A/N: Ha! Haha, take that life! I'm early for once (11:00pm is early for me)! Hurray! I feel rather accomplished now :)

Title: Of Twisted Morals and Human Weaponry
Author: BeyondTheStorm
Rating: T for...well, a lot of things. Some language, some violence, the whole general situation, a bit of torture, etc.
Characters/pairings: The cast is as follows: Merlin, Arthur, an antagonist, two guards with names, and a few without. Merlin and Arthur are the main focus of this story. Oh, and no pairings. Only friendship here, though if you want to read more into it, feel free. Whatever floats your boat :)
Spoilers: Um...none, as far as I know.
Warnings: Abuse, a bit of torture, me being descriptive
What to expect: Bromance, introspection, angst, some whump, H/C, lots of drama, lots of worrying...oh, and some magic. Can't forget the magic :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin :)

Thank you everyone for all the nice reviews on the last chapter (although I did get called evil a good number of times, but I kind of brought that on myself :) I'm continuously amazed at the response I've gotten for this fic. I will continue to do my best :) Oh, and some of you may hate me for the ending of this chapter too. Just saying.

Anyway, I give you a nice long chapter with all four POVs. I hope you enjoy!

Onward!

CHAPTER 11

Magic was truly an incredible thing. It had the ability to make the impossible possible, to both protect and destroy, to entertain, create, and give shape to even the most unbelievable of thoughts. Magic was power itself, a force that flowed through the land, weaved throughout nature and into the creatures born from it. No amount of effort would ever be able to overcome it, to eradicate it from the world. Those who tried would never succeed; it was a war that could never be won.

Magic was truly incredible, but it was also dangerous, and its practitioners were never what they seemed. Unlike knights, bandits, mercenaries, and warriors, sorcerers weren't obvious. You couldn't pick them out of a crowd, couldn't look at them and determine their power. They could hide in plain sight—a wolf in sheep's clothing. Unlike a sword, magic was invisible as a weapon, and rarely could it be disarmed or blocked by anything other than magic. Sorcerers were unbelievably dangerous if given reason to be.

He had never realized the full extent of that truth until the moment he felt a powerful, unseeable force slam into his chest, throwing him to the ground.

Dazed but not incapacitated, Owyn slowly pushed himself up and then struggled to his feet as quickly as his aching head would allow. Next to him Rordan was doing much the same. When he took a look around, he saw that most of the guards were in similar states, some groaning from where they had hit the floor, others unconscious from having been thrown into the walls. There were over twenty of them, and yet they had all been taken down, even if only for a moment, by just one person, a single sorcerer who could barely stand on his own two feet, whose magic was supposed to have been suppressed.

It was incredible how desperation and determination could push someone so far beyond their physical limits.

All things considered, Merlin never should have been able to make it past the door of his cell. Even the level of power it would have taken to destroy it the way he did should have rendered him unconscious, yet for some reason it hadn't. Not only had he been able to leave his cell, but he had also been able to incapacitate the two guards outside of it long enough for him to stagger down the hallway and disappear. He had also dealt with every guard he came across in much the same way, his magic reacting to his will as if it were a mere extension of his body.

If magic truly had a shape or a form of its own, he imagined that they would be able to see it now, blanketing the young warlock like a cloak or coiling around him like a snake ready to strike should anyone come too close. It would look wild and untamable while being anything but.

This boy was truly one of a kind, an embodiment of everything that magic was and could be if given the chance. He couldn't help but wonder what it would look like unshackled and free, with nothing there to hold it back. Surely it would be a sight to behold.

However, if something wasn't done, he'd never get the chance to see it. If something wasn't done, Merlin was going to end up killing himself. Powerful or not, his body was still made of flesh and blood, still undeniably human, and the strain he was putting on it would eventually do him in. They had to stop him before it was too late. Allowing him to escape would do no good if he died in the process.

