Merlin away separately and leave Arthur behind in the cells?" He paused and added bluntly, "Now, if I was an evil, conniving bastard out for Camelot's secrets, I'd take Arthur to see Merlin—hell, I'd take him to see all of us—being tortured to encourage him to talk and only stop when he did talk, but this isn't the case, is it?"

A sudden epiphany and the full recollection of the memory that haunted Percival hit him like a sword stab, and he froze, a horrifying chill running down his spine. Oh, gods…

"Maybe because it's exactly the opposite!" he gasped.

"What?" Lancelot and Gwaine echoed.

"He could just as well be alone in a different cell," Percival muttered quickly, thinking out loud. "But I don't believe that."

"What're you getting at?" Gwaine interrupted impatiently. "That's completely redundant, and it doesn't tell us anything that we haven't figured already."

"Don't you see?" Percival exclaimed, his stomach dropping further and heart clenching more tightly with every passing second. "They want Merlin. They want him more than they do Arthur. And what can Merlin give that Arthur cannot?"

Lancelot's eyes grew wide, and he whispered, "His magic."

"And if they can't get it?" Percival suggested quietly.

"They—they'd kill him," Lancelot choked. "Leaving Camelot…leaving Arthur…Someone—no, Morgana could slip in so easily without him to match her power."

"But Merlin'd never let them—"

"They have us, Gwaine! They have Arthur! And if I'm right, they might even havehis magic!" Percival said desperately, a lump forming in his throat. "You know how protective Merlin is of us all; you know what sacrifices he'd be willing to make for us and Camelot, and if the fate of Camelot was at stake—" He shook his head. "And if they do have his magic—another thing to hold over him, another way to keep him from foiling their plans, whatever those may be…he won't survive long. Something must give; sacrifices must be made."

"Have his magic?" Lancelot and Gwaine repeated in shock.

"Think about it. D'you really think Merlin'd let them close enough to him to torture him? No matter how hurt he was, even if they knocked him unconscious and weakened him beforehand, he'd still magic himself out before the torturers could so much as take that first step towards him. They must be containing his powers somehow. It's the only explanation for his absence and inaction—why it's been hours since we've been thrown in here without outside contact."

"Is it even possible?" Lancelot asked.

"You know I know more about magic than I let on." Percival closed his eyes and sighed shakily. "And you must promise me to never speak of this again in other company."

When the two Knights nodded, Percival continued softly, "The Druids would tell all kinds of stories; they have their own history, their own wars…I just remembered one story that I was never supposed to hear and one that I really wish I never had heard. It was a dark tale, one not meant for children."

He chuckled without humor. "It seems a bit ironic now. My whole village had been forbidden from contacting our Druid neighbors that week because they were hosting a special gathering, one that happened once every decade or so, that outsiders were very strictly not allowed to be a part of. It was a sacred ritual of remembrance for the ancestors who first fought against Dark magic's corruption in ancient times. My mates and—well, they got caught. I should say that I alone snuck into their camp that night and found myself in the middle of this story. I—I don't know how they didn't notice me. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they meant for me to be there. Perhaps they wanted me to hear. I don't know. Doesn't matter now.

"It was rather gruesome and bloody legend about the Dark Wars—back in the age when the usage of Dark magic was completely unrestricted and when Dark magic was the most commonly practiced branch of magic. Yes, there were such times, and let me tell you: I remember feeling nothing short of terrified when I heard them described.

"The details are unclear, but one major point has remained with me: the main cause of the trouble was two major clan-leaders—Sorcerer Kings, if you will—Nyrid and Caden. Nyrid, the warrior leading the resistance that fought against the abuse of Dark magic, of course, had been Bound by the opposition, Caden, who had been jealous of the power that exceeded his own and who had begun to become incredibly fearful that he would lose the war. It was a wild card, a desperate wild card, but he succeeded, and by being Bound, Nyrid had been enslaved to Caden's every whim and will.

"They say Binding is one of the Darkest, most evil, most dangerous of magics and that the Binder is more likely to destroy himself and his victim than actually succeed. This was why they held this gathering every decade—to remember the consequences of endeavoring in such magic—and why, after the Dark Wars ended, most of these spells and enchantments had been hidden and why they have been guarded with more ferocity than even the great Prophecies."

"What is Binding exactly, Perce?" Lancelot whispered.

