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Chapter 5

Lancelot moaned as someone dragged a knife across his collar bone. He was long past full out screams at this point. Every inch of him radiated pain, from his shoulders to his back muscles, which had been suspended in the same taut position for days, to his wrists that had been chafed raw from the coarse rope. And then there were the various cuts and bruises he'd accumulated while strung up on Garerrock's wall. Leave it to the warlord to find a means of entertainment in everything—anyone was allowed to come torment the prisoner as long as they followed that fundamental rule: don't kill him.

It was easier to mark the passage of time out in the hall by the lulls between fights when the spectators wandered off to presumably bed down for the night or everyone had had so much to drink they found a corner to flop down in and sleep it off for a few hours. Lancelot had been strung up for three days, unable to move, no food or water, unable to even find respite in unconsciousness. Whenever someone noticed him nodding off, they'd inflict a fresh burst of pain to jolt him back to awareness. That was how the knife had been removed from his wrist yesterday.

The current blade dug into the flesh under his collar bone and torqued, drawing forth a whimper past dried, cracked lips. He didn't even register who exactly was carving into him. He was dizzy from blood loss, thirst, and hunger, and he idly wondered how much longer he was going to be made an example of before he was allowed to die.

A small voice reminded him he wouldn't be; that wasn't how it worked here.

The spectators erupted in raucous noises, and Lancelot's tormentor was distracted enough to go see what was happening in the current fight, which Lancelot was only half consciously aware of. Every time he lolled his head even a little, his vision became so blurry that he couldn't recognize who was in the cage.

The man's absence was little relief in light of every bit of agony pulsing through Lancelot's body. There was a dampness down his back that had slowly seeped through his shirt, making him shiver. It was coming from the tiniest trickle of water running from a crack in the rock overhead, but no matter how much Lancelot strained his head to reach it, he couldn't. Yet another torment.

Garerrock sauntered over, a goblet of wine in his hand. "I bet that water is driving you mad," he taunted, then took a sip from his cup.

Lancelot's throat constricted and he swallowed hard to keep it from closing up.

Garerrock grinned. "Thirsty, huh?" He started to stretch out his hand holding the cup, only to pull it back sharply and take another long drag for himself. But instead of swallowing, he spat the wine back out into Lancelot's face.

And to Lancelot's great shame, he desperately licked those scant droplets from his lips.

Garerrock laughed uproariously and went back to his table.

Lancelot dropped his chin to his chest and prayed for an end.

.o.0.o.

It was another two days before Sagra appeared and held a goblet to Lancelot's lips, tipping its contents into his mouth. At first Lancelot desperately tried to gulp it down, but as the vile tasting brew hit the back of his throat, he immediately started choking and tried to cough it back up. Sagra grabbed his face roughly, pinching his cheeks and tilting his head back to force the acrid liquid down his throat. Lancelot bucked and choked, some of the drink even going down the wrong pipe that left his chest burning on the inside as though the sigil had been activated.

He was still coughing raggedly as he was cut down and dragged on his knees to Sagra's chambers. The guards flung him onto the table where he lolled his head dazedly. Then came Sagra's healing. The sorcerer started with the puncture wound in the one wrist and methodically worked his way down every inch of Lancelot's body, and each time he "healed" an injury, Lancelot screamed as though he'd been stabbed all over again. He would have wept on that table had he not been dehydrated past the point of tears.

When it was finally over, a blessed numbness had begun to seep through his marrow, and Lancelot found he was oddly strong enough to walk on his own two feet back to his cell. None of the other prisoners said anything to him as he shuffled into his cage and slumped against the wall. His lax gaze fell on Tolu's empty cell, and he felt another pang of grief and guilt before looking away.

He was mildly surprised when the guards came to collect him for a fight so soon after his brutal punishment, but he supposed he shouldn't have expected anything less. He even had a brief flicker of fear that they were going to throw him to the serket or wilddeoran, but they brought out another prisoner for the fight as well.

