Thank you happyface03 for reading it here and on livejournal! I wasnt sure if anyone on LJ was still following it due to the lack of comments! :) *hands you his tissue* It will be better by the end, I promise!

Sangrita, I think we've met before on this same premise. No, I do not hate Merlin. I actually love him so much that I must hurt him, make him bleed and cry, break him down, and drive him absolutely insane. If you notice, all the characters I love go through hell (Merlin & Gwen) so I do not hate either of them!

I simply and literally love them to death! :)

Warnings: same as last chapter. Don't like, don't read.(please dont read Bailieboro!)

Thank you K_nightfox for the beta! :)

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"What does Prince Arthur think of me?" the words are quiet but bold as they spill from Merlin's dry lips. He is kneeling on the floor, awaiting his punishment for speaking about the Prince. For speaking at all. The warlock knew this, but asked the forbidden regardless. There was little else the king could subject him to by this point.

It takes a minute, but the king gives him his needed answer, the small remainders of the warlock's heart sinking along with the words. " He thinks you dead," his master states, as he unties his breeches and guides the boy's pretty lips to him. " You were executed privately, and your body burned before being tossed in the river."

Merlin nods slightly, the information digested quickly, taken in easier than the member being shoved through his lips. He would rather everyone think him dead than this.

Afterwards, his eyes are closed and his body still as he remains kneeling, his mind emptying as he tries to forget what he had just done. His stomach is in knots, fighting the ruler's essence he had recently took in, and his form bracing for the beating that is surly-always-to follow.

However, the fists and kicks never come. He is inflicted no more pain by the older man. With a wave of a hand he is only dismissed, ordered rather than dragged, to return to his dusty room. Like a servant rather than a slave.

Merlin obediently follows.

It must be Arthur's birthday-Igraines death, Merlin ponders as he is being held tighly by strong arms in the King's bed. The date has been the warlock's only clue to how much time has passed since he has been held here. Every year that day comes, and every morning of that day it is the same. Uther's trusted manservant enters, prepares Merlin a bath, rather than a small washbin, and hands him a simple rob to wear afterward. All that evening, and after the presumed Arthur's birthday festivities, his collar is chained to the bedpost, and the king holds him under the covers. They are both clothed, so nothing is sexual. The warlock will only be embraced for hours, occasionally catching the King's muffled sobs concerning his wife. How much Uther missed her, and how proud she would have been for their son. Merlin's ears perk up at every mention of Arthur's name, taking in the prince's latest triumphs and challenges since the warlock had 'died.'

Rarely the strong ruler would break down entirely, baring everything to the former manservant. The warlock had learned so much about the king since his time here. The soldier, the abuser, the monster, the father, the ruler, and the vulnerable man; all the sides of Uther Pendragon. More than a sex slave should ever know.

The velvet sheets and soft mattress are a welcoming change from the hard floor, as the warlock moves his toes over the soft material. The arms wrapped around him are growing tighter, pulling him closer than possible against his master's chest. Merlin expects the king to begin his sobbing by this point, but the suppressed tears never come.

" How was Arthur's birthday celebration?" the words are soft and low; cautious.

" It is not my son's birthday, today," replies the king, his battle-scared arms embracing the warlock tighter.

Those gloved hands become gentler. The touches almost loving and careful, as if Uther is beginning to see Merlin as a person, rather than an outlet. A living being rather than a thing to be used and tossed aside once broken. The warlock is quiet and still as the king lifts him onto the table. He only whimpers when the leather-gloved hands stretch him, not wishing to disturb whatever 'kindness' spell that has washed over the king. The screams the warlock has forcefully lodged in his throat when the king enters him-lube still unused- barely escape as the ruler pumps and grunts into him, his mouth near the warlocks ear, breathing heavy and lustful.

Suddenly, Uther's mouth moves from near warlock's ear, and presses against his lips.

The soldier, the abuser, the monster, the father, the ruler, the vulnerable man, and now the kind master; They are all the sides of Uther Pendragon Merlin has come to know.

Merlin has not seen the dusty, cold room for a month. Now that he is allowed to stay within the King's bedroom walls he has counted each rise and fall of the sun. The ability to see the disc in the sky a small part of security, being able to count the days and time, that he had not fully realized he missed.

Every morning is as if it is Arthur's birthday. He is woken by the king's manservant, bathes and then is handed a clean rob to wear, wore worn loose enough so that Uther can take him whenever he feels the need. Occasionally, Merlin is given something to eat, rather than having to wait to be given food once his porcelain body collapses on the floor from hunger.

