7. Muted Magic

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

- William Shakespeare

00000

(Two days previous.)

Merlin came to with a jerk when he was carelessly dumped onto the ground. Groggy, hurting, and with the wind knocked out of him, all he was able to do was lie there blinking owlishly as someone fumbled with his ankle for a moment and then walked away.

Digging through his pounding brain, the warlock fought to remember what had happened, but it was all a jumbled up mess. There was a piece of jewelry and Sir Leon… King Uther cutting his hand off in the stocks for losing the rotten potatoes while people laughed… A bad hunting trip and a bad person pretending to be someone else… A blast of magic and the prince falling…falling…

OH!

Merlin sat up with a jolt, shouting Arthur's name with all his might –

- except no sound left his lips at all!

Instead, excruciating pain ripped up his neck and through his head, stabbing the tender spot just behind his eyes, and Merlin found himself unconscious once more within moments of waking up the first time.

00000

His second waking was slower, though no less filled with pain. The aching of before had been doubled and even opening his eyes was an exercise in agony. He couldn't move, just stayed there – a tangled pile of trembling limbs – and stared out through glassy eyes that didn't really see anything.

After a while, a figure loomed over him, and some distant part of his brain that was still trying to process reality screamed danger! With a massive effort, he forced his vision to focus and looked at the vaguely familiar man who had now crouched down in front of him.

"You don't do anything halfway, do you, lad?" the man said in a gruff voice, shaking his greying head slightly. "Most at least hear the bad news before they try and test it out, and not usually with as much force as they can muster."

Merlin heard him speaking, but he was struggling to understand. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to croak out a question, but the other man held up a warning hand.

"Hush. You don't want to do that."

He let his mouth drift shut, eyes narrowing in complete confusion.

"You were captured with your prince," the man spoke in a no-nonsense tone. "Our orders are to bring him back to our king, and any extras back to join the autumn collection of slaves." He gestured with a dip of his head and Merlin slowly gazed down, noticing for the first time that his wrists were bound in a pair of rusty manacles.

"Tharennor is a small and isolated country – we survive the best we can and we need workers, willing or not. It is standard practice for our patrols to carry slave collars, of two varieties." The man sighed, so slightly that Merlin almost missed it, before he continued. "I am sorry, boy, but if you hadn't given us that rather impressive display we never would have known to use the one for sorcerers. Still, what's done is done, and it's best if you accept it quickly. Life is usually a cruel mistress, lad, and fighting your new lot will only lead to more misery for you."

Some of the man's words finally started to filter through Merlin's sluggish brain, stirring up a measure of worry. Enough to make him crawl his fingers up to his neck and be alarmed when they touched cold metal. His eyes opened wide.

"It contains your magic – as well as your tongue."

That he understood! Raw panic shot through him, his mind urging his body to respond accordingly, but it just couldn't. All he could do was remain in a heap while terror cut up his insides. Still, habit brought a desperate protest to the tip of his tongue –

"Trying to speak causes great pain," the man cut him off before the words could fully form. "Trying to shout causes…anguish." He gestured again to Merlin's aching body.

The man reached over and placed two items next to his shaking hands – a tin cup and a small crust of bread.

"Eat when you are able, then rest. You're in for a long and unpleasant journey tomorrow." With those words he stood and walked away, leaving Merlin staring after him in shock and distress.

00000

Through a haze of pain, Merlin watched the camp, unable to do anything else, and a part of his mind stored the things he observed away for later, when he could think properly about them.

His eyes instinctively sought out Arthur first. He found him blindfolded and tied to a tree, still slumped in unconsciousness, though to his relief the prince was soon roused. As he lay there in misery, he observed the stubborn prince arguing, refusing to be fed, growing highly upset… Distantly, he wondered what could make his master so angry, and also sad. Arthur looked very sad.

Letting his eyes rove without moving his head, Merlin also watched the enemy men – watched them laugh and talk, cook and share food, sit in silence. A few of them looked sad and angry as well, but in his agony clouded stupor he couldn't think why that might be.

Finally, when it had been dark for hours and everyone except for the two men on watch had gone to sleep, the throbbing in Merlin's head subsided. He lay there a little longer, gathering his strength, before sucking in a ragged breath and pushing himself shakily up to a sitting position. He felt bruised and beaten and thoroughly wrung out, but at least he was thinking clearly and moving again.

Chains clanked quietly as he shifted and he glanced down, seeing again the manacles around his own wrists. He turned them over slowly, feeling the cold bands for the first time, still a little stunned they were there.

A slave.

The words drifted through his head, and he knew he should be completely panicking inside because of them, but there were so many horrible revelations about his current situation washing over him, and he was oh-so-very tired and still hurting and… Which did he react to first? Which atrocity claimed his focus more?

