Summary

As he witnesses Arthur's torment by magical executions, Mordred begins to understand the true darkness that drives his captors, forcing him to question everything he once believed about justice and vengeance.

Chapter 71 Four Days

Dodd circled in the torchlight like a wolf sizing up its prey, smiling as Arthur suffer on the stone slab. Mordred forced himself steady, his nails digging half-moons into his palms. Every time Arthur gasped for air, the sound bouncing off the rough rocks, it cut through Mordred like one of the ritual knives from home. The king's body was fine – no real rope around his neck – but in his mind, Arthur was choking, thrashing against the stone bindings that held him down. Mordred bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood, anything to keep from crying out, from begging Dodd to end it.

Through the dancing shadows from the torches, Mordred watched Arthur's eyes bulged with terror, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. His muscles seized in violent spasms against the restraints, each motion punctuated by the steady click of Dodd's boots against stone. The king's face darkened to a deep crimson as his body bucked and twisted on the slab. The tourmaline gem in the braided circlet atop the king's brow pulsed with an unnatural light, feeding the visions that tortured his mind, choking him with unseen ropes. The thick incense burned Mordred's eyes, turning everything into a nightmare he knew would haunt his dreams. Even in the cave's chill, he wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

Four days now. Eleven deaths for Arthur. And still, Dodd and Killian hungered for more, their eyes bright with a wild joy as they made the king suffer again and again. A sour revolt stirred in Mordred's gut, his hearty breakfast of venison and fruits turning to poison. He'd thought he wanted Arthur to pay for what was done to their people, for destroying the sacred places, for burning innocent druids in Uther's fires. People like his parents, killed when he was small.

Wet, strangled gasps tore from Arthur's throat, Mordred resisting his instinct to retreat, his feet remaining rooted. But this? This wasn't justice. This was cruel for cruelty's sake, born from a darkness Mordred had seen in the shapeshifter before but never truly understood until now.

Dodd's family had been ripped away in Uther's war against magic, with a young Arthur complicit in their grisly execution—he believed with no doubt. But while those same kinds of losses had turned Mordred hard with wanting revenge, they'd broken something deeper inside Dodd.

And now they wanted to steal Arthur's throne by wearing his face, using dark magic to bend the kingdom to what they wanted. The thought made Mordred feel like standing at the edge of a cliff watching the rocks give way under him. This wasn't going to end with anyone winning despite what Dodd assumed. With Arthur dead, more darkness and pain would spread across the land.

Mordred flinched when Arthur's strangled gasps faded into silence, leaving only the creak of an invisible rope haunting his own thoughts as the king went still as death. The quiet that followed squeezed Mordred's chest so tight he could hardly draw breath, dread settling like a leaden ball in his gut.

Dodd stopped his prowling, standing beside Mordred, his gaze fixed on Arthur's limp body and a smile that made Mordred's skin crawl. The dim light caught the sorcerer's grey eyes, revealing both victory and something clever and cruel enough to drain the strength from Mordred's legs.

"You're being awfully subdued." Dodd's voice went soft as honey, but Mordred knew better than to trust it. "Tell me, young friend, what you think of our work so far."

His throat went dry, his heart pounding from the horror—from Arthur and the stone slab—so hard he thought Dodd must hear it. Trying to keep his face blank like he'd learned to do with strangers, his thoughts raced wild as startled deer. One wrong word now could mean his death – he had to hide how sick this all made him feel.

"The magic... it's powerful," Mordred uttered, the words sticking in his throat. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Indeed." Dodd's voice carried a dark satisfaction. "And what of our king's suffering? Does it not warm your heart to see him pay for what his family did to ours?"

"As you say," Mordred managed to say, not truly a lie. He looked at Arthur's still form, remembering his parents' screams. But the memory felt distant now, overwhelmed by what he'd witnessed. "He suffers greatly."

Dodd shifted, his shadow falling over Mordred. "Such tepid words from one who should burn with vengeance. Having second thoughts about our cause, young friend?"

