Hello again! I know, I'm early, but I have a long break so I thought I'd publish a chapter, do you mind?
Song: So Cold: Breaking Benjamin
Warning: Blood, violence, torture. This chapter could also trigger, so please be careful. It's also this chapter that'll tell me how far you want me to go violence wise. After this you can tell me," yeah kick it up a notch", or "no this is great", or" O MY GOD LADYWARLOCK WHAT IS YOUR SICK MIND COMING UP WITH" (I honestly don't think it's that bad, but maybe that's because I've read it about a million times.
Hope you enjoy it!
"Look at him. He's just a boy. Won't survive two days. Why waste our supplies on him?"
"Because he's a prisoner here just the same, and he needs help."
"We all need help."
"Would you have wanted me to deny you the aid I gave you when you first arrived?"
The voices continued arguing over Merlin's head as he groggily woke up—he didn't even remember passing out. He groaned in pain as the reality of his situation kicked in, and more parts of him ached than he even knew could. For example, Merlin never thought you could have a sore eyebrow, but there he lay, every hair in his thick brow throbbing.
"He's awake."
"No shit, Gandalf."
"Lad, can you hear me?" Merlin nodded his head slightly in response to the worried voice next to him. "I need you to open your eyes," the man continued, and the warlock replied by opening his swollen lids, blue eyes blinking furiously in the dark. After a few moments getting used to the black, Merlin could make out the figures of two men leaning over him.
"There you go, laddie, "another gravelly voice whispered in the darkness, and Merlin turned to see another figure kneeling next to him.
"Where am I?" he choked, throat impossibly dry.
"You're in The Mine. What's your name?"
"Merlin."
"Well, Merlin, welcome to the closest thing to hell you'll find in this world."
A shiver crawled up Merlin's spine as he remembered all that had happened, and as he attempted to get up, a warm hand helped him so that he was seated looking at the figures of five men. The pain overwhelmed him for a moment, and when the spots cleared from his vision, he looked around at his prison. It was a small hole deep in the ground, moist soil beneath him and hard stone making up the cold walls. And that was another detail that made the prison only more distressing—it was so cold. Freezing, bitter, wet, cold, cold, cold. Merlin wrapped his thin arms around himself as he watched his breath—the only thing he could see clearly—rise from his chapped lips and up to the small squares of light far above, up to freedom.
"I know, it's a lot to take in." Merlin looked back at the dark figures, strangely frustrated that he couldn't make out any details. It was too dark to differentiate one person from another. But the voice continued, ignorant of the warlock's raving thoughts. "We can't introduce ourselves here, but when we get to work, you'll soon get to know us very well. Now, you have maybe an hour before we have to work. I suggest you sleep; it's going to be a long day tomorrow."
"…Alright. Umm…thank you," Merlin said softly, unsure of his cracking voice.
"I did very little, because there is little I can do. Now rest, everyone."
After a few murmurs and groans, Merlin watched as the figures flattened out, and soon an arm tugged him closer so that he was sandwiched in the warmth of two people. Before he knew it, Merlin was fast asleep, mind still swimming with all that had happened.
"Up and at 'em boys. There are rocks to break and jewels to mine."
The hard voice followed a bucket of icy cold water that came down on the sleeping men. Merlin jerked up, regretting it soon after as his body protested. A man leaned in and whispered in Merlin's ear.
"Olaf is going to throw down some ropes. You climb them to get to the top. Speak only when instructed to, and do whatever they ask you."
Merlin didn't have time to thank the man before a thick rope was dropped to him, and the boy hurriedly climbed it, ignoring his groaning muscles. He scrambled to the top, and a large hand pulled him by the scruff of the neck over the edge. His ankles were still chained, but his captor unlocked the tight lengths that had bound the boy's hands all night.
Blinking in the sudden light, Merlin adjusted as best he could to his surroundings. Men all around were being pulled from their cells and given small husks of moldy bread, one of which Merlin scarfed down quickly. His stomach happy for any kind of nourishment it could get. Torches lined the walls, and Merlin soon found himself being pushed by a man with gray hair and deep wrinkles. The man led him down a few tunnels and to a dead end, handing him a pickaxe without so much as a word when they stopped. Gray Hair then proceeded to hit the wall in front of him, and three others filed in past the boy, using their own pickaxes to toil.