"From what I could tell from the story, Binding is done in steps. Very painful, lethal steps. One had to suppress the other's powers before the ceremony, which, if done incorrectly or too hastily, could easily kill the victim, and then there was the ceremony itself…in the tale, the soul of Nyrid was very nearly destroyed when it became the unconditional servant to its new master—its Binder. He might have had his magic granted back once the enchantments were complete, but he was no longer himself, no longer anyone or anything. He was just…there, but not there—like a ghost—and only there to do his Binder's bidding.

"Nyrid became the greatest weapon for the side he had previously fought so fiercely against, and he had been forced to destroy his own people and his own cause. In the end, miraculously, he found enough of himself to end his own life. In doing so, he prevented himself from doing anything more to aid Caden and those that favored rule by Dark magic, and his sacrifice turned the tide of the Dark Wars. If not for him, the world as we know it would be a very different place."

Completely dumfounded, Lancelot and Gwaine sat and stared at Percival in silence before Gwaine said softly, "You really don't think that—if these rituals are as heavily guarded as you suggest, there's no reason to assume…"

"All I know," Percival responded hoarsely, "is that legends become taller over time and are not by any means true accounts, but…that doesn't mean that there isn't truth there. The spells and rituals for Binding…yes, Gwaine, I highly doubt anyone could have discovered them, but my reason for telling you this story is to show you that it's not impossible. That there must be other spells, other ways, to prevent one from using magic, and for Merlin—"

Percival was interrupted by the unmistakable soft clicking of boots, the clanking of a key ring, and the thudding of wood. Donning sober, serious, and guarded masks, the Knights turned to the door, and the two that weren't on their feet rose—Gwaine a little shakily so—to greet their visitors and their captors.

"Stand down," Lancelot said from the corner of his mouth. "Fighting will do no good now. Be patient, watch, and listen."

The only sign that Percival and Gwaine acknowledged Lancelot's wisdom was a visible tightening of the jaw and mouth, and they stood with straight shoulders as the door was wrenched open.

It was the man Cadwy and two men robed in black. They stood in the doorway with triumphant cockiness—folded arms, smirks, and all. Cadwy twirled the key ring on his index finger lazily, and his dung-colored eyes, one of which, Percival couldn't help but notice, was set lower on his face than the other, roved over the threesome slowly.

With his head cocking and smirk deepening, he looked slyly toward his companions and gestured them into the room.

The three stiffened defensively, but the thug was quick to say, "I'd behave meself 'f I was ya. Wou'n't wanna appear uncivil in fron' of 'is mos' ro'al 'ighness, now woujya?"

Cadwy stepped aside and with a dramatic flourish of his arm presented the hallway where a gagged Arthur, his hands bound behind his back and brilliant blue eyes flashing with an undeniable rage that would have put even Uther's temper to shame, was struggling against the man holding him.

Upon hearing the condescending use of his title, Arthur's head snapped up to meet the shocked gazes of his Knights, and those piercing blue eyes softened for a fraction of a second, revealing to them what lay beneath the surface. Those eyes were unreadable, yet awfully clear; strong and determined, yet vulnerable and afraid. It was a look that Percival recognized and one that the Once and Future King only saved for times like this…times when his other half—his soul-brother—was in mortal danger.

"C'mon, then," Cadwy sneered, taking advantage of the moment of stillness. With the two in black slipping behind Gwaine and Percival, Cadwy bound and gagged Lancelot just as he had the Camelotian King, who warned them, as Lancelot had, with his eyes to keep their heads down for now.

Once they were secured, Cadwy ruffled each Knights' hair mockingly, grabbed Lancelot, and pushed the party ungracefully out of the cell.

While Lancelot and Gwaine nearly fell over each other, Percival was roughly pushed into Arthur, and as Cadwy laughed like a baying donkey, the two shared mildly exasperated looks that morphed into mischievous and livid ones—ones that guaranteed eventual retaliation. Arthur's very obviously said, 'I'll hold him' as Percival's agreed, adding, 'And I'll punch.'

Then we'll switch, Percival thought wryly.

Everyone had righted themselves by the time young King's eyes, leaking vengeance and spitting flames, broke from Percival's and turned to glare at their oppressors.

"So sorry 'bout tha', me Lord. Li'l klu'zy an' clumsy, I am," Cadwy taunted.