The chain linked to his collar is secured to the wall opposite the window, allowing the former manservant free access to all the bedroom save the windows and any exposure to the outside. It was imperative that no one outside see the "dead" warlock lurking behind the glass. When Merlin is not busying himself with cleaning and rearranging the room, his eyes lock on the windows and his mind wanders beyond. He imagines Arthur practicing with his knights below, or Gaisu tending to the peasants.

Painful nostalgia consumes him as he cleans the royal bedroom, bringing back memories from before and after his imprisonment. Changing the bed sheets sends him flashbacks of the king taking him, beating him before violating him. Rearranging the wardrobe reminds him of Arthur and when he would clean his armoire full of rich attire. Sometimes, when the King's manservant and King are away, the warlock purposely encloses himself in his former dusty room, feeling secure as he is more isolated from the world, the painful nostalgic memories performing simple servant chores bring, and all the events to come.

Merlin catches his breath as the first gust of wind in years hits him, sending cold shivers down his body. He would secure the cloak and hood tighter from the chilled air, but his hands are tied in front of him to the horse. The blindfold around his eyes is tied too tightly, the silk irritating the skin. When he hears a bark from the king next to him both horses begin to move, hooves clanking against a stony ground he only assumes is the courtyard. There's no noise around either of them. No presence of townsfolk, sellers, beggars, buyers and the like, it must be under the cover of the moon that the King has decided to take him on this journey.

"Where are we going, your majesty?" he voices tentatively, bracing himself for a fist. A blow from those strong arms would send him right off his horse, the resulting damage possibly more permanent than the wounds he has already received from those fists.

The warlock feels a leather-gloved hand hold his bound ones, lightly and gently.

"You will see," promises the King, his own steed galloping alongside him.

His blue eyes repeatedly blink, vision blurry as it adjusts to sight and the small source of light from the sky illuminating the dark, forested setting. When the images grow more clear, and he can clearly make out the trees and water, his heart almost stops completely.

"I used to bring Igraine to this lake," the King whispers intoin the warlock's ear, strong arms embracing him from behind as Uther pulls him down and onto his lap. He spreads kisses along the boy's neck, soft and tender, trailing them down his shoulders, as rough warrior hands reach around and open the cloak, beginning to unlace the former manservant's shirt. Hands and lips are caressing all over Merlin's body, but the pale boy can feel none of it.

His eyes are locked on the lake, heart wrenched and twisted in agony. The reflection of the moon on the calm water he sees gives him no serenity. All he can see in that water is Freya down there, watching him. Freya is lying there, just as the King is now lying Merlin's body down on the grass. His lost-love is witnessing the king spread kisses like promises all over his skinny body, as rough large hands reach down to unbutton the boy's pants.

Freya is seeing the whore he has become.

Something inside of him breaks. The calm control, acceptance and submissiveness he has had beaten into him are lost. His eyes screw shut when he feels Uther's prick press against his passage. His legs kick, arms flailing as they try to hit and miss their target. When one large hand holds both of his down firm, he realizes that he is screaming. For how long, he isn't sure, but it would alert anyone and anything in range if it wasn't cut short by a gloved hand.

Bright blue eyes open to see two furious grey ones. Merlin emits a muffled yelp as the hand grasping his own grips harder, almost breaking his bones. A roar of angry fire almost emits from Uther like smoke at seeing his slave's disobedience, the King's eyebrows knitted with eyes wide and face red as his royal colors.

"You dare defy me, you filthy sorcerer!"

With Uther's raised glove and one thundering blow the boy can see stars, his head snapped to one side. His breath is quickening, his heart is beating in his ears. Sky blue eyes look up just in time to see another hand raised, ready to strike.

He can see his own blood this time; it trails from the side of his face and runs into his eyes. His chest is growing heavy as he gasps for air.

One gloved hand continues to hold his frail wrists firmly above his head. The grip grows impossibly tighter and suddenly a scream is ripped from the boy's lips as the King plunges into him. Uther begins to pump into him, groaning as he reclaims the disobedient slave. Lanky legs kick helplessly as the boy continues to scream.

Eons or minutes or moments pass, Merlin isn't sure. The hard member that is grinding into him, ripping his insides apart, suddenly ceases and his violation ends prematurely. The hard cock that was lodged in him is eased out, and the mage finds his legs kicking at open air, his arms free. He finds no rough hands holding him down, no weight crushing him,…nothing.

He lays there, breathlessly, fingers gripping the cool grass beneath him for support, one thought racing in his mind.

'What happened..?'

His question is answered when his ears catch a quiet moan from behind him; the King of Camelot is giving himself the last of his relief amongst the thicket. When his blue eyes meet the King's old grey ones, he sees something familiar. A piece of humanity he had only even seen once in the eyes of the King's son.

Regret.