Fear lanced through Mordred's belly. "No," he said quickly – too quickly. "I just... didn't expect..."

"Didn't expect what?" Dodd's cultured voice roughened, his grey eyes shifting for a beat to brown and brutal. Mordred stiffened – it was as if Killian had purposefully glared out at him.

"I didn't expect him to last this long," he said, hoping the man would hear hatred rather than compassion in his words.

"Ah yes." Dodd's smile widened as his gaze swept over the king, noting every twitch and tremor. "The great King Arthur. His legendary strength serves our purpose well, doesn't it? The longer he endures, the more deaths we can make him suffer." He moved to the opposite side of the stone slab, his fingers trailing along its edge as he studied the king. The dim lighting cast strange shadows across Arthur's face, every flicker revealing new lines of pain etched by their torments.

"Each death teaches us something new about him," Dodd continued. "What fascinates you most – the way he fights the visions until consciousness fades? Or perhaps how quickly his pride crumbles once the pain truly begins?"

His vision blurred, and Mordred's jaw tightened as he clasped his hands behind his back to hide their trembling. "The way he..." His voice quivered, betraying him. "The way he breaks."

"Mm." Dodd fell silent, contemplative. The whisper of silk marked his approach as he circled to stand behind Mordred. Unlike Killian's straightforward menace, Dodd's elegant malice froze the breath in his lungs. He didn't dare turn around, but he felt the slight brush of silk against his shoulders. "We haven't truly broken him, my young friend. Yet something troubles you. I can sense it."

"Just tired," Mordred whispered. "Haven't been sleeping well."

"The screams?" Dodd leaned in, his breath tickling Mordred's ear, the closeness uncomfortable and unwanted. "They are rather musical, aren't they?"

Mordred fought the urge to step away. Killian was savage too, claiming his cruelty came from pain and rage of losing kin. But Dodd... Dodd treated torture like it was a game, turning Arthur's agony into a sport. Whatever lurked behind those grey eyes made Mordred's magic curl into itself, seeking shelter in the deepest corners of his being.

"Shouldn't we put him back in his cage?" Mordred's eyes darted to where Arthur lay motionless. "Let him eat, build his strength? Like you said – the longer he lasts..."

"Such concern for our guest." Dodd placed a hand on his shoulder, his fingers slowly digging through the thick layers of clothing. "Tell me, does your heart bleed for the man who let your parents burn?"

Mordred turned to face him, shrugging off the painful grip. "I want him strong enough to feel everything we do to him," he said, letting old anger sharpen his voice. "A half-dead king won't suffer properly, will he?"

A smile played at the corners of Dodd's mouth. "Well spoken, young friend. Go ahead then. Return our king to his cage."

Mordred edged closer, his palms sweaty as he reached for the circlet. He remembered how it had burned his fingers the first time he'd touched it so soon after its work. This time, the metal band felt cool as he worked it free from the king's sweat-soaked hair. Arthur's face twitched as the circlet lifted away, but his eyes stayed closed. So near to him, Mordred could see the tears, the way his chest barely moved with each shallow breath. Between his hands, the tourmaline stone pulsed once, like a dying heartbeat, before going dark.

"Admiring my work?" Dodd asked, making Mordred's grip tightened around the circlet.

"Memorizing it," he replied. "So I never forget what magic can do to even the strongest of men."

He turned and crossed to the table, placing the circlet carefully upon it. Behind him, Arthur's stone shackles dissolved at Dodd's whispered word, drawing a soft moan from the king. "You need help lifting him?" Dodd asked.

"I can manage." He returned to the stone slab, ignoring the fresh blood soaked through the ragged bandages on king's wrists. Grasping him under his arms, he tried not to think about how light Arthur felt after four days of torment.

"Careful now." Dodd's voice held all the concern of a snake eyeing a wounded bird as Mordred started the slow work of dragging Arthur toward his cage. "We wouldn't want any... accidents."

He pulled Arthur through the iron door, laying him as gently as he could on the thin furs. He knew Dodd was watching, testing, always testing. Draping another over him, Mordred noted the king's ghostly pallor beneath the dirt and sweat.

