Merlin was filled with a sick sense of déjà vu. He had woken up a few minuets prior and found himself strapped by his arms ( which were by his side) and his ankles. They were magic restraints but Merlin didn't know if they were just a precaution or if Morgana knew about his magic. Images, memories, flashed through his head; each of his father cutting him open or putting something into him. He could hear his muffled cries and his step-fathers gruff voice telling him to be still and quiet. It was then that Merlin was filled with more dread. He had noticed that his top armour had been removed and his lower armour changed into bare feet and rough skin trousers. But, without a doubt, the worst thing was his helmet. It wasn't there.
Startled, Merlin shot his head as he heard a door slam shut but found himself staring into the face of Morgana. She smirked cruelly, and spoke in a light tone. "I should have guessed. Arthur's pathetic little lab dog would be a hero such as yourself. I had hoped to make the conversion to my side easier but then I took off the mask and, what do I find? The manservant to the King." Merlin opened his mouth to speak, to object but found himself biting back a scream instead as Morgana plunged a knife into his leg. He convulsed in pain but promised himself that he would not cry out. Twisting over as far as he could, he spat blood onto the cold, grey, stone floor and glared at her, trying to ignore the burning pain in his leg. "So," she began, leaning forward. "Shall we begin?"
Hours later, the guards dragged him along, his toes scraping the floor, his head bent low, and threw him into a damp cell as though he were a piece of coal into the fire. He rolled over onto his back and whimpered, the knife marks from when he had been removed from the table flaring with pain. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that the chances of his wounds getting infected were extremely high so he resigned himself to his fate, his eyes burning a hole in the roof. He felt weak and pathetic; his magic cut off, he felt empty, like something was missing and a cold breeze replaced it. Tears rolled down his cheeks, making the bloody cuts sting but he found himself not caring. Wandering, his mind found a place in Camelot and all his friends there. What would they do when they found him missing along with his alter ego? Would they not make the connection? Or would they come at him, demanding retribution for his magic? Deep down, he knew that probably wouldn't happen but he found himself crying harder non the less. He wanted to go home.
I apologise for the really bad ending but, there it is. Please check out my other story, Grim Fandango.
Bye