Each hollow tap announced a jarring pinprick of pain; though barely conscious, Merlin was growing increasingly aware of this rhythmic order which numbed his fingers and set his skin ablaze. His eyelids flickered delicately – declaring his waking presence – as his mind reluctantly churned, recalling their last waking moments.

A steady bustle and a sense of readiness hangs in the air as Arthur is hauled from sight. Morgana leans over to gloat triumphantly --

"You're going to regret many things."

--- and his eyelids droop as he feels iron fingers pinching his arms, hurling him ungraciously over a shoulder. His senses crumble, and he can remember no more.

His sluggish mind begged him to return to blissful senselessness; but with a low groan he stirred, levering his eyelids upwards. Taut apprehension twisted his stomach and made his toes curl as the strident, melancholy tune grated boundlessly at his ringing ears; the sharp, pricking pain not ceasing with Merlin's awakening.

He had to find Arthur.

Though his eyelids sagged wearily, a sickly light illuminated the cave - with no apparent source, seemingly only to emit from the glistening walls – and bathed the inhabitants in an ailing blanket of emerald. His limbs were restrained and his head swam dizzyingly, warping tunnelled vision, while his chin bumped against his chest haphazardly, offering the sight of bloodied fabric and rolled-sleeves. Bound to a wooden chair, stranded in the centre of a vast cavern, Merlin was undoubtedly vested by his cruel captor.

Hazy and unfocused, his watery eyes fell upon a figure - who knelt with ease at his feet - tenderly upholding his subject's limp hand. Intense concentration warmed his steely eyes – so much so, that Merlin initially failed to notice his striking tattoos. Uncounted and untold; they blossomed from his temple and danced over his umber features, spiralling into the abyss of fabric he donned.

Next he studied – with faltering, fascinated horror – the man's foreign apparatus, and the cause of his constant pain. Undeterred by Merlin's audible whimper, the artist worked purposefully. A stick – protruding an inked needle point - penetrated his victim's skin, the cause of the abhorrent, steady tapping coming from a hammer-like tool that knocked the needle into the flesh with cool, confident skill. Black ink bubbled at the surface – a stark pattern again Merlin's sallow hand, turned palm-down against the wooden arms – and formed a pattern where infused under the skin.

An unremarkable double-bar; one on each hand. However – to the warlock's unawareness - such arrangement was crippling upon a sorcerer's hand, and a sorcerer Merlin was cursed to be.

Panicked eyes swivelled wildly, sweeping over dire surroundings. Above his head, stalactites hung - suspended like spears, bearing ghoulish blood that glistened and dribbled. Otherwise, the cavern was bare - shrouded in impenetrable shadow - with no visible exit; and it appeared that his tormentor was his sole company. Nonetheless, an omnipresent, stifling presence unnerved Merlin.

There was only one explanation -- she was here.

As though summoned by thought alone, Morgana slunk from the shadows. She appeared sinisterly enthralled by the artist's sharp, rhythmic movements, her jade eyes sweeping the stage; settling upon her hostage with triumphant glee. Merlin's heart fluttered, his senses flooding back with unwelcome gusto, choking him in burning tendrils of pain that licked at his raw, swollen hands - still relentlessly worked upon.

Neglecting formalities, the witch appeared devotedly transfixed by Merlin's progressing tattoo.

"Do you recognise the marks?"

Lest he sob aloud – with supressed pain or petrified fear, he couldn't tell which consumed him more - Merlin shook his head tersely.

Morgana scowled and sidled closer, plainly disappointed at her victim's lacklustre. "He's a Fixer. I suppose you might've read about them, although they were more likely titled under their proper name; the Coercere Clan?" She probed curiously, a knowing gleam twinkling maliciously within her eyes.

The effect was instantaneous; Merlin flinched and snatched his hand away – sparking immediate fury in the man - who yanked it back fiercely, his vice-like grip only cementing the warlock's startled suspicions. Merlin hastily glanced at his other hand – displaying a completed tattoo - with panicked ardour, mind racing to recall the information he had flipped through carelessly, harbouring only negligent uncaring for the secretive cult.