The sword felt heavy in Lancelot's hands, and while his mind was still reeling from the torture, there was a vigor in his limbs he couldn't explain. It helped him hold his own for a little bit during the fight, though without his usual dexterity and stamina, and he eventually took a slice across the back of his shoulders that ended the match.

He felt a rising terror as he was brought to Sagra again, and the subsequent healing tore another cry of pain from him. He was past holding it in when Sagra's magic felt like it was ripping him apart from the inside out in order to do a slapdash patch on the outside.

That wasn't the only pain tearing Lancelot up inside. His heart was still in anguish over Tolu. He knew he'd done the right thing, the noble thing for the boy, but it didn't change the fact that Lancelot had been the one to take his life. And that was the worst sin he could bear upon his soul, more than the other acts of violence committed in the cage.

"I knew this would happen," Mekin taunted him with unveiled disgust. "You let yourself care too much."

Lancelot didn't respond. He didn't try speaking to anyone anymore, not even the next new person brought into the prison who was given Tolu's old cell. This one was a tougher looking fellow, one who raged and spat at his captors. His sigil got activated a lot. At least he had the spirit to fight.

Lancelot lost the next several matches, his heart and will not in it. He should have known what would happen as a result, but he was too wrapped up in his own misery to notice when it was just him put into the fight cage. Then the gate to the serket's den was raised.

Lancelot backed up against the bars, only for groping hands to reach through and grasp at him. He wrenched away, just as the serket skittered into the open. It chittered and charged straight at him. Lancelot dove out of the way and rolled across the ground, but the thing's tail snapped back and forth, and he had to fling himself backward to avoid the stinger.

The creature darted around, pincers clicking, and lunged again. Lancelot scrambled out of the way. The serket swung its foreclaw, catching his legs and pitching him face first to the ground. A second later, something sharp stabbed him in the back of the shoulder and Lancelot screamed as liquid fire pumped into the muscle.

The serket yanked its stinger out and backed away with a hiss. Lancelot's breathing hitched as the fire spread, and within moments every muscle was convulsing from the venom coursing through him. He barely registered the serket being forced back into its den or the cage door opening. The guards set a stretcher down beside him and roughly transferred him onto it. He was shaking so hard his teeth kept clacking together and he thought he might roll right off.

The stretcher was slammed down on Sagra's table and Lancelot was manhandled onto his stomach. The agony in his shoulder was unbearable, and Lancelot silently begged the sorcerer to take it away. That cold, slick glop was pressed into the puncture wound, and then burning ice replaced the fire and Lancelot screamed again, which quickly morphed into broken sobs. His shoulder turned numb but his muscles were still twitching and he couldn't seem to make them move.

"Sit him up," Sagra ordered.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and swung him upright, and his vision blacked out at the abrupt change in elevation. A cup was pressed to his mouth and that vile liquid was poured down his throat again. Lancelot didn't have the ability to wrench away, not until after he'd consumed it when strength was suddenly infused back into his limbs. It must have been a magic potion.

Lancelot was still in a daze of shock, the effects of the strengthening potion warring with the effects of the serket's venom, but he somehow managed to walk back to his cell where he curled into a shivering ball for the next several hours.

When his next meal came, he found the disgusting drink had replaced his usual serving of water. Lancelot didn't touch it. Not long after, a tremble began in his hands and worked its way up his arms. He folded them tightly across his chest and tried to ride it out.

But then the guards came to take him to his next fight, and when he tried to stand, his legs were shaky as well. They took one look at the untouched drink and then shouted for another prisoner to be taken to fight instead. Lancelot was taken directly to Sagra where the guards presented the full cup to the sorcerer without need for explanation.

Sagra picked up the cup and came to stand in front of Lancelot. He nodded to the guards, who kicked out the backs of his trembly legs, driving him to his knees. While one guard held his arms behind him, another forced his jaw open so Sagra could pour the brew into his mouth. Then they clamped it closed and covered his nose as well so he couldn't breathe. His body bucked, automatically swallowing the liquid in a desperate bid for oxygen. Only then did they release him, letting him fall forward on the floor, coughing and choking. Within moments, that weakness in his limbs faded and he felt steady again.

