Chapter 10

Warning/s: Some mentions of mental illness (though not triggering and nothing's actually named), some torture and I think that's it. Nothing that will disturb you if you've gotten to this point and read all of the other chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.

A/N: I've actually had this written for about three weeks now (well, half of it) but I've been trying to find a beta. I've contacted a few but they've either not replied/not been available. My friend offered but I didn't want to put too much stress on her as we are both doing GCSEs next year so in the end I thought I'd just post this and keep hunting for a beta, and look over this chapter myself.

I am sleep deprived (damn you, howling dogs opposite my house) and emotionally exhausted, so if there are any typos, I have checked this over but I am simply shattered.

I hope people are still interested in this story, please let me know how you're finding it! I've tried to make up for the long gap in between updates (don't blame me, blame my mental health and dodgy laptop) with a nice long chapter, the actual story of which is nearly 3,000 words (that's loads for me, usually I get bored halfway through and go 'Eh, that's fine' so be proud)!

I actually was given the idea for the torture used on Merlin by a reviewer, but since she sent me the idea by PM and not in a review (and I managed to delete the messages afterwards) I can't actually remember who it was! I'm so sorry, whoever you are, please come forward and claim your credit and I will give you your recognition next chapter.

Also, kudos to whoever can spot a quote from NBC's Hannibal in here, if any of you lovely guys actually watch it (or maybe it's just me with my mentality of a serial killer).

And as always, enjoy my friends!

Morgana awoke with a start. She lay in bed for a few seconds, caked in sweat, her nightdress sticking to her body uncomfortably and the covers twisted around her legs. She longed for something to relieve her nightmares – the bracelet that Morgause had gifted her was long gone, and Gaius's tonics were clearly out of the question. They were driving her insane, she knew they were; sometimes during the day, she could hear footsteps from all around her, but there was nobody there, and sometimes at night she could hear cruel laughter and taunts thrown her way. It was only barely light outside: dawn could only have just broken.

She stripped the covers from her leg, tossing them aside, and dropped from the high four poster bed to the stone floor. The chill of the tiles grounded her, so she breathed in, told herself she was being ridiculous, and breathed out. She was now in the habit of keeping a bucket of fresh, icy water in her room for occasions like this.

Stripping her nightgown off over her head, Morgana moved to the corner of the room and grabbed the bucket. In one fluid movement, with no hesitation, she tipped the bucket over her head, letting the liquid wash away her sweat, and chill her right down to the bones. It only took a quick mutter to clear up the water and dry herself, and she felt a lot better from the shock of the temperature.

Sighing at what she had become, she dressed herself and combed back her hair into something that wouldn't be constantly flopping into her eyes. She was very much in control of herself, but there was something inside her mind that she was very much not in control of. She looked insane, she knew that, but she had power, so who cared? More importantly, she had Merlin, and she was absolutely certain that Merlin knew more than he was letting on.

In all of the time she had known Merlin, he had been secretive, surprising her with odd titbits of knowledge here and there, or peculiar actions…he had to know who Emrys was. When he had taken her to the druids, she had spoken of Merlin and they had exchanged glances amongst themselves in the mysterious way that was so natural to them. Merlin must know them well to have elicited that reaction, and so in turn he had to know who Emrys was.

She would find out: she may have cracked, may be insane, may be the ex-ward of Camelot, who, so beloved by Uther, turned against him, killed him, and tried to take the throne, but she was determined. She was resourceful, she was indomitable, she was strong. She was not sand, she was bedrock.

With that in mind, the mantra she repeated every morning until she was strong enough to face the day in front of her, Morgana refilled the bucket of water with a flick of her wrist, and yanked the door open, feeling the fresh air wash over her face. Not sand. Bedrock.

Morgana was down by Merlin's cell in mere seconds, her journey from her chambers to his prison short and snappy. She had ensured it was that way to avoid long commuting after a strenuous day of questioning. Sometimes at night, his whimpers drifted up to her and comforted her in her sleeplessness. It made her feel better, the knowledge that others had it worse.

Morgana stepped up to the cell bars and wrapped her hands around the filthy columns of steel, not caring about the dirt that coated her palms within milliseconds. Usually she was loud, caused a racket when she visited her prisoner, but today she did not want him to be alerted of her presence. Her eyes flickered over his sleeping form with a predatory hunger: she longed to see blood trickling down his back. The old, fading scars of letters that had been burnt into his skin yesterday were beautiful to Morgana, and she leant her forehead against the bars of the cell.

She would break him, physically first, and then emotionally. She didn't care how long it took, but she would break him. Break his flesh, then his bones, then his mind, then his neck. She would break him.

With a sudden viciousness, she broke away from the cell door, only far enough so she wasn't pressed against the bars anymore, and kicked the metal with a reverberating clang. She snarled as she saw Merlin rise quickly, glancing behind himself warily, and then the way his face fell as he saw Morgana. She supposed he had been dreaming that he was back home, safe and warm in Camelot. She bared her teeth and laughed internally when he flinched back. Pathetic.