"Work," a man with black hair murmured to him, not looking at the boy. Merlin nodded and lifted the axe, testing its weight and finding it heavier than he would have liked, but despite it, he lifted it over his shoulder and hit the stone in front of him. The impact jarred his shoulder. Merlin grit his teeth and did it again, and again, and again. Suddenly the warlock was working, not looking back as he pounded at the rock before him with four other men, dust and stones flying at him.
When he had gotten the hang of it, Merlin risked a look behind him. Olaf stood, leaning against a wall; whip in one hand, drumstick of rich red meat in another. Another man stood in a similar manner, both men more interested in the food than at the men slaving before them. Shifting his gaze away, Merlin looked curiously at the men in his so called "family". The gray-haired man worked at his right, and even farther right was a superbly, to put it delicately—large, and to put it indelicately—fat, man with the frighteningly red hair. To Merlin's left worked the black haired men, hair cropped short, his arms bare, and muscles rippling. Working at the end was a man with such blonde hair it might as well be white, and his scrawniness competed with Merlin's own thin figure.
"Hey, newbie, get to work or you'll find yourself whipped," a gruff voice said from behind him, and Merlin turned quickly to see the other guard—bald—walking towards him menacingly.
"Sorry, Sir." Merlin stuttered, and then went back to work, focusing his thoughts only on the rock before him. However, it didn't take long for his arms to weaken and turn to jelly, his shoulders to burn, and suddenly the axe was the weight of the world, and the stone as hard as steel. Sweat poured down Merlin's pale features, and the heat from the torches combined with the heat and body odor of the other workers made for such a stuffy and hot atmosphere that Merlin found himself missing the terrible cold of the cells. But he didn't stop, he knew—even with that being his first day—that the guards would have no qualms with whipping him should even pause to catch his breath. However, the fear did not stop his muscles from groaning, and his breath from quickening with the relentless, mind-numbing work. And just when Merlin felt he would soon collapse, the guards called the work to a stop.
The warlock let the pickaxe fall hesitantly to the ground, and he followed suit when he saw his companions do the same. Merlin groaned quietly as he hit the floor, wiping the sticky sweat from his brow. A hand clapped on his shoulder, and Merlin turned to see the black-haired man nod appreciatively at him.
"Good work, laddie, good work for your first day. My name is Aeneas."
"Than…thanks," Merlin stuttered, his voice failing him after being unused in so long.
The man nodded, and then proceeded to point out their companions. "White hair over there, he's Paris. We call the old man here Doc 'cause he's the oldest and has been here longest, pudgy over there is Bofur."
"I thought I saw five men in the cell last night."
"Oh, that was probably Bofur's magnificent silhouette."
"Oh, okay."
The two men fell into an awkward silence, Merlin picking the scabs that littered his arms. But before he could get comfortable, Olaf called them to work again, and Merlin rose to his feet—swaying slightly. Aeneas steadied him and handed Merlin his pickaxe. "Come on, laddie. Round two and then we'll have lunch." Merlin thanked him, but he didn't get to work, his attention instead focused on Paris.
The man hadn't gotten up.
Next to him, Aeneas bent down and shook Paris's shoulder. "Come on, Paris, time to work," the man whispered, his voice becoming frantic. But the scrawny man only moaned, eyes fluttering and closing again. Then Aeneas did something that surprised Merlin.
He left Paris alone.
The black-haired man noticed Merlin's gaze. "There's nothing we can do. Get to work." Merlin's horror grew as Aeneas picked up his own axe and proceeded to work without so much as another glance at the man lying sickly on the ground next to him. The others set to work as well, and with another glance at Paris, Merlin began to pound on the wall with his pickaxe, too. But his attention was soon on Olaf, who was walking towards the blonde-haired figure, whip lifted menacingly.
When the blow fell, Merlin shivered, his axe staying as his attention was consumed at the man on the floor who, despite the hard blow, remained there. Aeneas cast him a warning look, and Merlin remembered himself, getting back to work and ignoring the cries of pain that grew steadily louder to his left with every smack of iron casted whip length. He instead focused on the rock, focused on the consistency of his axe hitting the stone, focused on the sound of the axe ringing on the hard wall. But it did nothing to drown the screams when Olaf replaced the whip with a pick axe.
After Olaf threw the men—now four—into the cell that evening, Merlin didn't even bother straightening himself from where he lay. He hadn't eaten lunch, and the long day had exhausted his thoughts from him. But soon, he lifted himself from the ground and walked towards the bucket that the men used for waste, and promptly vomited in it.
