Warnings: Violence. Not extreme or graphic, but there.

Arthur came to eventually. He really couldn't say when it was. He was in a dungeon, he knew that right away. After all, he'd been in enough of them to know immediately.

But this wasn't Camelot. He doubted it was Escetia. This place was slightly larger than either, with a barred door positioned down the wall so he couldn't see through it. Where was he, then?

Arthur moved on, mentally assessing his position. He was chained up to the wall. Only one of his arms was, though; the one that was whole, his left one. His right limb, with the broken hand and arm – or at least they felt that way, from the swelling and pain shooting up them – was free. Not that it mattered, since he could hardly use it to escape.

He was sitting down, so seeing his feet took some maneuvering. Both had cuffs around them, but the chain was long, so he could stretch out if he chose to do so.

The chains spoke loud and clear. The message was: you can't escape.

Not right now, anyway.

He was also a little hungry, but his arm was causing him enough pain to nauseate him, so at the same time he thought he would be sick if he ate a thing. He winced. Then he pushed the thought aside and began to concoct as many plans for escape and/or rescue as he could, thinking that one might come in handy.

He was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. At the other end of the dungeon the door was indeed slowly creaking open, and a man's bony hand was pushing it. Well, thought Arthur, I can get some answers there.

Despite how hard he was trying to stay confident, he could feel his assurances draining right out of those chains. He wouldn't say he was afraid (no, of course he wouldn't)—he was cautious. He sat up straighter and eyed the door distrustfully.

Then, in an instant, it hit him that he knew that hand.

He didn't have time to process that before the rest of the thin man was in the room, and Arthur unintentionally sagged in his chains. He recognized the man, alright; he'd know him with his eyes closed. He'd spent the better part of six years with him, after all.

Merlin.

How the heck had Merlin gotten here? What was he doing? Had he just walked in the place and right through the dungeon's door? Arthur would think that ridiculous if that wasn't just the sort of thing Merlin would do.

"Merlin?" he said, unable to keep the relief out of his voice. The tightness inside of him seemed to dissolve a bit.

Merlin rushed forward, feet slapping against the stone floor as he made his way to the king. "Arthur!" he said, looking Arthur up and down quickly, as though looking at the chains and injuries.

Arthur tried not to smile. "Can you get me out of these?" he asked Merlin, shrugging the unhurt arm.

Merlin's eyes followed the movement. "Give me your arm," he said.

Arthur obeyed, lifting the heavy, chained thing and trying to hold it out for Merlin as best he could. Merlin didn't take it, though.

"No," he said. "Your other one."

Arthur's eyebrows drew together in a perplexed expression. Merlin could see it was broken, couldn't he? But Arthur was too fuzzy and confused to argue, so he figured Merlin would explain soon enough. Still watching in confusion, he attempted to lift that arm. It hurt to move it, but luckily his shoulder was whole. He managed it, flinching, and the arm finally made it into the air. Merlin took it by the wrist.

Arthur hissed. That hurt. "Careful…" he said.

Merlin didn't loosen his grip, just looked at Arthur with glinting eyes, and he asked, "Who is Emrys?"

"What?" What language was he speaking? That sentence didn't make any sense to Arthur, but his arm still hurt, and Merlin needed to be more careful—

Merlin lifted his hand, the one not holding Arthur's broken limb, and his hand curled into a fist. Arthur watched uncomprehendingly.

"Who is Emrys?"

"Wha—?"

Merlin's fist crashed into the broken arm. Arthur cut himself off, screaming from the sudden onslaught of unexpected pain. "Don't!"

Merlin's fist hit the arm again. He wasn't being gentle, and Arthur cried out again. "What are you doing?"

"Who is Emrys?"

"I don't know what you're talking about… Have you lost your mi – Argh!"

"Just tell me who and where Emrys is." Merlin's face was creased in a way that Arthur didn't recognize, a look of twisted anger and rage. The fist was drawn back again.

Panicked, Arthur jerked, trying to get his crushed arm away from his friend. Merlin… Merlin, why…? The pain from the movement made it all go fuzzy, but Arthur didn't care. He didn't want his broken limb hit again. He couldn't let that happen again.

"Oh, no, you don't," Merlin hissed in a voice that Arthur hadn't ever heard him use, and the man's eyes flashed gold. Suddenly everything grew clearer, and the buzz in his head went away, but the pain didn't lessen at all.

Arthur had given his arm to Merlin's grasp, and now he couldn't get away.

But it wasn't really Merlin, was it? It just looked like Merlin.

The fist careened into him again, and Arthur screamed from the raw agony. His arm was becoming more and more damaged; it would probably never work the same again. He tried again to scoot back, pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

Merlin would never do this. And Merlin didn't have magic. It wasn't Merlin, just magic.

Right?

It was like the knights who captured him. Sorcerers. And Merlin wasn't hitting his broken arm, making him cry out.

"Who is Emyrs?" Bam.

Right? If he was so convinced, why did he feel betrayed?

Arthur grunted and bit his lip as hard as he could bear, desperately determined to keep his whimpers in his body.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said as calmly as he could manage. "I don't know any… Emrys. I don't know what you want. I don't know."

But the Merlin-man didn't believe him.