She resisted the urge to slaughter him then and there, cut his throat like a pig, watch the thick, crimson life bleed out of him onto her dress, hear the way his breath caught as he drowned in his own plasma, feel the rise and depression of his chest gradually slow and then finally, with a stubborn stuttering, stop.

His cell door was locked, for obvious reasons, but Morgana needed no key. She controlled things with thoughts in her head, and it felt good. She had control, she had power. She was drenched in the delicious bitterness of supremacy. The door swung open with the golden ignition of her irises and she bound Merlin to her with invisible ropes, taut and vicious, so that he would follow or be dragged. She had power over him.

Her questioning yesterday had granted her an insight to Merlin's most personal ponderings and experiences, the worst times that he had ever endured. She had power over him with that information, and she was going to use it. She was going to manipulate him with her emorragh, which had so far been such a loyal device, such a delightful thing; it wasn't its fault that Merlin was as stubborn as her half-brother.

The mere thought of Arthur, the damn King of damn Camelot, brought an unpleasant downturn to her mouth, an ugly curl to her lip. She deserved that throne, more than Arthur did – she was older and gender be damned. She turned abruptly and marched smartly along the corridor, her heels generating a smooth clopping noise, not unlike that of a horse cantering gracefully.

Merlin stumbled after her, as gangly and ungainly as a new-born colt, the transparent ropes that shackled his wrists together like an insistent lead. Morgana had purposely kept him shirtless – not for personal pleasure, naturally – but for his own discomfort: he would be chilled through to his bones, infection could set into the lashes of the whips she had dealt him…Morgana shivered with pleasure at the thought as she strolled into the crumbling Great Hall, which was stinking of mould and mildew and rotting from the inside out.

I will break you.

Night had fallen like an ebony cloak, discarded from someone's shoulders and tossed to the floor. Nevertheless, Arthur had pressed his stallion on, digging his heels into his stomach, and as the light slowly seeped from the sky, Arthur's sharp eyes adjusted to the ever-growing inky pitch around him.

He had slowed his mount to a gentle walk now; the floor had become covered in vines and stumps of trees, and Arthur was afraid that if he rode at a faster pace there would be a great amount of stumbling, resulting in both his and his stallion's death.

His faithful knights had been following him in silence ever since dusk had invaded the sky, but he could feel the knights' eyes burning into the back of his head, not with anger or regret, but for direction. He hoped that he was not leading them in the wrong direction, but he could scarcely see in front of his face; he was relying on the mount's acute eyesight to lead them out of this clustered forest.

The only sound was the infrequent hoot of an owl, the flapping of their wings, the squeal of a mouse or rabbit as they were snagged with their deadly talons, and the constant crunching of leaves under the horses' hooves as they diligently carried the knights. The occasional thwack of a low-hanging bough and whomever it hit's grumble of pain shortly afterwards was the only speech from the knights.

Arthur's horse started abruptly, rearing up just a little and stepping backwards. The collision this caused earned Arthur's mount indignant whinnies and a few nips, while Arthur frantically tried to rein in his usually stout stallion, the other knights struggling to keep theirs calm. When the hullabaloo was fought back under control, Arthur dismounted and dispensed his reins to Percival, the nearest knight to him.

He stepped forward cautiously, his hand on the hilt of Excalibur but not drawn yet; many things could make the horses jump, some as simple as a branch that stuck from the ground at a peculiar angle, but some as dangerous as a man lying in wait by the side of the road, a dagger concealed by their side. Arthur's eyes had fortunately adjusted well by now to the gloom, and he observed nothing on their path or by the side of it.

He soon found what it was; on his seventh step, the ground underneath his feet crumbled and he retreated hastily to avoid a fall. With great caution, Arthur knelt and crawled his hands forward to feel the ridge where he had been in danger of slipping. The earth was brittle and it scattered easily, sliding down the steep, concave slope that Arthur could now see. At the bottom of the slope, perhaps 20 feet down, was a cave. The opening was like a dark, hollow maw of some horrific creature, complete with spikes of rocks for teeth that prevented a painless entrance.

Arthur considered. He saw only two options: continue riding through the forest and possibly become lost for eternity, or somehow scramble down the slope and travel through the caves, probably escaping the winding labyrinth of this thick forest – but what was the risk of journeying through the caves? In the end, after deliberation, Arthur saw only one real answer.

He quickly informed his men of the plan; he sounded unsure even to himself. It would be enough of a struggle for them to crawl down the concave slope, but to urge their horses down it and then proceed with no injuries to either party? The feat was near impossible.

Luckily Gwaine's gelding, Eldred, solved the problem for them. When his knight had dismounted, he had snuffled around in the sparse grass for a few seconds before trotting over to join them. Gwaine had absent-mindedly slapped him on his muscled neck lightly, too focused on trying to resolve their conundrum. Arthur and Leon had been muttering about whether they could walk down it normally or whether they'd have to slide down, when Eldred whinnied and leapt over the slope onto the ground below in one clear bound.

He snorted and shook his head, his mane tossed from side to side. Arthur stared at the chestnut steed in astonishment. Why hadn't he thought of simply jumping? He cleared his throat. "Right, then. I guess we're jumping."