The cup and piece of bread caught his attention, still waiting there, and he realized that he was very hungry. It was barely a morsel, but perhaps it would help in clearing the rest of the fog from his mind. With shaky hands, he forced himself to swallow the stale crust, then washed it down with the few mouthfuls of water from the cup.

And yes – he found that it did help. Just the act of eating, of doing something so normal and every-day, grounded him slightly. Not everything in his world had gone completely berserk.

With a shuddering sigh, he set the cup down and made himself think – made his mind process everything he'd been avoiding.

He'd been captured with Arthur. The prince, though a hostage, seemed mostly okay. Himself – not so much.

He was to be sent…somewhere – he couldn't remember the name – as a slave. They'd stuck chains on his wrists and a collar around his neck. A collar that…that stopped his magic, he remembered with a tremor. And his voice.

Tears filled his tired eyes and he reached up, fingering the metal band he couldn't see. It felt like ice, and as far as he could tell seamless, with no opening or keyhole he could discern.

A magical item – designed for a magical purpose – so most likely sealed by magic as well.

Looping his fingers between it and his neck, he could feel a set of markings etched into the underside of the metal, but it was impossible to make out what they were.

With resignation, he let his hands drop back into his lap, and for a while he just sat there, allowing more of the residual discomfort to leech out of his body.

He was agonizingly aware of the fact that the collar's containment of his voice worked perfectly well. He would test it again, probe it carefully to see if there were loop-holes or cracks, but not right then. He was still too sore to attempt anything more that night.

He could certainly see the logic, however. See how locking away a magic user's voice would be in a slaver's best interest. How it would thwart a normal sorcerer.

But Merlin was far from normal when it came to magic, and as he sat there, breathing in and breathing out and trying to regain control over his own body, he realized that for having his magic taken, he didn't feel any different from usual.

Well, that was a lie, he thought with a mocking scoff. He had two rather large, throbbing gashes – one on his torso and one on his right leg – that he'd received in the battle, smaller cuts and scratches on his face and arms, and the two spectacular lumps on his head that weren't helping his headache at all.

So no, he wasn't feeling just like normal. But his magic? That seemed just fine. He could feel it, pulsing and flowing, just below his skin like it always had.

He frowned, thinking carefully.

He was different. Not a sorcerer, but rather a warlock, and even in that narrowed down category he was still unique. Maybe…maybe the collar, while it had managed to steal his voice, didn't work on his magic?

Good job he'd never needed words to use his powers, then…

Drawing a deep breath, he clenched his hands and tried to prepare himself for what could be his next round with pure agony, then he stared at the little, tin cup and let his eyes flash.

Nothing happened.

At least none of the things he'd been expecting. The cup didn't float up into the air, wrapped in the magic he'd sent its way, but neither did pain drive through his head like spikes. He'd felt the magic respond to his call, felt the glow come into his eyes, and then it was just gone.

Confused, he quickly tried half a dozen more times, calling on more and more power as his frustration grew, and only stopping when he became aware of a strange sensation of heat growing around his neck. With a start, he snapped his hands up to the collar and discovered that it was no longer cold but almost uncomfortably warm, and as his fingers brushed it, he felt something else – something that he hadn't noticed before.

He sensed power – magic – flowing through and entwining with the metal. Magic that felt very familiar. And there was more there, some foreign spell that had been too weak to feel before – a lock and a trap. It sat just beyond his reach, but if he only pushed a little harder…

Angry now, he shoved more magic at the horrid thing, ignoring the heat that rose to near burning levels against his tender skin. He felt the power pour into it, felt it hum and vibrate slightly, felt the locking spell…grow stronger and just a little farther beyond his reach!

He froze, his stomach dropping to his cold toes, and suddenly the words of the man from earlier came back to him.

"It contains your magic – as well as your tongue."

Contains. Not tears out or rips away. Not stops or removes. Just contains.

Someone, somewhere had designed the perfect magical restraint. Separating a person from their magic caused great discomfort, even pain, and sometimes could lead to death. None of those were highly desired outcomes in a slave who was meant to be fit for hard work. But containing it, where it could stay in the body, unable to escape…

Merlin fought the abrupt urge to be sick as he realized with shocking clarity that he'd just activated and reinforced his own prison!

The collar fed off of magic – his own magic. Anything he threw at it would simply make it stronger and stronger. It was a bond that could contain the most powerful of magical creatures, because the power holding them would always be equal in strength, while the locking spell would always get farther and farther from reach the stronger it grew.

With a barely suppressed sob, Merlin's head sank forward as hot tears crested his eyes and ran down his face. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly trapped and absolutely helpless.

**Author's Note: Just a note about the Kingdom of Tharennor. Don't go looking for it on a map, or trying to dredge it up from Arthurian legend or even our beloved TV show. Because, I made it up. Its name, its geography, its everything. But that's the great beauty of fanfiction, isn't it? (happy grin)