"Don't be stubborn," Sagra warned and waved a dismissive hand for the guards to haul Lancelot away.

The strengthening potion or whatever it was didn't last forever, and the next time it wore off, Lancelot was not only shaky but gripped with crippling nausea. He eyed the drink that'd been left in his cell, ashamed as he finally gave in and crawled over to pick it up. His hand shook violently, sloshing some of the brown liquid onto his hand. He knocked it back in one long drag before he could spill more.

After that, Lancelot willingly drank the potion that was given to him on a regular schedule with his meals, as it was the only way to keep that horrible sickness at bay. It made him hale enough to win his fights again, but he felt like it was slowly killing off pieces of his soul. Or maybe this place had already been doing that before.

Maybe Lancelot had started the spiral when he killed Tolu.

He had nightmares about it and would wake gasping in his cell. No one tried to reach out to him in those moments when he smothered his sobs in his shirt. Mekin looked at him with disgust while Yvailf seemed to muster a modicum of pity, but that was it. Surrounded by fellow prisoners, yet Lancelot was utterly alone and bereft.

He contemplated trying to kill himself in the cage, but a small part of him that still cared knew his opponent would be punished for it, and he couldn't bring himself to try, not yet. So he picked up the sword and cut down his enemies with the same apathy as they did him. He felt dead inside, and he wished for death to claim him but knew there would be no such mercy. Just an endless cycle of blood and violence as a caged animal and nothing more.

.o.0.o.

Merlin was passing through the courtyard on his way back from the armory when he spotted Percival standing in front of the lantern and staring up at the flickering flame. His heart gave a pang and he changed direction, going over to stand beside the despondent knight. He didn't say anything, didn't want to interrupt his private moment of grief. The lantern had become such a fixture in the courtyard that it was easy to overlook it now in the hustle and bustle of daily activity. Merlin took his own moment to remember and mourn his friend.

"It's hard," Percival spoke after several long moments. "To go about life as normal."

Merlin nodded. "I know."

Percival's expression pinched. "But it's worse when I can, when I find myself laughing with the other knights and it's like I've forgotten him."

A hard lump settled in Merlin's throat, because he was guilty of the same. "Lancelot wouldn't want you to stop living."

Percival didn't say anything to that, just kept gazing up at the burning lantern. "Should we take it down?" he asked quietly.

Merlin's heart clenched painfully at the suggestion. Doing that would make Lancelot's absence…final.

Yet it had been four months. Life was moving on, as it had to. Was the reminder here truly the way to honor Lancelot? Or was it just keeping their grief alive and not letting it lay to rest?

A dragon screech spared Merlin from having to follow that train of thought, and he jerked his head up as Aithusa came soaring overhead, the gusting wind in the wake of her wings buffeting the banners. There were several screams from the lower town and shouts as knights came barreling out of the castle.

"Merlin!" Leon bellowed.

He grimaced. The dragons weren't supposed to make air raids over the castle. "Sorry!" he shouted back and turned his gaze up to the white dragon as it circled the castle. He summoned up his power as dragonlord and told her to meet him outside in the field away from the citadel.

With a shriek of acknowledgement, she veered away. Merlin waved apologetically to the frazzled knights as he beat a hasty retreat and headed out to the field.

Aithusa was practically vibrating with excitement as she landed. "I know where Lancelot is!"

Merlin blinked at her incredulously. "What?"

"I've been working with the Vilia," she said proudly. "They've been traveling through all the waterways across the land, searching places otherwise inaccessible. And they found something!"

Merlin just gazed up at her in a stunned stupor as she plowed on.

"They found a fortress hidden in a mountain where several men are being held captive. It took a while, but they discovered Sir Lancelot is one of them!"

Merlin felt all the air get sucked out of his lungs. "Are you sure?" he managed to ask, voice tremulous with hope. After all this time, could it be possible…

Aithusa huffed. "Yes. The Vilia remember Lancelot from several years ago. He's alive and we can go rescue him!"

Merlin couldn't believe it. He staggered back from the shock of the news, and that dead ember of hope inside him spurred to life again. He turned and rushed back to the castle to tell Arthur.