Obviously sick of the man, Arthur swung his leg out to clip the thug in the back of the knee, but Cadwy managed to avoid the kick with a squeaky yelp, which was followed by a pained grunt from Arthur when he was punished for his impudence.

Adopting a superior, jeering grin, Cadwy laughed, patted Arthur's cheek sardonically, and announced, "Righ' funny, you are! I'd lerv ta play 'round with ya all day, but we've gotta show to ca'ch, don' we?"

With some chuckling and with a snap of Cadwy's fingers, the captives were simultaneously yanked forward into a walk and rearranged into a single-file line, and each of the Camelotians exchanged a wide-eyed glance (before their heads were wrenched forward again by their captors, of course) that conveyed the same message: Merlin.

They walked in silence for some time before the thug broke into hysterical sniggers, and he hooted, "Whoo-ee. This's excitin'! The great Merlin Emrys—" Arthur was not the only one that, despite his own orders, began to be rough with his captor. Percival nearly popped his own oppressor's arm out of his socket, and they all contributed death glares that would have had Kilgharrah cowering, not that the daft thug noticed…

"—puttin' on a show fer us! It'll be a once-in-a-lifetime expurience, gen'lemen. Tha' sorcerer'll only sing and dance fer us this once—" the group unexpectedly turned a sharp corner, and Percival grunted when the man holding him led him carelessly into the stone wall and had his toes trod on when the group came to an abrupt halt in a front of a small doorway.

Voice becoming less playful, Cadwy continued in a menacing hiss, "—and know tha' if any of ya make so much as a single noise, I've been tol' to slit yer throats, and trus' me when I say i'd be my pleasure ta do so. We be enterin' now, and remember—wai' fer yer turn."

A feeling of horrible foreboding sprouted in Percival's chest as he was pushed through that door, and he could feel the others' tenseness and worry, which only multiplied his own.

They were led into a narrow hallway with thick pillars dividing their corridor from a large, poorly lit room, and when Percival was forced to his knees by the man holding him, he noticed that, without being seen by the occupants of aforementioned room, he could see directly through the space in between the pillars…

He hardly had time to take in the horrors of the room—those torture instruments! the blood stains!—before he was distracted by Merlin himself, whose back was to them and who was making an incredible amount of noise as he frantically searched around him.

Relief bloomed in his chest at the sight of the warlock, but it was Arthur's hard gaze and Gwaine's sudden, strangled gasp that alerted him that he had missed something—or someone. Or even two someones.

Things moved so fast.

First, there was Lot, bleeding and hanging from the ceiling like a freshly butchered pig…

Then Lancelot was suddenly nudging him like mad, and he saw, from the shadows far across the room, Kay, glowing with arrogance and victory,emerge with a wicked, devilish smile on his face…

The shock was enough to stop his heart, and the fury was enough to make it beat again.

When he spoke, Percival did not hear the comrade in arms—the friend—he had come to know, but someone entirely new, entirely different. It was the voice of a traitor, a betrayer, an enemy…

"Looking for this, Emrys?" Kay said coolly, flipping a key up into the air and deftly snagging it midair.

Merlin stiffened, his head bowed and his arm snaking across his ribs in a sort of self-embrace—a worrying sign that all was not well with the warlock—and after a moment of frigid silence, he lifted his dark head and turned.

Percival felt a jerk of unease at how fierce the warlock looked. His eyes, usually so soft with kindness and humor, blazed brighter and hotter than the sun but gave off none of its warmth or light. Dark and cold, merciless and unforgiving, they were eyes of one who had experienced the uttermost betrayal and of one who would offer no forgiveness.

The young King's eyes were closed tight, one tear making its journey down his grimy cheek and soaking into the fabric of his gag…

And Merlin's voice sliced through the air like an arrow, cracking and splintering through the thick ice of the moment….

"Why, Kay?"

At the sound of his Court Sorcerer's voice, Arthur's sky-blue eyes flew open…

They mirrored Merlin's.

(1) Quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, which I don't own.

*evil grin* To those who never trusted Kay and suspected all along, well done. To those who liked Kay and didn't want him to be evil, I hope I haven't made you too upset *cowers away*, and I really hope you stick around because this is NOT the end.

Part II will include major Merlin- and Arthur-whump. Maybe some Knights-whump. Maybe. I plan to still have a part in Gwen's POV sometime soon and now there may be a part in Kay's POV as well. :)

Oz out.