Aeneas's hand settled on his back, rubbing comforting circles into the boy's skin as tears mingled with the vomit as the warlock collapsed—his emotions getting the best of him.
"I'm sorry you had to see something like that the first day," Doc said from behind him. "But you'd best get used to it."
Merlin wiped his mouth with his torn sleeve, turning to the old man with growing anger. "How could you just leave him like that? You left him to die."
"Boy, everyone dies here. Had we lifted a finger, you'd find yourself being thrown to the crows as well. We help each other as best we can, but when a man doesn't get up, that's his funeral—you mustn't let it be yours as well," Bofur replied sharply.
Merlin lifted his head in an attempt to stop the tears, his breath ragged. Then the Doc crawled towards him and wrapped the young warlock in a tight embrace. In the man's old arms, Merlin pictured himself in Gaius's, and his tears overflowed again as he thought of the old physician's familiar smell. Thinking of Gaius, he thought of home, of the quarters that always smelled like herbs, of the rays of the sun shining through the window. And with thoughts of home brought thoughts of Gwen, of her warm smile and her scent—flowers and vanilla. He missed being in her arms, the way her curly hair tickled his nose as he rested his head in the crook of her neck. He missed them all, god damn it, he even missed Surevres.
"You've seen too little winters to be down here, boy, but you must be strong,"the old man whispered into Merlin's matted hair.
Merlin pulled himself away from Doc's embrace, wiping away his tears and righting himself. And for a second, Doc could have sworn he saw a flare of gold in those young eyes, but he dismissed it. Straightening his back, Merlin played with his hands—already blistered and bloody from a single day—cracking his knuckles in silence before turning to the older men around him, painfully aware how much younger he was than them. "So, how do we get out of here?"
"Excuse me?" Aeneas asked in surprise.
"How do we get of here?" Merlin repeated. "There has to be some way out."
"There isn't. Everything has already been tried." Bofur's eyes narrowed. "Don't even think of doing anything, boy. You'll bring us down with you."
"So you'd prefer to remain here until all your energy is spent, where the only door to freedom is death?"
"Yes, and I prefer to live as long as I can—"
"-As a rat in the dark? To die as nothing more than a slave whose life is worthless, forgotten by any who once loved you?"
"What do you want us to do?" Doc said, gaze locked on Merlin. "We are powerless in these chains, and the guards are around us at all times."
"Is there any time of day when the chains come off?"
"Yes—when you're dead," Bofur replied. "Now enough talk of escape. We have only a few hours to sleep before we have to get back to work and thank you very much, but I'd prefer not to sleep on the job."
Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but shut up when all three men threw him a look. The boy sighed and curled up, the sweat soon freezing on his brow as the cold overtook him again, the only warmth he had that of the men sleeping next to him. And with the image Paris's beaten body haunting his closed eyes, Merlin fell to sleep again.
She was brushing her long dark hair, deep emerald dress hugging her curves as she sat in front of a large mirror. He couldn't see her face, but Merlin felt warmth inside as he approached her. He put a hand on her shoulder, but when he leaned in to kiss her, he found that her face was Paris's—eyeball oozing from its socket, half of the face crushed in, blood everywhere.
"See what you've done to me, "she whispered with her honey-sweet voice, hand suddenly bloody and reaching towards him-
Merlin jerked awake, covered in a cold sweat, heart racing. He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the terrifying images that whispered in his dreams. He looked around him, turning to find the three men around him fast asleep—blissfully unaware of the warlock's nightmare. Merlin settled down quietly, but was wide awake, and remained so until the bucket of water woke the others to another day of hell.
A week passed before anything eventful happened—or at least, that's what Merlin thought. The long hours had come to blur together, every minute hell, every second torture. Mind numbing work and little sleep had left the warlock with so little energy that he couldn't even think of escape. But still a little voice inside him whispered rebellion, and his heart grew angrier with every passing moment.
It was the break after lunch when everything changed. Merlin was stretched on the floor, silent, as were his companions—no one had energy by this time of the day, and small chatter was a waste of breath.
"To work, men," Olaf called out, and Merlin lifted himself onto his feet, turning to work again when he found that Doc hadn't risen.