"He needs water," he said, keeping his voice neutral, moving out of the cage. "And some of our bread from breakfast. No use starving him before we've finished with the circlet's work."

"Next you'll suggest feeding him Killian's game and my goods," Dodd said, a sharp edge entering his voice. "No. Porridge will serve just fine."

"That's not enough," Mordred snapped. "Even as Uther's prisoner, I was fed better than this. Your porridge barely keeps rats alive."

"Watch your tongue, boy," Dodd replied, a lethal softness in his words. "Or have you forgotten who taught you to use that magic you're so proud of?"

Mordred looked down at his hands, as if seeking answers there. "The druids taught me first," he asserted. "They showed me magic could heal as well as harm." He met Dodd's gaze. "A strong prisoner serves better than a weak one. You taught me that too."

Dodd considered him for too long, head tilted like a predator reckoning its next move. Then his lips curved into that familiar, unsettling grin. "Very well. Get him water, and bread with his porridge. But remember, young friend – mercy can be a dangerous weakness."

"It's not mercy." He fell into step beside Dodd as they headed down the tunnel to their stores, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. "It just makes sense."

"I trust you'll make sure he eats then," Dodd said, the words filling the empty tunnels. "We have plans for him if Killian becomes bored and has his way."

"What—kind of plans?" Water dripped somewhere in the darkness as something skittered across their path, disappearing into a crack.

"The circlet's shown us the obvious deaths – hanging, burning, drowning, decapitation." His voice turned reflective, almost scholarly. At their cache, Mordred scraped what remained of Arthur's morning porridge into a clay bowl, painfully aware of Dodd's eyes following his every move. He lifted a barely half-full waterskin and a small chunk of bread that felt stale in his hand – better than nothing. "But there are older ways of execution, crueler methods that even Uther shied away from. The Romans, for instance..." He paused, the words as ominous as darkness. "They were quite creative with their punishments."

Mordred's mouth went dry, a chill creeping up his spine. "Crucifixion?" His fingers dug into the bread as distant stones clattered somewhere unseen.

"Among others. Flaying is an art in itself," Dodd replied, retracing their steps through the passage. "And there are techniques from the far east that few in Camelot have ever witnessed. The circlet will make Arthur feel every new sensation, every cut, every tear of flesh from bone. Just a few additional gems and a precisely spoken incantation, we can unlock even darker magics."

The simple task of carrying the supplies suddenly felt like bearing heavy stones. Where had Dodd kept these gems? And when did he steal them? What secrets did they hold? The three in the circlet already wielded terrible strength, and yet Dodd spoke of forbidden power with such casual hunger.

Back at the cage, Arthur hadn't moved. Mordred knelt beside him, setting down the meager provisions. "Those kinds of deaths take time," he said, arranging the food and water, using the moment to steady his voice. "Won't that give his knights more chance to find us?"

"Worried about discovery?" Dodd's grin never wavered as he approached the iron bars. "The wards we've created will keep us hidden. Camelot's forces can search every forest in the realm – they'll never find this entrance nor ever realize their mistake." He waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, 'Arthur' will miraculously return to the castle one day ending the search."

"What if the king dies too soon?" Mordred forced himself to ask. "Before you've finished your work with him?"

"Then 'Arthur' will show up sooner than later. Besides, you'll strengthen him up..." Dodd's smile widened. "…so he can endure what's coming. Now, make sure he eats. I have—" His refined tone slipped for just a moment "—Killian plans to hunt before midday meal, and I suppose I have some thinking to do before Arthur's next encounter with death."

"I should replenish our water supply," Mordred said mildly, needing distance between them. "And check the wards when I'm finished here."

"Quite right, young friend. We wouldn't want anyone stumbling upon our little sanctuary, would we? Not when we're having so much fun."

Mordred nodded, keeping his hands steady as he uncorked the water flask and poured the liquid into Arthur's empty cup. Behind him, Dodd's footsteps bounced off the cave walls, growing fainter until they disappeared altogether. Only then did Mordred release his held breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he'd learned.

