Time held no meaning in the dungeon cells, and they soon became disoriented. The guards brought water and food but irregularly. If there was a pattern to when Arthur couldn't discern it. The meager offerings of turnip stew, shriveled pulpy fruit, and stale bread satisfied their hunger but gave little energy. Neither would they suffer from a lack of water though the cups provided were too shallow to truly quench the thirst which had steadily set in. Often, they were left in the dark, their only light, whatever distantly filtered through the small window of the sealed door they'd been brought through.
Sitting against his cell wall Arthur contemplated the parched, cracked sensation slowly sinking in across his lips and tongue. His head sank down into his hands, thoughts turning yet again to his fallen men. Emmanuel: the young bright-eyed knight had been loyal and brave. He and Mordred had been the two most promising of Camelot's new recruits. The young man's blood was on his hands alone; he should have commanded Emmanuel to turn back at the border. Under normal circumstances, a novice never would have come on such a dangerous mission.

And Merlin… Merlin hadn't been just a servant; he'd been Arthur's companion. Behind closed doors, he'd even been a confidant and advisor. Anyone who spent significant time in the citadel had witnessed the strangely amusing, and outright confusing, bond the two shared. Nobody else would dare challenge the King in the shameless and fearless way Merlin had done. Always in ways that pushed him to grow, and to think. He had a particular way of testing Arthur to be true to himself. Anyone else would have been shut in the stocks for their audacity. Only Merlin was permitted to do so because he was…well…Merlin.

Arthur had never really considered the thought of what would happen if his manservant were killed; mostly because the idea was so preposterous. Certainly, it had been a close call more than a few times. But that was what they did- mysteriously overcome impossible odds.

Merlin's throat opening, gaping wide, bright gore fountaining over the already scarlet scarf deepening the color grotesquely to an almost black-

Arthur's head snapped up, jolted from the memory. Reaching into his pocket he drew out the familiar red strip of fabric he'd retrieved from the forest floor. It was dusty, but nearly entirely free of blood. New questions flooded Arthur's mind. Merlin's scarf, discarded in his kidnapping, but then somehow back around his throat?

Gore fountaining over the already scarlet scarf deepening the color grotesquely -

The words that didn't add up, the fear that didn't make sense.

"Help me, Arthur!"

He didn't know what it meant, but the inconsistency burrowed itself glaringly into the center of his thoughts.

Was it possible that Merlin-

With a bang, the drowsy monotony they had slipped into broke. The door at the end of the block slammed open, and Berwyn strode in trailed closely by four guards.

The hateful man no longer looked like a common bandit, his rough leather armor traded for a finely spun cotton tunic and breeches. They stopped before his cell and the gaze Arthur leveled on the group was sharp as a blade. "I've been demanding an audience for days now, what's changed?"

"Stand up and turn around against the bars. Put your wrists together behind your back," commanded Berwyn, ignoring the question.

With the mental image of Merlin's death still lacing his vision, he complied. Subtly concealing the scarf under the hay he stood, hands spread to show he held nothing. Turning to bring his wrists together as he'd been instructed, he waited. The instant Arthur felt the touch of rope against his skin, he shot his own hands behind him, seizing hold of Berwyn's sleeve cuffs and pulling hard. There was a satisfying thud of meat against metal before Arthur spun, releasing his grip and backing off. The blood running down Berwyn's face from a fresh split above his eyebrow brought less satisfaction than he'd imagined it would. He wanted more than this man's pain; he wanted his death.

The butt of a spear wielded by one guard lashed between the bars striking him in the stomach. The wind was driven from his body, doubling him over. Momentarily incapacitated Arthur could only grunt as the guards flung open his cell door and rushed in, overpowering him and forcing his hands behind his back. The jeering and shouting of the knights at the guards became a distant ringing in his ears as Berwyn struck him across the face with an open palm.

"Take him to the Queen."

Swiftly he was bound and half dragged, half escorted from the cell. The four guards marched him along, swords drawn and raised. Berwyn trailed behind; his expression impossible to read.

Arthur offered no further resistance. Subduing them wouldn't fix anything; another six would come running and at best he'd end up unconscious and chained in a deeper cell without even the hope of a candle. No, Arthur was a model prisoner, walking quietly with his wrists tied behind his back. He was getting exactly what he wanted.

The unfamiliar castle wound around him and soon he was hopelessly lost. The windows they passed were blindingly bright to eyes now used to the dark cells. Through harshly squinted lashes he was able to catch glimpses of a large expanse of sea. Inclining his head slightly towards the windows he could hear waves crashing against cliffs and the scream of gulls. Turning his focus back again to the castle, he concentrated on trying to memorize as much of his surroundings as possible. Should they manage to escape they would need to navigate these hallways.

Approaching a set of towering double doors with another pair of guards outside it, his escorts stopped so suddenly that Arthur nearly walked into one of the naked swords. Then he was being swept through; shoved into the room by Berwyn who shut the doors after him with a loud boom.

Centered in the hall before him sat a long and elegant dining table, heavy with food. Lady Morcant was seated neatly at the far end. A large dish of succulent-smelling boar with potatoes and greens was before her, a full plate loaded with the same fare several spaces down from her at the banquet table.

"Arthur, welcome, come and join me," she said, gesturing to the empty plate. "I imagine you're hungry."

Stomach growling loudly at the scent he forced his eyes away from the intoxicating sight of the food. "Queen Morcant, your offer is generous but I'm afraid the hunger of my men would sour my enjoyment."