"Merlin, you need to stop," he called, but the warlock was still ignoring him, still just standing there with his back to both him and Rordan, his head down. The guard wondered if he was trying not to look at them on purpose. Perhaps if he did, his resolve would waver. There was obviously something he felt he had to do, something more important than anything, and he would sacrifice what he had to to get there, even himself—his conscience, his heart, his life.

It was so much easier to keep going forward if you never stopped to look back.

As a few more of the guards struggled to their feet, they all took a few steps forward before coming to a somewhat uncertain stop. None of them wanted to get too close after what had happened, knowing that even though Merlin had never used his magic against them like this before, he wouldn't hesitate now. He had always done all he could to avoid them during his escapes, to turn and run the other way if he came across them. He didn't like confrontations, didn't want to hurt anyone if he didn't need to…so what had happened? What had driven him to this? Why was he so desperate?

"Merlin, calm down," he said, trying to be as placating as possible as he took a step forward. "You'll overexert yourself if you keep this up." Something told him that the warlock was well beyond that point already, his sheer single-minded determination the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Merlin still didn't move, nor did he say anything as he stood there, shoulders heaving with every breath. Owyn found himself once more wondering what was going on in the boy's mind, but he was also trying to figure out a way to get out of this. Unless they allowed him to pass, Merlin wouldn't be getting out of the corridor, not with so many guards present and not in the state he was in. As much as he hated thinking about it, he knew what the best outcome would be for the situation. They were going to have to subdue him. They were going to have to lock him back up and subject him to yet more torture, and he got the feeling that Barragh would be even less forgiving this time around given the damage the warlock had done. If they put him back in a cell, there was no telling what would happen to him.

However, they couldn't let him leave. If they did, Barragh would undoubtedly punish them for helping Merlin, and when all was said and done, such a sacrifice would be in vain, because there was no way for the young sorcerer to escape. He'd never make it to the gate, and the attempt could very well end his life. They couldn't allow that to happen. Not only was he a good friend, but there was someone waiting for him, someone who had spent an entire month trying to find him while damning the consequences.

It was at that thought that inspiration struck.

Wait, maybe…maybe I could use Arthur to calm him down. If he were to mention the prince, then perhaps that would be enough. It was worth a try. Even though he had promised himself that he wouldn't let anyone know about the connection between the two prisoners, he couldn't think of anything else that might work. He just hoped he wasn't about to make a terrible mistake.

He looked up from where his attention had drifted to the floor and saw Merlin slowly raising one of his arms, about to use his magic again. If he was going to say something, it had to be now.

"Merlin—"

A pained whine cut him off as he watched Merlin bring his hands to his head, stopping whatever spell he had been about to unleash. He doubled over, still managing to stay on his feet, but it was obvious that he was in a great deal of pain. All that magic he had used was finally catching up with him; he was gripping his head so hard that he would probably end up drawing blood if he wasn't stopped. However, no one moved forward, all of them still too afraid to approach him in case he were to lash out again. It wouldn't happen though. It couldn't. Merlin had used too much, had pushed too far, and it would probably be a long time before he'd be able to do anything with his magic again. He had reached the limit of what he was capable of under so many constraints.

His power was truly extraordinary, but his body was still human.

When his knees finally buckled and he hit the floor, everyone was suddenly moving. By the time any of them could reach him, the warlock was already unconscious.

"How did he escape?" Barragh shouted, his voice thundering through the room and making more than just a few of them flinch.

"He, um," began one brave soul amongst the twenty-something of them that stood before the enraged nobleman, "he kind of…blew a hole through the wall."

Barragh slammed his hand against the wall, making them all flinch again, but instead of yelling at them and berating them all for incompetence (or accusing them of helping), he fell into a very livid silence. The guards were all doing their best not to fidget or to look guilty or scared, but it was rather difficult given what had just happened.

From the back of the line, Rordan fought the urge to sigh and run a nervous hand through his hair. Honestly, this was the last place he wanted to be right now. He had more important things to be doing, although he knew that the one thing he really wanted to do was something he wouldn't be allowed to.