They were believed to have been annihilated by Uther's army; completely eliminated, their powerful magic too wildly unpredictable to ignore. Alas, this was proved wrong – with no triumphant reward, only deadly misfortune – with the tattooed clan member before him.

Morgana smirked, for her captor's alarmed recollection satisfied her greatly. "I see, you have some knowledge on the practice then. Do you know what'll happen to your magic when he's done?" She asked breezily, eyes flickering from Merlin's to the Coercere's with impish nonchalance.

Unable to think clearly, Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. His head pounded alongside his racing heart, drumming a beat that dredged – from the depths of his mind – a hazy memory, accompanied by a sickening sinking feeling. An idea festered alarmingly, and he grew unwillingly sure of the consequences; only confirmed by Morgana's eager simper.

"It won't hurt for much longer; when he's finished - and blessed the tattoos - you'll no longer be able to perform magic." Her evidently twisted glee made Merlin's heart falter. "It draws magic from your veins to the ink, and traps it there. You'll have no magic left within you to use - unless, of course, we amputate both your hands. Would you like me to arrange a time and a place?"

A strangled sob escaped Merlin's throat as he declined frantically, raven strands sweeping his bloodied forehead. She laughed cruelly, the sound just a piercing echo that clashed about his skull; and even the tattooist's lips curled in silent thrill.

"The Coercere Clan scattered after Uther's attacks, and it's believed there are only a dozen left alive today." Morgana paused as Merlin stared, wide-eyed upon his tattoos - now nearing completion – frozen with fear.

"I found him wandering around Essetir, and as soon as I learnt his trade, I knew I could utilise his skills." She continued, beginning to pace in restless excitement.

"Uther called them Fixers because they 'fixed' magic. Did you know he considered employing them to maim the sorcerers of Albion? It would severe the link between magic and man, rendering them powerless - but that was dismissed - too expensive, apparently. So just... killing them all... was the simple option."

Morgana wandered absently to lean on the back of Merlin's chair, peering over his head; much to Merlin's writhing discomfort. He felt her breath kiss his nape and flinched, unable to distance himself.

Silence. Finally the tapping had ceased; but this brought no relief, for the final bar had been completed.

The Coercere jeered unpleasantly, crooked teeth conveying twisted pride, before discarding his tools and thrusting rough hands upon each of Merlin's own; who instantly shrank away from the touch, horrified dread rising in his throat. Foreign mumblings began to gush from the man's mouth, rising and falling with his rhythmic swaying as Merlin's skin began to burn – but he couldn't move; couldn't tear his hands away.

"You know... I never much agreed with the name Fixers. But who would've thought – one could fix the most irritable thorn in my side." She sneered maliciously, grasping Merlin's head with sudden viciousness and forcing him to look upon the chanting Coercere; now fully elapsed into a rapt trance.

Realisation bludgeoned Merlin like a mace. He would be without magic, forever.

Horrified cognizance fuelled sudden, wild thrashing as he writhed and tossed and cried hoarsely – but it was futile. His skin blistered excruciatingly and his veins contorted, unable to escape the Coercere's stinging grasp.

A single word completed the incarnation, sending Merlin into instant, dizzy fatigue. His throbbing arms fell slack against the bindings and his head lolled weakly; where joyous elixir had once fizzed through the young man's veins, he now sagged limp and broken, his very purpose ripped from his marrow. Unbelievable anguish swamped his heart and turned his blood to lifeless treacle, ebbing through a body that was distorted and confused, devoid of magic.

The tattooed bars burned with a blinding golden sear – before fading to melancholy blackness, nothing more than mere ink upon skin.

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a/n - sorry sorry sorry sorry

A slightly longer chapter, but it makes up for the next two which are only half the length :')

If you haven't already, please feel free to check out my other (slightly more up-beat!!) Merlin stories! <3

Finally, I hope you enjoy the extra-fancy-grunge-Morgana-edit! :D

happy reading x