"A drink then, to ease the way of our conversation. Wine? Ale?" Despite her casual tone and welcoming words her eyes never left him, hard as stone.

"I'm afraid I must again decline."

"I insist."

The rustle and clank of metal alerted Arthur to the looming presence behind him of a fully armored knight. An iron-clad hand clamped down on his shoulder, the powerful grip steering him to the empty place set at the table.

Arthur went, sitting down hard in the chair. He perched slightly forward, arms still bound behind him. "I'm afraid I'm a bit indisposed," he said, indicating the restraints with a shrug of his shoulder, hoping she'd remove them.

The corner of her mouth quirked as she cut into her meat. "Sir Ward, if you wouldn't mind, please assist our guest with his goblet."

Arthur locked gazes with her as the knight raised the cup, pressing it to Arthur's lips. The glint in her eyes clearly said she was taunting him. The sand texture of his tongue begged him to part his lips, to drink the chilled wine, to quench the thirst which seemed to be ever-present. But the thought of his knights fortified his will, and he kept his lips pressed closed as the rich red liquid in his goblet spilled down his chin. Sir Ward continued to pour until the entire goblet had been emptied onto his shirt.

"As stubborn and prideful as your father, I see," her eyes dropped to her plate, and she began to eat. She took unhurried and deliberate bites.

Arthur couldn't help but feel dismissed. Turning his chin to the side he wiped his face on his shoulder. "I'm growing tired of this charade. Let us speak with candor, my Lady, I'm not your guest. I'm your prisoner."

The towering man behind him growled at Arthur's rudeness but the Queen waved it off. "Whatever we may be, I wouldn't be so hasty to dismiss such a kindness, Arthur Pendragon. This could be your last opportunity to eat a proper meal before you die."

"I don't make it a habit to dine with those who kill my men." His words were stiff, the sudden rage behind them barely contained.

She in turn was unapologetic, confident in her position. "It was one man, you killed many more of mine when you resisted."

Arthur dug his nails into his palms. "Two men and it's different when it's in cold blood."

She cocked her head to one side. "Is it? Do they end up less dead?"

"We had the right to defend ourselves!"

"I'm sure their widows and children will sleep better knowing how, when caught trespassing, you were merely defending yourself."

It was hard to remember the last time Arthur had felt more talked in circles. The conversation was making him increasingly flustered and indignant. "You can't, your men trespassed in my lands and kidnapped my personal servant!"

"And you and your father have watered your Kingdom's lands with innocent blood. It's time someone stops you."

"So, you scheme and plot to get me here? Why? You cannot keep me imprisoned forever and how do you possibly think this ends for you if you kill me?"

What seemed to be a genuine laugh burst from her. "Scheming and plotting? Deception is a necessary tool. One to be used rarely and discerningly, but those who would disarm themselves of it entirely are fools."

She didn't outright confess the setup, but it was near enough to make Arthur certain. "Others would call it being honorable."

"And I'm sure their honor will bring them great comfort in death," she said sardonically.

He took a calming breath, closing his eyes for a moment to regroup. "I'm not interested in debating philosophy with you, my Lady. My sole concern is getting my men safely back to Camelot."

"And not yourself?"

"The decisions which brought us into your lands were mine alone."

A bitter smile twisted her mouth as she considered him. "I'm afraid not, when one sovereign leads a war party onto another's lands the retaliation must be swift and uncompromising."

The sheer audacity of the accusation floored Arthur, "A war party? We were six men!"

"Six armed men who attacked my only son and heir. So perhaps you'd prefer to call it an assassination attempt? As Queen of these lands, I find you and your men guilty of treason, and I sentence you to die for your crime."

Her tone was flat and insinuated she was more than ready to kill him and less than remorseful. It wasn't that she relished the idea, but hers was the voice of a woman who had killed before and attached no particular significance to the deed. Arthur's blood went cold at the implications of her accusation. An assassination attempt? If she was able to sell such a story not even King Godwin would ride against Dyfed once word of Arthur's imprisonment finally got out.

He thought of a dungeon full of good men who might die on her word and made a choice.

"If you want to see me beg, then I will. If you need someone to punish, I will not resist. But all they are guilty of is loyalty to their King. Release them and I will consider the blood debt for my fallen men paid."

The faces of Emmanuel and Merlin floated before his eyes, staring at him with accusation. The words tasted like bile on his tongue and sat sour in his mind. A long silence pierced the room, a contrast to their previously rapid exchange of words.

"If only you showed this much concern for all your subjects in equal measure, I think I could even grow to like you, Arthur."

He couldn't pretend the words didn't sting, though he'd protest their validity. Whatever she'd hoped to gain by granting him an audience she evidently felt she'd received it. Without further fanfare or ceremony, he was returned to the dungeon.

Arthur knew there had been conflict between his father and Dyfed, but the details of it were hazy and beyond his reach. His father had made countless enemies in his time as King. It was clear that Líadan was a Monarch in her own right, a force to be reckoned with. Her actions here were clearly being driven by… something. A cause she believed in, which made her dangerous. What that might be, he had no way of knowing. Regardless, she clearly believed Arthur had wronged not only her but his own people.

Their steps as he was marched into the dungeon echoed off the dirt floor and stone roof; a ghost haunting a tomb. He took the opportunity to look around and mentally map out who was being held where. Between the empty cells and the aisle, nobody could brush their fingertips with their neighbor, let alone help each other.

They locked his cell door and removed his bonds before marching back out into the passage. The retreating footsteps died away leaving the lot of them in the quiet dark, the only light coming from a single torch.