"Come on, Doc, it's time." Merlin shook the old man, who groaned at the boy's touch. "You have to get up." His heart sunk as the man didn't respond. "Come on,Doc," he said again. Don't do this to me.
Aeneas wrenched Merlin away, eyes locking with his in warning. "There is nothing we can do," he mouthed and went to work, but Merlin could see the tears in his eyes.
After all, you can't help but come to care for the people you're enslaved with.
Bofur, too, looked tortured as he glanced at the old man on the ground, but his many days spent in the endless dark had hardened his heart and he went back to work. Merlin tore his eyes away from his friend and went back to it, his heart heavier than the pick axe that he held in his torn hands.
When Olaf hit the old man, Merlin jerked at Doc's groan. Again. And again. Then Merlin did something either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid—he listened to the whisper of rebellion that dwelled deep in his chest.
"Stop!" the warlock cried and he dropped the pick axe, shielding Doc from another blow. "Please, he just needs some rest."
"Does he, now?" Olaf said, unable to hide his shock.
"Yes, please, Sir, just give him the rest of the day. I beg of you. "
"Oh, I'd be happy, too." The thick man leaned towards Merlin, but the boy only straightened his back and swallowed his fear. "I'll give him the rest of the day, but I'm afraid that my whip isn't sated—"
"—Then I'll take his place." Merlin blurted out, ignoring Aeneas's looks.
This shocked Olaf further, and perhaps it was his shock that kept Merlin alive. "Fine. I'll put the old man back in the cells, then it'll be your turn. Follow me."
Olaf pulled Doc to his feet, and Merlin shot his friends one last look, doing his best to look unafraid as he followed the heavy set man. The warden threw Doc into their cell, and as Merlin continued to follow Olaf, he could hear the old man's protests from deep within the hole. But Merlin ignored him and followed Olaf deeper into the monstrous caverns.
He led the boy deeper than he had ever been in the Mine, but sooner than Merlin would have liked, the large man took Merlin through a set of large doors.
"Welcome to the Punishment Chamber." Olaf informed him cheerily. "I'm sure you'll be dying to see this place more often."
If anyone were to ask Merlin to describe that space, the first thing he would describe would be the awful stench. The room reeked of blood, vomit, and filth. Screams wracked the air, and in every corner there was a man whose blood fell to the floor, mingling with the blood of countless others before him.
There was a man stretched on a table, pulled beyond his body's capability, men looming over him, cutting him open.
There was a man lying naked on the floor, body covered in blood, torn clothes covering the floor as a man above him refastened his trousers.
There was a man screaming as poison was dripped into his eyes.
And there were many others, but Merlin's attention was focused away from them and onto himself as Olaf called over two large guards that stood chatting in the corner. They led the warlock to a tall wooden beam, roughly shoving him against it, his arms pulled hard to the other side so that his chest felt like it was about to split open. One of them tore open the back of his shirt, and Merlin suddenly felt a gloved hand stroking his spine.
"I'd forgotten you were a bare-back. I'm going to enjoy this," Olaf whispered softly in his ear, humid breath making the hairs at the back of his neck rise.
Merlin readied himself, but no amount of preparation could ready him from the pain that that first blow wrought. He let out an unwarranted cry as the iron-tipped length licked down his bare skin, and like fire, it seemed to set his body aflame. Then came a second, and a third, and a fourth-and soon the pain kept Merlin from counting.
But the warlock wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing his screams, and he bit his lip to keep himself from doing so. Soon blood dribbled down his face, and spots began to appear in his vision. The world became dulled, and he saw black. But every time the whip sliced his skin, he was pulled roughly into red reality, for a moment the blast of pain making everything terribly sharp. The crimson of the blood on the wood before his eyes, the pain of the splinters breaking into his arms and chest, the feel of something warm dripping down his back and onto his legs and chest. The taste of something metallic, harsh, and bitter in his mouth. Every last blow was worse than the next, and it didn't take long for his resolve to die within him, and his throat was soon raw with the screams they pulled from his thin body.
When the lashes finally ended, Merlin began to dip in and out of awareness. He was dragged to the cells, and there he was thrown roughly down into the cold hole. The boy screamed again as he landed on his back, the pain ripped away his consciousness, and he finally fell into the bliss of darkness.
Good, bad, average? Please tell me in the reviews! Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing, you have no idea how much it means to me!
Next chapter up by Wednesday? Does that sound good?
Until next time,
-ladywarlock