A/N: I don't own Merlin. That was the luck of the BBC.

Hey guys, sorry it's been a while. I've had a bit of writer's block and also some confusion about how I want the story to pan out. I'm now rethinking the rest of the entire plot *facepalm*

Anyway I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, it's short and it's really a bridge chapter.

Merlin was desperately trying to think of some solution to this problem, after all every problem had to have a solution, no matter how dire. However the warlock found himself too exhausted – both physically and mentally – to concentrate on forming a coherent plan in his mind. Physically, Merlin hurt everywhere, every inch of his body seemed to be experiencing a different type of pain, but mentally, he felt totally numb.

Arthur knew Merlin had magic. Arthur hated magic. Therefore of course Arthur hated Merlin. Any person with even a basic understanding of logic should know that. Stupidly he'd hoped Arthur would be accepting, he'd hoped he wouldn't turn out like his bastard of a father, but he'd been wrong. Bloody prophesy. There was no future for Albion now, his secret was out and Merlin was either going to die here, cold and alone, or on a pyre, burning and watched.

"Give in yet Merlin?" Drin sighed impatiently. Merlin had no idea how long he'd been up here but he didn't think he'd last much longer. Even if he wanted to answer the man – something he'd would never do, no matter how much pain he was in or how much Arthur hated him – he wasn't sure he'd have the energy to summon up even one word. The wound on his shoulder still had a slow trickle of blood flowing from it, the individual cuts and bruises were stinging and aching, sapping what little energy he had left from him, and he still couldn't breathe properly, be it through pain or the displacement of his rib.

Instead of an answer, Merlin just let out a weak breath, followed by a low groan. Alongside his injuries, there was also the fact he was chained up high and his arms were tired of support his frame, even a frame as slight as his.

"Fine, you win. You're not much fun in this state anyway." Drin rubbed at his temples, and Merlin wasn't sure whether he wanted to stay here, or face the wrath of Arthur and the knights in the cells. Ultimately he wasn't given that choice. "Let him out, but leave him here. I don't want him too far from me." Drin motioned to one of the few guards left in the room, and Merlin was lowered down, letting out a small whine as his magic flowed into his fingertips as if it were a numb appendage waking up.

That was until individual cuffs were attached to his wrists, impeding his magic once more, though he now had free movement. Clearly Drin didn't think much of him as a physical threat, and he was right. Merlin slumped into the nearest corner of the room, too weak to move. His arms were stiff beyond belief, his torso ached and his breathing was ragged. Drin motioned for a guard to leave two small offerings next to the boy, a bronze goblet filled with murky coloured water, and a matching plate, complete with a lump of bread that looked so stale it could've been used as a weapon had Merlin the energy to throw it at his captors.

"Eat up boy. We're not nearly done yet. I need someone like you if I'm to become King, and I plan on it." Drin growled, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him, leaving Merlin alone for the first time since they'd been attacked.

Merlin reached out a tentative hand towards the cup, and it was all he could do not to gulp down its contents and make himself sick. He made sure it lasted as long as possible as he alternated between sips of bitter water and tiny chunks of solid bread.

When his measly meal was finished, Merlin leant back against the wall, the cold, damp stone chilling his bare skin, but he was too drained to care. He let what could've been sleep, or possibly unconsciousness, consume him, and he was left in an unrestful slumber until Drin reappeared a few hours later.

…Yeah, short and not great. Sorry about that. The next chapter is definitely going to be better.