This dungeon was too big. Arthur didn't like it.

When Merlin – no, the man, he couldn't think of him as Merlin or he'd go insane – left the room, Arthur curled up as well as he could, wanting his knees in front of him for protection. This dungeon was too large; there were too many things it could be full of.

He knew – in theory – that there was nothing out there, and that as long as he was alone, he was safe. But he didn't think he believed it. After all, a week ago he would've said he was safe with just Merlin—

No! Not Merlin! He pulled his head up sharply and positioned himself again so that his busted arm had some minor protection.

Yes, the dungeon was too big: it left too much room for thinking.

And concerning thinking… Who is Emrys? He wondered it to himself, shaking his head. Who was this person that M- the man thought Arthur should know about, while he'd never before heard the word? He didn't know… but he didn't believe that. He was so sure that Arthur knew.

Was it a code name? An alias? First name? Surname?

Maybe it was better not to know, he tried to tell himself. But he knew he (they?) hadn't given up yet, and they really wanted to know—they'd ask again. The thought made his limbs tremble and his stomach clench. He tried to move his body around his arm more, but the chains wouldn't allow it. He took several deep breaths to force himself to be calm.

I could lie, he realized with a spark of hope. I could make something up, they might not know… I could just give them a name, any name… and… And then "Emrys" would probably undergo the same treatment as Arthur was. And who would Arthur be willing to subject to that? Gaius, Merlin, Gwaine? No, Arthur wouldn't wish this imprisonment on his enemies, let alone his friends.

The spark of hope sputtered out unceremoniously. Arthur slumped forward. There was nothing for it, then.

The door opened. Arthur's arm, already unreasonably painful, gave a warning throb. His heart rate sped up, but he didn't look up. Not yet. He tried to pretend he hadn't heard it.

Footsteps. He studied the stones beneath his feet.

Then they stopped, and there was silence.

He lasted about five seconds, and at last he had to look up. He forced a hot glare on his face, and the first figure he saw was that of a girl, probably a little younger than he was. She met his glower evenly, then turned to the man next to her – who, to Arthur's immense relief, looked like no one he recognized – and said, "He is still chained, isn't he?"

The man walked over (Arthur tensed), checked quickly, and nodded. "He's contained."

"Good," said the woman, clapping her hands together and then rubbing them for warmth. "So, you're Arthur Pendragon?" She smiled a little tightly. "Of course you are."

Arthur didn't ask for her name. He didn't want to know.

"I understand you've been giving Claude a bit of trouble, stubborn Pendragon pride." She walked towards him and bent over so that he could hear her even if she spoke low. He stared up at her without blinking. "But it's just a simple question, and it would be so easy just to tell me: Who is Emrys? Where is he, what does he do—who is he?"

He sighed. "I don't know an Emrys." His voice was weak, so he cleared his throat and tried again. He had to make her understand. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I have never heard that name—if it is even a name."

She shook her head, pressing her lips together. "That's not possible," she told him. "You are King Arthur, the Once and Future King… You have to know. Prophecies don't go askew by themselves."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he argued back.

She stepped away from him, gritting her teeth. "Alright," she said to the large man. "Tell Samuel to bring it in."

The man went to the door and gestured, and another (Samuel?) came in, dragging a metal object with him—it stood like a pedestal, and it looked heavy. A red glow emitted from the middle of it in a bowl – coal and embers – and several long pokers stuck from the center. Just their tips were white-red hot, and the outer part of the pokers could be handled.

Arthur had to close his eyes for a moment.

She turned back to Arthur, her face solemn. "I am a member," she told him, "of a group called Mortdestin. Our purpose is to ensure that prophecies are not fulfilled… We believe that would be disastrous to the order of things. And you, King Arthur Pendragon, have a destiny—a destiny to unite the kingdoms in a new era. But you won't do it alone. You will be helped. By Emrys, a powerful sorcerer. Ringing any bells?"

"No," he said, as calmly as he could manage. Why wouldn't she listen? "I do not condone the use of magic."

"So I've heard," she told him, and this time she smiled a little. "But a prophecy is a prophecy."

Arthur spared a glance at the hot pokers and his throat nearly closed itself off for pure fear. He had to stall for time. "How do you know so much about me?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"We've been watching. We've known who you were for a while." She gave that tight-lipped mirthless smile again, the one that was borderline sympathetic. "All it takes is getting the right people to ask the right Druids."

"For how long? Is that how you know who…?"

"Your friends are?"

He thought of Merlin's look alike and tried valiantly not to shudder.

She nodded and continued, "Yes, that's how we know."

"Then you have to know that I don't know an Emrys?"

"Why would you have him out in the open if magic is illegal? You are King Arthur Pendragon," she said, finally looking peeved. "You must know who Emrys is… He's in all the prophecy! If you just tell us, it will make it easier on you!" She stopped herself and took a deep breath, the red that had flown to her cheeks beginning to fade.

Arthur sat back. If all they wanted was to destroy "destiny", and he was apparently some Once and Future King, that meant this would only end one way—they would kill him. And once they found Emrys, him too. He was only alive now because he wouldn't tell them who Emrys was.

But he didn't want to die anyway. He couldn't leave Camelot without a king. Or did he? He sent a look towards the hot pokers. He might want to shortly. But it didn't look like he had a choice in the matter, unless he was willing to die and willing to condemn another to die with him. And he wasn't.

He looked up at the girl – she really was a young woman, with large eyes and brown hair in a braid, not put up – and shook his head.

She sighed. She'd expected that. "Well," she said, turning away. "You've doubtless wondered how we can turn into people you know. It's a useful spell—I invented it, actually. It's helped my group keep tabs on you. It's very tricky, but I and the men you've met so far have mastered it. That's why we were chosen for this."

Arthur watched her closely, sitting up straighter and pulling his legs in, making himself smaller without being obvious.

She was now facing the corner away from him, and he could only see half of her face and the shape of her figure. Then she spoke a word, and with horror he observed her change. Her hair shortened and grew dark and curly; her nose flattened; her bosom grew and the shape of her hips shifted. It all took place in a second, and then she was someone else entirely.

His eyes went wide. "Guinevere," he gasped out—he couldn't help himself. Dread pooled in his middle.

No.

Guinevere's body turned fully toward him, with that sad, sorry, tiny little smile that looked just like her.

No, please, anything but this…

He nearly opened his mouth to say just that, to ask that this not happen, not Guinevere, not Gwen, but he stopped himself with some difficulty. His breathing grew faster and more frantic, but not one sound escaped him.

The girl-turned-Guinevere strolled across the room in her stolen shape and picked up the not-heated end of the poker, holding up the glowing end so it could be easily seen.

Arthur bit his lip. He was trying to prepare himself, but how the hell could he be prepared for this?

Not as his Guinevere…

The girl crossed the distance between them in a second, and then she seemed to hesitate. And dear heavens, she looked just like Gwen when she was hesitating.

Then she shook it off.

The first touch of the searing heat, right on his collarbone above the laces of his shirt, got a low, moaning sort of grunt from him. But the second time the poker touched his skin, fizzling, he couldn't hold it in again and he screamed. The sound filled the chambers and bounced off the walls, but at that point he could barely tell where it had come from anymore. It was all just heat and pain.

A/N: I actually feel pretty bad about that... Hm. Poor Arthur. He really needs a hug.