This story contains slash between Arthur and Merlin. There will be sexual situations further down the line; however, explicit scenes will not be posted here per fanfiction-net regulations. Please visit my profile for a link to the full chapters.

This chapter includes some non-consensual sexual touching. Although it is fairly non-graphic, I would advise skipping the chapter if such a scenario makes you in any way uncomfortable.

Shooting the Unicorn by Angelike Riddle

Part II: Tuesday - Chapter 6

The sun is casting long shadows over the room when Merlin stirs again. Nightfall draws near. Radella is already undergoing preparations, her voice drifting to his ears with a musical lilt as she chants in ritualistic meditation from just outside his door. She falters only when her sister’s wet coughs become violent, but she doesn’t stop. Merlin manages to catch a few of the words, but his senses are still too fuzzy to determine the purpose of her chanting.

Unfortunately, his senses are not dull enough that he fails to notice the rancid scent of ammonia and the disgusting state of his stiffening pants and the lingering dampness of the blankets beneath him. Bile rises in his throat, followed soon by humiliated tears. Intellectually, he knows that he can hardly be blamed for losing control of his faculties: he’d had quite a lot of alcohol in his system and had never been granted the opportunity to relieve himself. The shame of it all still burns hot. He’s a grown man, not an untrained three-year-old!

“Master Merlin, are you well?” Radella asks, ceasing in her chanting long enough to peer through the door. Her eyes go wide when she notes his sorry state. “Oh.” Merlin’s tears fall harder. Gods, this is too much! He can’t do this anymore… “Oh, I’m so… so sorry…” she murmurs, dark curls falling into her eyes as she bows her head in contrition. “I didn’t think… Just… Wait a moment, okay? I’ll be right back.” Oh, yes, wait. Because he could totally get up and leave if he wanted to. Sure.

Merlin glances longingly at the cupboard Radella had procured the drug from previously and hopes she has mercy enough in her to send him flying into oblivion once more. What would Arthur say, if he could see him now?

Soiled. Filthy. Disgusting.

The gag in his mouth is soaked through, drool dribbling down the edges of his mouth. His cheeks must surely be stained with salt, his eyes puffy with misery. No amount of sniffling can combat his running nose. He can taste the mucus. And there can be no mistaking the stain at his groin or the reek of bodily fluids. If the gods love him at all, Arthur will never know about this, see him like this. Please, please—don’t let Arthur find him like this! He’d rather die!

When Radella returns, she has a small basin of soapy water and what he assumes is a change of clothes draped over one shoulder. He is relieved and grudgingly grateful that she doesn’t intend to leave him in such a deplorable state until he remembers that she intends to rape him that evening. The smell of piss is probably a bit of a turn-off, even for someone as desperate as she. Still, he aches to scrub himself clean, to wash away the proof of his weakness. Maybe it’ll help him to feel human again, if only for a little while.

“I’m sorry,” Radella says again as she loosens the bonds on his feet. Her expression is sincere, but Merlin only narrows his eyes in stubborn fury. She can be as sorry as she wants. That doesn’t make any of this less despicable. “I didn’t even think of letting you relieve yourself… I’ve never… kept anyone like this before.” Once his feet are free, Merlin feels the circulation returning to his toes with a sweet agony of pins and needles. He wriggles them experimentally, pleased when they readily respond to his commands. No real damage done—and the drug seems to be wearing off surprisingly fast. Perhaps he might have enough control of his mind and body to offer some sort of resistance when the time comes? Speculative relief is replaced by blind panic when Radella’s hands reach for his trousers, her intention clear.

Just when he thinks the situation cannot possibly become worse, he’s proven wrong.

“No,” he moans in protest. His meaning is clear, if not the word itself.

Radella looks up with more gentleness in her expression than she has any right to, her response imploring and sweet: “I’m sorry, but I can’t just untie you. I’ll make this as quick as possible, alright?”

