Chapter 6
Warning/s: A little swearing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.
A/N: I am sorry about the wait for this chapter. Basically, I had the first 300 words written a long time ago, and then a load of stuff happened that disrupted my whole life. This stuff is still disrupting my life, but I managed to find the time the other day to sit down and write. That being said, this may not be the best chapter I've ever written, but hopefully it's alright. And Merry Christmas everyone! :3
The first thing that Merlin registered as he entered the maze was that it was dark. That sounded obvious, but it wasn't the usual deprivation of light that one experiences upon entering a candle-less room or venturing outside when it is night; but rather a suffocating feeling that you would never see the sun again. This darkness embraced him like an old friend and clung on just as tightly; this darkness let not one particle of sunlight in; this darkness was eternal.
Swallowing his fear down his throat with a vocal gulp, Merlin lifted his hand and uttered the first syllable of a spell, before remembering that he was void of magic and it would be worth nothing. He cursed instead, loud, angry words that bounced back at him.
He forced himself to be calm; a difficult task, considering he couldn't see anything, not even his hand in front of his face, and there was a chill in the air that stroked down his skin with hands of ice and frost. Merlin regulated his breathing and closed his eyes – if he couldn't see, he would have to feel his way out. That was the only logical answer in this situation, so Merlin spread his arms out blindly, surprised when he found nothing. From outside the maze walls had seemed narrow. Now he knew they were the width of his full arm-span and more.
He dropped his right arm and shuffled to his left until his fingers connected with rough stone – slimy, damp, rough stone. With a "Ugh!" Merlin retracted his arm and wiped his fingers on his shirt, trying to rid them of the unpleasant substance, whatever it was. He then frowned – it was hedge, surely, as he'd seen on the outside? Then again, he supposed that could have just been some devised plan of Morgana's to trick him into thinking it was a nice, non-threatening plant he was trapped in, not unforgiving, harsh cave walls. The temperature dropped suddenly, plucking a shudder out of Merlin.
Resignedly, he brought his hand back up to the rock barricades and began to walk, guiding himself by tracing over the bumps and cracks in the stone. Occasionally, some beetle or spider would crawl over his hand – at first he would hurriedly shake it off, but after the first few minutes he began to ignore it. He had far worse to worry about, of course.
How long had it been? How much longer of his time did he have? With that thought blaring in the mind, Merlin picked his feet up a little faster and evolved from his fast walk to a steady jog; he dared not try for a run lest he trip on the craggy floor.
He hadn't been going for longer than five minutes when he hit something hard and solid and painful. The impact sent him staggering backwards, and his heel caught on a particularly stubborn tree root on the ground. He fell onto his back, winded and probably bruised. Little jagged edges of pebbles and stones and rocks pressed against his back, and it was that that caused Merlin to clamber to his feet again. Advancing more cautiously this time, with his hands straight out in front of him, he met a surface that was similar to the cave walls – just as coarse and wet. A dead end. Merlin turned and found the wall again, stumbling back the way he had come.
Soon his hand ran out of wall, but as he kept advancing he recovered it again. Two ways to turn, Merlin realised. He wondered how many more of those there were – maybe he had already gone through some, and just not realised it. It was hard to tell without his sight.
Merlin had lost track of time a long while ago. He was cold; his thin shirt was not protective against the temperature, and it had seeped through and was still lingering on his skin. If anything, the material seemed to trap it. The hand that was his primary tracer was covered in what Merlin assumed was water from the cave walls, and the cold air had settled on the moisture and claimed it as its new home.
He was sure it had been over an hour since he had entered the maze, so there was no point in hurrying anymore, but he was freezing and he just wanted to get out. This place was chilling – not just in terms of temperature, either.
Merlin had just tripped round a sudden corner to his right when he heard a…sloshing, he supposed was the best word for it. The kind of sound that was produced when Arthur sat in his bath and the water was disturbed, jumping up and down the sides and leaping over the top of the tub in a bid for freedom.
He listened more attentively, stilling all of his body so he could hear the sound as best was possible. Yes, it was definitely there – faint, but there. Some kind of liquid in some sort of container.
Merlin took cautious steps forward – his limbs were so sodden and numb he wouldn't have been able to travel quickly, even if he'd desired so – and with each step, the sloshing got louder and louder, and as Merlin advanced he realised there was either a great deal of the liquid or it was tumbling around at quite a speed, judging by the increasing noise of waves crashing down on each other.
One step, two steps, three; right, left, right—then suddenly Merlin was plunged into icy, suffocating water – at least, it felt like water – and he couldn't breathe because he was under it and the weight of it pushing him down was immense, and he had to breathe but he hadn't had time to draw in a breath before he'd plummeted into the…ditch?...and now his lungs were bursting, they needed air, but there was none and –
Merlin crashed through the surface like a particularly ungraceful dolphin and gasped like a dying man. Most of the gasps were more like choking coughs but he managed to purge himself of most of the water that he'd swallowed – he hoped to the high heavens it was water, because even though it was probably teeming with particles of dirt and little water bugs, at least he knew water wasn't poisonous.
It was a few moments after that that Merlin realised he was cold. Not just cold. He was sure if there was light, and a mirror, his lips would be a fetching shade of blue, and when he tried to move his fingers – nothing.
Oh dear. With the added realisation that he couldn't feel his feet or half of his legs either, Merlin came to the decision that maybe he should move, instead of just bobbing with his natural buoyancy.
It was a struggle – the water seemed to be more viscous than usual, which probably meant that either Morgana had cast some kind of thickening spell on it, or it wasn't water – and combined with his weakened muscles and numbed limbs, he was probably not even possessive of enough strength to lift his arm so much as to break the surface.