Arthur looked dead and Mordred touched his arm – the skin felt like ice. Two days ago, he'd watched from the shadows as Arthur had spilled his water across the stone floor, too lost in grief and pain to drink. Now the king lay motionless, trapped somewhere in the aftermath of the circlet's torment.

He lifted his prisoner's head carefully, bringing the cup to his lips. "Drink," Mordred whispered, letting a few drops fall. His throat moved slightly – a good sign. Mordred poured more water, making sure the king didn't choke. He needed him to drink, to eat, to keep his strength. But as he held the cup steady, Mordred wondered if he was truly being merciful or just helping prepare Arthur for worse torments to come.

Water dribbled down the side of Arthur's mouth as Mordred continued. They were going to kill this man slowly, painfully, in ways that would break both body and spirit. The thought turned his stomach as he remembered the eager light in Dodd's eyes when he spoke of flaying, of crosses, of tortures that even Uther hadn't dared use. This wasn't the justice Mordred had dreamed of in the druid camps, or during those long bitter nights alone wandering the forests. This was something darker, something that made his magic curl up inside him like a frightened animal.

Mordred's hands shook as he lowered Arthur's head back to the furs, feeling just as much a captive as the king – just in a different kind of cage. If he showed too much mercy or further weaknesses, Dodd or Killian would turn on him without hesitation. If he tried to run, they'd hunt him down. And if he stayed... he'd have to watch every moment of Arthur's suffering, knowing he'd helped make it possible.

He reached for the bread, but realized Arthur hadn't truly woken, had only swallowed the water by reflex. The leftover porridge had grown colder and thicker, but that hardly mattered – Arthur needed to eat something. "I'll return after I've completed my tasks," Mordred whispered, though he doubted the king could hear him. "Try to eat when you wake up. You'll need your strength." He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what that strength would be used for.

A sound rebounded from deeper in the cavern – footsteps approaching. Heavier this time – Killian, coming to assess Dodd's work with those dark, unsettling eyes. Mordred quickly gathered the water flask, forcing his face back into that careful mask of indifference. As he left the cage, locking it with a simple spell, he caught one last glimpse of Arthur. The mighty king of Camelot, reduced to this. And Mordred had no choice but to play his part in what was yet to come.

Arthur surfaced slowly through layers of pain, each breath a conscious effort. The phantom rope still burned around his throat, every muscle drawn taut from fighting against death's grip. His raw wrists bled anew where the stone cuffs had cut during his struggle. Cold seeped through fur, the altar replaced with meager comfort, but when had that happened?

Voices drifted back through the fog, fragments piercing his consciousness: "... strengthen up..." "... endure what's coming..." "...next encounter..." His stomach clenched as his weary mind conjured images of endless deaths still awaiting him. Each execution would bring new agonies, fresh torments he could scarcely imagine. For him, there would be no final release – only more deaths, more suffering.

Water lingered on his lips, his collar wet from it. Mordred had made him drink – the boy's hands gentle, almost kind. Strange that one who helped torture him would show such care. The others relished his executions, but neither would bend a knee – not even to feed him. His throat worked, desperately wanting more water, but his limbs felt leaden. Even opening his eyes seemed beyond him. How long had he been here? Time was lost, yet each death inflicted seemed to strip another year of life from him. How many more could he endure?

Guinevere. The name brought fresh agony, sharper than any physical pain. Gone. She was gone. And he remained here, trapped in this endless cycle of death without the mercy of joining her. Tears slipped from beneath his closed lids, but he had little strength left to wipe them away.

Moments ticked away before he finally opened his eyes. A cup sat just within reach, a bowl and now bread beside it. His captors wanted him strong enough to suffer, to endure torment after torment until his spirit finally shattered. Not to survive, no – for them, death would come only after they'd stripped away everything that made him who he was. But he would deny them the satisfaction of breaking him. He would suffer these thousand deaths before he ever cried for mercy. He was Arthur Pendragon. Let them see what a king's resolve truly meant.