They had all been forbidden from tending to Merlin.

Not long after the warlock had lost consciousness, Barragh had rounded the corner, looking rather murderous. After taking in the scene, he had immediately ordered two of the guards to throw the boy into a temporary cell and chain him up while forcing the rest of the guards to follow him into the audience chamber of the castle. He had claimed to want a report of what had occurred, but after being told about what had taken place in the corridor—a very abridged version of it, because no one wanted to make things any worse for Merlin than they already were—Barragh had started yelling at them.

They had all seen the lord angry before, but this time there were no words to describe the level of anger and frustration written on his face. It was quite possible that the man had finally reached his breaking point.

"That bloody, insolent little—!"

He punched the wall again, one of the stones cracking under the force. All of them wisely remained silent, unwilling to find out if he would direct that fury towards them if they were to say anything.

"Even with his magic suppressed, he's still this powerful," he growled, addressing the room at large but not truly acknowledging any of the men standing there. That was just fine, at least for Rordan, because his mind was about two floors down and five halls away. His thoughts were where they usually were, where they had often been in the last few weeks: with Merlin.

He couldn't help but wonder if his friend was okay, if the warlock had woken up yet, if he realized just what he had done and what the consequences would be. With the way Barragh was seething, he wouldn't be getting away with just a few lashings this time. The caution and care that the man had taken in making sure that Merlin wasn't permanently damaged, that his life was never really put in danger was obviously coming to an end, because clearly more severe methods would need to be used if the warlock was still capable of escaping only a week after being flogged. If he was still that powerful, then he obviously needed to be subdued more thoroughly.

Rordan shuddered at the thought.

He glanced to his right to see how Owyn was doing, knowing that the other man wasn't taking this well either, but what he saw there had him staring for far longer than he probably should have. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, teeth gritted behind it. He stood still and tense, both hands clenched into fists at his sides, but more so than his posture or the worry lines on his face, it was his eyes that startled the older guard. Having worked together for years, he had gotten to know the younger man well. He knew that Owyn was good at switching moods, that he could go from joking around to dead serious in seconds. He had a quick mind and a sharp wit, was capable of analyzing just about any situation and coming up with the right—or at least the best—conclusion. He was rarely startled and never remained confused for too long, always capable of finding the answers to whatever question plagued him. That's just the way he was.

So then why was there so much indecision and uncertainty in those eyes? It almost looked like he was fighting some kind of inner battle, trying to keep himself from losing control—like his thoughts were racing and he wasn't able to stop them. It wasn't a look he had ever seen on that face before, and he had certainly seen his fair share. It was as if there was some great weight on his mind, a decision he needed to make. It was the look of a man who had been told the greatest of secrets, willing to bear the weight yet somehow wishing he had never found out in the first place.

What did he know that the rest of them didn't?

Before he could think on it further, his attention was drawn back to the front of the room by Barragh. The man was talking again.

"That boy," he growled. "Even the threat of being flogged wasn't enough to keep him in that cell, and he might actually die if I give him all ten lashings like I promised. Seems I'll have to come up with another way to control him."

The lord paced back and force a few times in front of his guards, their eyes all following him, waiting for him to either give them orders or just dismiss them. They weren't needed there; it's not like he was going to be asking for their opinions or anything. Barragh simply enjoyed having an audience when he was ranting.

It was after a few minutes of nonstop pacing that the nobleman finally came to a stop, a thought clearly dawning on him as a wide smirk broke out on his face. This time it was Rordan who found his hands curling into fists and his brow furrowing while next to him Owyn's eyes were wide and afraid. Apparently something must have dawned on him as well, and the look on his face was enough to inspire a growing dread in the older guard. Fear was something else he almost never saw in those eyes.

"That's it," began Barragh as if he had just stumbled upon the greatest of revelations. "That's how I'll do it. I should've thought of it sooner. If our little sorcerer wants to go home that badly, then all I have to do is make it so he can't."