Despite the nearly syrup-like consistency of the… whatever it was, it was relatively easy to move around in underwater – if it was water, of course. It flowed smoothly over his body, even if it was sub-zero.
That made the task slightly more manageable – he was able to do some sort of strange paddle with his sensation-less hands and a frog-style kick. Together they both managed to propel him along, just a little bit; and it was certainly faster than just floating about.
Every so often, he would inexplicably dip under the surface of the liquid, dragged down by unknown forces. But ht would always resurface within a few seconds, spluttering and blinking rapidly to rid his eyes of the specks of dirt.
With each pull he sunk slightly deeper, and it took him slightly longer to propel himself back up. It was also rather unhelpful that he was never quite certain when he was going to be tugged down.
If one was to consider an equation for Merlin's situation, then it may have looked something like this:
Cold Merlin + Tired Merlin + Unknown force dragging Merlin down + Occasional intake of filthy water + General panic = Very bad situation.
On the whole, Merlin couldn't really bring himself to try and deduce the positives of his current predicament. As far as he could tell, there weren't any, so it didn't really matter either way, he supposed.
But after the tenth time (by Merlin's count, at least, but who was to say his brain was functioning correctly when he had ingested so many bacteria from the teaming water?) Merlin had been jerked under the surface, and was pulled down by (an estimate) of roughly 12 feet, it was fair to say that Merlin was a little fed up.
Read: hell of a lot pissed off.
So when he regained the ability to breathe once more, Merlin made the decision that would save his life or kill him.
He brought his arms up, breaking the surface entirely with a resonant splash, which was as hard as crashing through the solid shell of a sheet of ice about two or three inches thick. It clung to his shirtsleeves, and he was careful to not dip them back underneath too far, lest he couldn't lift them out again.
He didn't know whether it was the new speed or the newfound hope he had gained, but he was no longer being yanked down by the strange pull. This elicited a feeling of relief and euphoria, but also a new spark of fear. Merlin guessed it was just paranoia, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the thing controlling the pull was just waiting, waiting for him to become idle and assume that he was out of the woods, only to strike again. Merlin was determined not to let that happen – he was to remain completely alert at all times: his life depended on it, of that he was fairly certain.
His tactic seemed to work well; after a few more arduous minutes of what Merlin suspected was more akin to flailing than actual swimming,, his flopping hands hit solid ground. He almost sobbed and shouted with relief – and that was his greatest mistake – his downfall.
He had relaxed, and let his guard down when he began to clamber out, using the natural buoyancy to push himself up, out of the liquid. He was no longer suspicious of any activity going on around him as his hands struggled to find a grip on the barren, rocky ground. He managed to clasp a few stones but they were loose and served no purpose. Just as he hauled himself out onto the ground, flopping ungracefully on his stomach, to numb to detect the jutting edges of the stones pushing into his flesh, something wrapped around his leg and gripped him tightly.
It was slimy, wet, and tentacular – what Merlin imagined to be some form of an octopus or squid was trying to tow him back into the pool.
In that moment, Merlin had two thoughts: the first was, stupid, stupid, stupid, you shouldn't have let your guard down! and the second was, oh shit.
Scrabbling for a hold on the bumpy maze floor, Merlin was jerked backwards. The sharp rocks cut into his skin and he felt the lesions split and bleed. Still, he uselessly searched for a grip among the uneven terrain, but his numb fingers failed to find anything to grasp. Helplessly, Merlin sunk back into the pool.
Merlin hadn't really begun to recover from the frigid temperature of the water – the one advantage he held. His body didn't have to suddenly adjust again. But that was one prop amongst many cons.
Merlin had no time to close his eyes or his mouth before he was plunged once more into the still pool, and his lungs caught on fire as the infected flid seeped into his mouth and down his throat. On instinct, Merlin swallowed to rid his mouth of the taste and then gagged.
The tentacle didn't release, instead heaving him down insistently.
The light dimmed as he slipped further and further down. Merlin needed to breathe so badly, but he knew he couldn't.
Maybe if I just hold on for a little bit longer, Merlin thought desperately, just a little bit longer.
His vision tunnelled and against his will, he inhaled. His lungs scorched with searing agony and blotches of black like splattered ink appeared.
As the tentacle continued to tow him down, Merlin was overcome by a sensation of drowsiness.
And then…nothing.
When Merlin came to again, he was…warm. Well, mildly so – but compared to the glacial temperature of before in the maze, this was a paradise.
Also, he was wearing fresh garments of clothing, and he could feel the moderately tight restraints of bandages secured around his torso.
The surface beneath him was smooth, and neither hard nor soft. It felt like the plank of wood used for a bed in a prison cell.
Merlin's heart sank. He thought maybe he'd been rescued and was back in Camelot, being treated by Gaius. No such luck, apparently.
"Well, look who's finally awake," an unpleasantly familiar voice drawled.
Merlin turned his head to the right. Morgana, hands clasped around the bars – his suspicions were right, he was back in the prison cell – was glaring at him. Once she twigged that his attention was focused on her, she smirked and continued:
"My little pet took good care of you in there." Pet? Does she seriously consider that thing a pet? "We got you out just as you were about to die." Her eyes glinted. "You're no use to us dead, after all. You can't talk then." Her voice took on a hard edge. "Don't worry. This was me just getting started. Expect far worse."
She stepped away from the bars. Merlin let his head loll back and his eyes slipped closed as Morgana marched away.
"You will talk, Merlin!" Morgana called back. "I know you will."
For now, however, Merlin was content with the situation. He wasn't being tortured, at least.
A/N: I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but hopefully very soon.