Merlin knelt on the damp, rock-solid floor, cold seeping through his body like an insistent lover. The awkward crouch that he was positioned in was threatening to rip apart the fragile skin that had formed over the ugly gashes on his back, and the chains clanked with each movement, torture to the raw, hammering agony in his head.

His legs were cramping from being folded up and his arms were aching. His neck burned from holding up his heavy head, but Morgana had a handful of his hair clutched tight in her fist and it would be impossible to let his head droop.

He could hear her breathing, rugged and uneven, desperate, frantic, her breath warm next to his ear. "Broken," she kept whispering over and over again, almost like a crazed mantra. "Broken, broken, broken."

Merlin stayed deathly still, not sure where Morgana was heading with her intonation, but assuming that it was not going to serve him any joy, judging from his past experience of Morgana's insane wrath. A deep lesion on his back finally split open, unable to cope with the pressure that his stretched skin was under for any longer.

The blood was warm and viscous, trickling down his back in petite rivulets. Merlin winced; it was not as painful as the actual whipping had been, not by anyone's standards, but it was still a sharp, stinging, bitter twinging. At the sight of the blood, Morgana breathed out, and the best word that Merlin could think of to describe her sigh was relieved. Her continuous chant ended and she stood slowly.

Her nails scratched against metal, the near-silent shriek high and wailing, unkind to Merlin's ears. Merlin's stomach plummeted down to his feet: the emorragh was to be used again. He would have thought by now that Morgana had exhausted all possible uses of the cruel device; maybe she was about to repeat one of her prior torments.

Morgana was humming softly to herself, not a sweet tune, but a broken, unlinking set of notes that grinded on Merlin's ears. They dipped down to a low grumble and then peaked to a squeak in less than a second: the effect was quite unnerving, and Merlin had to ponder whether Morgana was doing this intentionally, or whether she was just a little unstable.

Merlin didn't dare to turn his head for the throbbing in it, but from the corner of his eye he could see that Morgana was slightly to the side and a little behind to where he was positioned, her back towards him, and her head bent over the emorragh intently. Her right leg was jumping up and down ever so slightly, in an irregular pattern and one that did not fit in with her out of tune humming.

Merlin bowed his head, hoping to provide some relief for his tender neck, and attempted to drown out the grating humming that Morgana was emitting. After what seemed like a millennia to Merlin, but was most likely a few minutes, Morgana ceased her tuneless droning and exhaled heavily again. From his peripheral vision, he glimpsed the witch spin slowly, her dress rustling, and then step back towards him at a snail's pace.

"I'm not sure how well this will work," Morgana murmured. From the tone and volume of the voice, and from the way her gaze was directed at the emorragh and not at him, Merlin guessed she wasn't talking to him, but rather to herself; and maybe she wasn't even aware that she was speaking out loud.

Merlin felt the cold, harsh spike press softly into the flesh of his back. For a moment, he felt nothing, but then there was a peculiar sensation in the sides of his head, just underneath the temples. It wasn't painful, but it was uncomfortable. It felt like a liquid, heavy and viscous, that was trickling from his brain and collecting near to his ears.

It was like a swelling inside his cranium, and then suddenly, it burst. Yet again, it wasn't painful, but more of a discomforting feeling. The pressure inside his head slowly wound down, and some kind of molten liquid began to leak from his ears, burning where it touched his skin.

Morgana smirked. It was working. She had never employed this spike before, and now she questioned why. She appreciated better than anyone else that the worst type of pain was emotional and not physical; sometimes, physical could not come close to emotional. But this spike did the impossible, or, she supposed, the improbable. This spike turned the emotive pain into somatic pain, viciously ferocious in its duty, leaving no memory unturned as it converted it to agony.

It trickled from his ears onto his shoulders and then slithered down his front and back. Merlin could see it clearly now; it was bright gold, a brilliant shade, and very thick, but surprisingly fast considering its viscosity. It was scorching, and Merlin had to grit his teeth to cope with the burning sensation, but he had dealt with worst pain in his life. When the liquid touched his cuts, it hissed and sizzled, and Morgana made a sound that Merlin thought was a cross between a chuckle and a groan.

Morgana uttered a strange sounding word, one that Merlin had never heard before, and then he howled in pain, like a feral wolf. The golden liquid had begun to dissolve into his skin, burning through to his innards. It was excruciating, unbearable, agonising; faces flashed p in his vision, obscuring the dank room in which he was being tortured.

Faces of his friends, of family, of people who he did not know, but all of them were people who he didn't save when he had the opportunity. They were burning into his eyes and the pain was not emotional; in that respect, he was numb. But the physical pain was worse than ever. His veins were throbbing, about to explode, and his skin was on fire.

Memories of the worst times of his life were flickering in front of his eyes, and Morgana was cackling manically in the background, and Merlin squeezed his eyes shut but it did no good, it didn't block out the images that he hated seeing, and he was tempted to spill his secrets to Morgana just to make the pain stop but when he opened his mouth the only sound that came out was a continuous, high-pitched screaming.

"Broken," Morgana whispered in the background.

A/N: If you are in a kind, generous and generally lovely mood, be a darling and leave a review so I know the story isn't utter rubbish and is still interesting?