With a laugh that sounded downright sinister, the nobleman pushed his way through the guards before they could even make a path for him and swept out of the room. Whatever plan he had thought up, he clearly hadn't felt the need to share it aside from that little bit of cryptic nonsense. The guards were all left alone in the audience chamber, completely lost as to what was going on…all except for one.

"What?" was the thought on most of their minds.

"Arthur" was on Owyn's.

When Merlin eventually came to, it wasn't in the peaceful way he was used to. His return to consciousness came in the form of a searing pain racing down his back. He cried out, unable to help it, still far too out of it to fully understand what was happening to him. His head was too foggy and his body ached in ways he hadn't known were possible. However, it apparently wasn't enough pain to keep him unconscious seeing as how more pain was able to wake him up.

Before he could dwell on it much further, there was another flash of white-hot pain, followed rather quickly by a third. He tried to get away, to move or curl up or do something that would maybe protect him from whatever was happening, but his body wouldn't listen. His arms were trapped somewhere above him and his legs refused to support his weight, leaving him sagging against what he assumed was a wall of some kind. It certainly felt like a wall. If only he could open his eyes, he'd be able to know for certain.

It wasn't until that sharp pain came back for the forth time that he realized what was happening. He was being flogged.

Why? What happened?

The fifth stroke of the whip (he assumed it was five. It was rather hard to count while trying to both hold onto and lose consciousness) brought not only one more moment of scorching agony but also a moment of clarity. Everything came rushing back—blowing his cell door off, attacking the guards, using his magic, getting caught, collapsing—and he found himself really wishing that he could go back to being unconscious, because at least then he didn't have to think about it—about what he had done and the stupidity of his actions.

He should have waited until he was stronger. He had blown his chance, and he probably wouldn't be getting another one, not this time. His eyes began to burn at the thought, but he refused to cry, to give in, because no matter what, he didn't want anyone to know how deeply this particular failure upset him. He couldn't let anyone find out, especially not Barragh, because whatever weakness he could find, he would hold onto. He would poke and prod and use it in whatever way possible until he could get Merlin to do what he wanted. That's the kind of person he was, and the warlock couldn't let that happen, because as much as he would have liked to believe that he couldn't be broken, he knew very well that he could.

He had to be careful. He needed to hold back and control himself, because he had taken too great a risk this time, had acted too hastily and without thought to the consequences. If Barragh were to ever find out just what had driven him to act so rashly, so desperately, then he likely wouldn't rest until he found a way to use it against him. If he ever found out about Arthur…

But Arthur was missing.

That thought alone was enough to almost bring him to tears again. He fought them back as best he could, but he couldn't hold them off completely, because he knew that even though he wasn't directly responsible for what had happened, it was still his fault. He hadn't been there. It was his duty to protect Arthur, to keep him safe, and he had failed.

He had failed because he was too weak to escape, completely useless without his magic to help him, and too much of a fool to notice an obvious trap when it was supposed to be his job to look out for such things. He was an idiot and a failure, and he hated it. He hated feeling helpless and lost and weak, unable to even stand let alone defend himself from what was happening. He hated it.

Why couldn't he just fall unconscious already?

"That's enough for now," someone said behind him, his mind barely registering the words. A very small part of him was somewhat confused, because he was pretty sure that the last time he had been flogged, Barragh had promised he'd make it ten. He knew he was a bit out of it, but he didn't think his counting skills were quite that appalling. Did that mean he would be receiving the other five later? Not a very comforting thought, that.

"Clean him up and take him to his new cell."

New cell? Oh, right, he had sort of destroyed the other one.

Before he could think on anything much further, his arms were being released and there were hands holding him up before setting him on the ground. They disappeared for a moment only to come back in order to wipe away the blood from his new injuries. The wounds were dressed quickly and rather haphazardly before a shirt was forced onto him, and even though it hurt, he tried not to let it show. He kept his eyes closed and tried to pretend that he had passed out, but whether they believed his acting or not, it didn't make the hands any more or less gentle with him.

