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The first time they came for him, Merlin was groggy and weak from hunger. Nevertheless, he managed several punches and kicks before they forced a cry from him.
The second time, Merlin was ready for them. They wearied themselves beating him before throwing him back in his cell, where he wiped a bloody nose and smiled crazily to himself.
The third time, he managed to laugh when they were done. It was a thin laugh and devolved into an unhealthy cough, but it infuriated his captors.
After that, he no longer cared what they did to his body. Arthur was coming for him. Would take him out of the darkness and shear the shackles from his wrists and throat. Would gather him up and clean his wounds and whisper to him gently and never let him out of his sight. He was beyond any place they could reach.
In the end it didn’t matter. They broke him anyway.