No, it’s not alright. It’s not alright at all. But this time when he moans and tries to shift away, she does not pause. Her fingers work loose the laces and his trousers are being stripped from his body, soon followed by the soft undergarment he bitterly concluded would be good for nothing but fodder for the fire after this. Arthur had gifted him with that undergarment as a joke a few weeks past after Merlin had saved Arthur from the vengeful attention of a plotting hedge-witch only to walk away with a nasty rash as a reward for his efforts—his other, courser garments had chaffed terribly. Mocking as the gesture had been, the finer material had eased his irritation and Merlin has actually become rather fond of the gift… And with its sudden loss, of course, he is left naked and exposed in a wholly unwelcome and discomfiting manner. But Radella isn’t done.

The girl is too cautious to free him completely, so she takes a knife to the seam of his shirt and cuts away the fabric. Cold steel glids up his side, tracing the contours of his body. His heartbeat thrums in his ears, pulse as rapid as a hummingbird’s wings. Steady is the hand that holds the knife—but she only needs him healthy enough for sex. She is not is friend. She doesn’t seem to want to hurt him, but she has and she will.

Arthur. Where is Arthur?

Merlin both longs and dreads to see Arthur bursting through that door. Make this nightmare stop. Please, make it stop.

He closes his eyes tight.

In the end, the knife does not slip. The last shreds of Merlin’s shirt—and his dignity—are discarded with the rest of his clothes. Then a warm, sudsy rag is being pressed to him.

Her touch is wholly clinical—at first. With a sick sister, Radella must be accustomed to bathing someone who is effectively incapacitated. She starts with his face, working loose the gag with only a moment’s hesitation to clean away the sweat and tears—and that alone is enough to make Merlin feel much improved. When he remains silent, too soul-weary to offer either argument or insult that will do no good, she refrains from gagging him anew. A small mercy. Then the rag is on his arms, his chest—and she must sense his tension when she nears his groin area, because she skips down to his feet. Then she works her way up.

Merlin cringes as she parts his thighs and runs the rag over increasingly intimate areas—but he fully expects her to stop before touching him... there. It’s something of a shock when she doesn’t.

“Don’t!” Merlin gasps in abject horror, eyes going wide and terrified when she cups his balls through the rag, squeezing in a manner that can in no way be interpreted as clinical.

“Relax,” she says coyly, peering up at him through long eyelashes. “I’m a virgin, too, you know. But I’ve done this before. I can make you feel good, Master Merlin. I want to make you feel good.”

“No,” he begs. “No.”

“Tonight we’ll be forging a bond between us. With our joining, a life will be saved—and perhaps a life created.”

“No!”

“Let me show you that it can be something beautiful.” It is as if she is deaf to all his pleas. She strokes up his flaccid cock with the rag as if she has a right to. Merlin tries to struggle, but his body rebels against him. He’s too weak yet. And it’s been a while since he’s had the time to touch himself like this, slow and experimenting... Longer still since anyone other than himself has dared to touch him in desire. More than a year. Not since that last Beltane in Ealdor. Not since...

He doesn’t want to react, desperately fights not too—but it feels good. It feels even better when she discards the rag, trailing her fingers teasingly along the veins of the underside of his cock. She lets out a pleased little giggle when he hardens, triumphant and wicked. Merlin flushes with self-hatred. By the time she puts her mouth on him, his head has already fallen back into the pillow and he bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.

He’s sobbing Arthur’s name when he comes.

“I hate you,” he whispers when she unties him just long enough to manoeuvre him into the fresh robe she had brought for him—flowing and easy to hike up to his hips for when the time came for his ultimate defilement. “I hate you so much.”

“You won’t always,” she replies, young and uncertain. “I’ll prepare some dinner for you. You must be hungry.”

Merlin does not watch her go. He simply stares at the shadows on the walls and wishes they would consume him.

To be continued...

I'm sorry. There is nothing funny about this chapter. I couldn't bring myself to make light of something as serious as "bad touching." The next update will consist of an interlude following Prince Poutypants in his search for Merlin. There will be pixies! Hopefully that will make up for it...

This chapter was necessary to nail home just how out of control things were--and how out of her depth Radella is. I really am sorry.

Comments, please?