As soon as they were done fixing him up (definitely not Owyn or Rordan considered the shoddy job and the lack of conversation), he found himself being hauled upright and then half dragged, half carried from the room. By that point he no longer cared where he was going. It didn't much matter, really. They could lock him in a cupboard for all he cared; it was likely to make little difference. His magic was too far away for him to reach now. He couldn't feel it anymore at all. No matter how hard he tried, it wouldn't answer his call. He had used too much, had forced it to act in ways it shouldn't have been able to under so much strain. He had been reckless, and now he was paying the price. He couldn't use his magic.

Regardless of where they put him, he wouldn't be able to escape.

Damn it, where is he?

After almost two hours of restless pacing, Arthur felt the desperate urge to take out his frustration on something (or someone). He was used to being able to hack away at a practice dummy whenever he felt particularly overwhelmed or irritated, but seeing as how that wasn't a possibility at the moment, he would certainly settle for landing a good punch instead. Barragh and his fat face would be preferable, but at that moment he rather wanted to slam his fist into Owyn's as well.

Where the hell is he?

The warning bells had stopped ringing quite a while ago. He hadn't been sure what to make of that. His head had been too full of other things to pay it much mind, but he had thought that once they were silenced, it wouldn't be long before Owyn would come back and tell him what the bloody hell was going on. Sure, he hadn't exactly said he would, but surely the man was considerate enough not to just leave him there without answering a single question.

…Right?

The prince slammed his fist into the wall in a moment of anger before pulling back the abused appendage with a hiss. He inspected the damage, testing to see if he could still move his fingers alright. Nothing appeared to be broken or sprained, but his knuckles were a bit bloody now, and he had probably bruised something (or a lot of things) as well. Cursing himself for his loss of control, he threw his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. He had thought that maybe he would feel better after venting like that.

He didn't.

Clutching his injured hand close to his chest, the prince hung his head and closed his eyes, his anger giving way to a much less familiar emotion but one he was gradually becoming more and more acquainted with. He liked to think of it as exhaustion. He got the feeling that most people would call it dejection…or hopelessness.

Merlin…

He was just so tired. Tired of not having answers, of not knowing what was going on, of finally finding a lead only to be denied, to have it snatched away and be left with nothing over and over again. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. What if this time was nothing more than a false hope as well?

Is Merlin really here?

A part of him didn't want it to be true, because if Merlin really was in the castle, then he was probably a prisoner, and Barragh was not a patient man. He didn't want his friend to be subjected to that kind of cruelty. However, a larger part of him—far more desperate, more selfish—wanted him to be there, to be somewhere in the castle, because he had spent such a long time looking for him only to fail time and time again, and he was just so tired of being disappointed and worried. Having Merlin be somewhere in the castle was far better than not knowing where he was at all.

But was he really there?

It felt like too much of a coincidence. It just didn't seem possible that they would both end up in the same place…but if they were…

If Merlin really was there, then why? Why was he taken? How did it happen? What did Barragh want him for? How come the guards seemed to know him? Why had they been so panicked? How had Merlin escaped? Had he ever managed it before?

Was he…was he that prisoner?

He couldn't be, could he? If he was that prisoner, then that would mean that he had not only escaped once but eight times in the past month. It would mean that not only had Merlin found a way to pick locks but he had also found out how to unlock any door that he was locked up behind. It would also mean that Barragh felt that he was worth locking up, worth keeping, that he had something the weapon's dealer wanted, and the prince was pretty sure it wasn't his skills as a manservant (which Arthur swore were nonexistent at times) or his penchant for sarcasm and insolent retorts.

So he couldn't be, right? He couldn't be, because if Merlin was that prisoner…it would mean that Barragh had had him flogged.

Arthur wasn't sure if he could stomach that thought.

Why Merlin?

What did Barragh want him for?

Damn it, where the hell is Owyn?

