Chapter 9
Arthur groaned. There wasn't one part of his body that didn't hurt. His head throbbed and his throat and mouth were parched, as he hadn't been given any water since the day before. Not that Arthur had any real sense of time in the pitch dark of the cell. He didn't know day or night, only times of being alone in the darkness in pain, or times of agony in the torchlight when there were others with him in the cell. He had no idea of how long he had been there, only that it felt like an eternity and memories of any life outside that cell were growing increasingly remote with each passing hour.
But almost as bad as the pain, if not worse, was the tiredness. He wanted more than anything else to simply lie down and sleep. He'd been exhausted before, but that was nothing remotely like what he was feeling now. Each fibre of his being ached with longing to be able to rest, to be able to put his head down on the ground and go to sleep. But that was impossible for him, because for long periods of time – whether it was for hours or for days he couldn't tell – he was kept standing, as he was now. Each of his wrists was bound tightly in an iron manacle to which was attached a chain, and the chain from each wrist went through a different ring in the ceiling, and both chains were pulled tight so that Arthur could do nothing other than stand with his arms stretched out above him and to each side. He couldn't even take hold of the chains with his hands, to support himself with his arms rather than his legs for a while. So when his legs became too weary or his tiredness too great, the manacles would begin to cut into his wrists as soon as he slumped down, making any relief or rest near on impossible.
There had been one brief period of respite for him, though he had no real idea of when it had been. One of the open wounds on his body had become infected, and he had started a fever and had become delirious, and they'd had to lay him down to try to deal with the fever. He had had moments of slightly greater lucidity during that time, and in those moments he had done only one thing. He had prayed and prayed that the fever would take him and that it would all be over, but any hopes of that were dashed when Alvar was brought in. He had seen nothing of Alvar since he had arrived on the first day, and quickly learned that Alvar was paying a man who he deemed to be an "expert" to extract the information that he wanted from Arthur, a man who told him with great relish that he knew how to cause the greatest of pain without putting the life of the victim at risk. He vaguely remembered hearing Alvar's raised voice speaking harshly to his tormentor, before hearing words of magic and feeling a warmth in his body that told him that he was being healed, and Arthur had despaired. And that had been the only respite and the only real hope that he had had.
But there was one other thing besides the pain and tiredness that added to his agony and that made his existence a living hell, and that was the battle that raged inside him, and it was the greatest battle that he had ever faced. At the start he had constantly filled his mind with thoughts of Camelot: his people, his father and his friends, the foremost of which was Merlin. He thought of all that he stood for and all that he held dear, and above all, he thought of Guinivere. He knew that to keep them safe he had to keep locked within him all he knew of Camelot's secrets and its defences, because, of course, Alvar knew what he was doing - there was nothing important about Camelot that Arthur didn't know. He had initially hoped that his body would break before his resolve did, but he was young, fit and healthy and his body was strong, and Arthur gradually came to realise with horror that the "expert" did (with the exception of the one incident) know what he was doing.
And as the hours in the darkness became days, and his pain and his tiredness together with his weakness increased, those thoughts of goodness and beauty, friendship and love were forced into the background as louder and more insistent voices began to fill his mind. He began to be haunted by three phrases that had been spoken by Alvar, that gnawed away at his soul and began to play constantly in his head: ..…..no one is going to be coming for you…..you have a breaking point like any other man, and we will find it… we will not let you die until we've found that point. And the awful truth was, that Arthur increasingly had no answer to each of these thoughts, and he began to realise with utter dread that he was starting to lose the battle within. And fear and terrible anguish gripped him as the whispers within him became screams, telling him that there was no point holding out any longer, that they would get the information from him eventually so why not simply tell them what they wanted and bring an end to it all.
It was only when the tiredness overcame him and he drifted off for a few moments - before being brought back to consciousness by the pain in his wrists - that he found any peace. And as the hours slipped by he was dragged down further and further into black despair. And then it happened.
His cell was suddenly flooded with light, and there – unmistakeably – several paces away from him, standing in the doorway, was Merlin with a look of utter shock on his face as he stared at Arthur, and Arthur cried out to him.
But it was the sound of his own voice crying out that woke Arthur, and he found himself standing, alone in the darkness once again, with only the sound of his laboured breathing. The crushing disappointment and despair that came with the realisation that it had only been a dream were so great that, had Arthur had any energy left, he would have wept. And any last vestige of hope was finally extinguished, leaving the young prince in total and utter desolation and despair. His living hell was finally complete.