The sound of a door opening drew his attention, followed by the steady sound of footsteps. He tensed, raising his head just enough to be able to see the floor outside his cell. He wasn't sure who was approaching or why, so he didn't want to appear too eager or too interested in what was going on. Owyn was the only person he actually wanted to see at that moment. He was the only one Arthur could actually talk to. The prince didn't trust anyone else enough to ask them about Merlin.

The footsteps grew louder, and eventually he saw four men walk past his cell. He couldn't tell who they were just from their legs, but it didn't much matter seeing as how none of them bothered to stop in front of his cell, which meant that none of them were Owyn nor had they brought him any food. If that was the case, then he wasn't interested. He would just go back to brooding and asking questions he didn't have the answers to until that poor excuse for a guard decided to show up.

That plan failed rather quickly when he heard the sound of a cell door being opened and a body hitting the floor. He glanced up and watched as the guards walked away, disappearing down the corridor. He waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps before turning to look at the corner cell right next to his own, a barred wall the only thing separating the two. His eyes widened a bit at what he found.

There was someone in there. He couldn't see too much of them from the angle he was at, but that was definitely a person albeit a rather disheveled one. All he could really make out was a pair of worn brown breeches and a white shirt, though it was stained red in places along the back. Whoever they were, it was obvious that they were hurt seeing as how they hadn't even bothered to move yet (he was almost certain the other prisoner wasn't dead, if only because it was a waste of time to lock up a dead body, and he didn't think Barragh was quite that twisted).

Arthur found himself at a bit of a loss as to what was going on. At first he was just confused, because he was pretty sure that Owyn had told him that Barragh never put prisoners next to each other. However, most of that confusion vanished into curiosity when the figure in the cell next to him groaned and shifted. He stayed silent, watching and waiting, anxious in a way he didn't quite understand. He still couldn't see much of the other person, which was honestly rather frustrating, but despite his curiosity, he didn't want to appear too eager or too concerned. Surely it would be better to wait and let them make the first move.

The prisoner—a man, he determined—groaned again in either pain or exasperation (it was rather hard to tell, really) before shifting a bit more, trying and failing to get his arms under him to get up off the floor. He sighed rather loudly after the failed attempt and then proceeded to just lie there, either too frustrated or too tired to care, and Arthur found himself debating on whether or not to just call out and be done with it.

He didn't get the chance. The other man huffed a soft laugh before speaking in a tired voice, pitched at a mere whisper.

"Well, that certainly could've gone better…"

Arthur froze, his heart stopping for a moment as he sucked in a sharp breath that seemed to get lodged in his throat. It was a little rough, a little worn, and far too quiet, but there was no mistaking that voice.

There had been times where he was terrified that he would never hear it again.

He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, afraid that he was somehow mistaken, that he was seeing things or dreaming, because it wouldn't do to get his hopes up only for them to come crashing down. The world was good at giving him the things he wanted only to snatch them away again, and didn't most things that were too good to be true turn out to be exactly that?

Still…still, he had to know. His heart would never allow him to do otherwise.

He tried not to sound as desperate as he felt, but in the end he didn't care, didn't try to censure what he was feeling as he nearly choked on just one word.

"Merlin."

The prisoner tensed with a soft gasp, and then with renewed effort, he began to try and force himself up. He turned his body until he could see the cell next to him, and Arthur finally caught a glimpse of what he had known would be there all along.

Dark hair, pale skin, and two piercing blue eyes.

"Arthur…"

After over a month of searching, he had finally found him.

He had found Merlin.

A/N: So...I sort of bought a lottery ticket today (or five). I haven't bought one in years, but given how large the Powerball is, I thought I may as well. It certainly is a fun idea, at the very least. Wish me luck :)

Anyway, thank you again for taking the time to read this. I'm glad so many people are enjoying it. Feel free to drop a review if you like. I'd love to hear from you :) And so sorry I didn't get around to the responses again. Life is rather good at getting in the way. So is internet failure.

Anyway, my arm is starting to hurt, so I'm going to take off. Thanks again!

Until next week!