[fanfic] Why We Fight - Part Two (Merlin/Arthur)

[pallorsomnium]

As much as Merlin would have wanted to consider what scheme the prince had come up with to deal with Caradoc’s brother, the feast preparations kept all the house slaves and servants without a moment to rest. Merlin and a number of men were roped into arranging all of the furniture in the grand dining hall. Thus it was not until just before the beginning of the feast, when the nobles began spilling into the hall, did he get a chance to really think on what Arthur was planning.

Four or five of the nobles, those of the Cardon family, looked noticeably uneasy, especially when they were seated at the high table, where Arthur would be seated. Sir Leon appeared, escorting who Merlin assumed to be Lord Rylan Cardon to the table. Rylan looked particularly pale, bringing to mind the same way Caradoc had looked before the flogging. Merlin turned his thoughts away from that direction, preferring not to think of stripped flesh and bloodied leather and wretched screams. He returned to the issue Arthur would be facing in punishing Rylan.

Although Rylan could be called a traitor for spying on the prince’s correspondence, the punishment for such a deed was typically flogging or death. The former, Arthur had already inflicted upon Sir Caradoc, and either option, particularly an execution, would further strain relations between the prince and the Cardons.

The prince swept into the hall soon enough, for once dressed in a fashion befitting his station, a heavy Pendragon red cloak draped over his shoulders. The Cardons tensed at his entrance, but the prince merely gave them a smile before taking his place at the center of the high table. The murmurs of the court died down when Arthur looked ready to speak. The prince turned to the woman seated to his left, who Merlin had not been paying attention to, and with a gentlemanly bow offered her a hand. Merlin could not see her face, only seeing that she wore a fine red gown and had long, curling blond hair.

“If I may?” he heard the prince murmur from where he stood along the wall behind him. The woman bowed her head and took his hand, standing up gracefully. Arthur kissed the back of her hand before releasing her and turning back to the rest of the hall.

“Tonight, I would like to welcome the Lady Morgause, Northumbrian delegate, to Astolat,” Arthur announced.

And the rest of Arthur’s words were lost to Merlin as the name registered in his head. Morgause. He knew that name, remembered the stories. Morgause was one of the High Priestesses of the Old Religion, a religion that had not held sway since before Camelot’s existence, although many magic users still held to most of its customs. But even as a child, Merlin had never wholly adhered to the Old Religion. Truthfully, he did not approve of the High Priestesses, having heard tales of their deeds and beliefs. A few years before Merlin’s birth, two of the priestesses were made virtual outcasts of Carmarthen for reasons best left unsaid. Since then, the High Priestesses and Carmarthen had avoided interaction. The priestesses were arrogant and thought themselves invincible. They thought magic made them more than human, made them almost gods, and they treated those around them with disdain. Only acting in ways that would better themselves, regardless of how they claimed they were following the Old Religion, they were never ever to be trusted. In the scant days leading up to Carmarthen’s invasion, there were whispers that the priestesses had had a hand in rousing Carmarthen’s enemies to action. Merlin wondered what the High Priestesses were planning, acting as delegates to a kingdom and willingly following a magic-less king they viewed lower than them. He wondered if what they planned was truly for Camelot. He hoped that whatever they were, he would not end up involved in any part of it.

The scraping of wooden legs against stone was Merlin’s cue to focus instead on serving the high table. He stepped forward alongside the other servants to the table, carrying with him a pitcher of wine. The prince’s food had already been set out before him, so Merlin simply had to lean forward with a murmured “Sire” and pour wine into his goblet. The prince spared him a glance before returning his attention to the man seated to his right.

Steeling himself, Merlin moved on to pour for Morgause, keeping his eyes on his task. He had not met a sorcerer since the Fall, one who still had magic anyway. Not many sorcerers outside of Carmarthen knew what he looked like or who he was, but his magic had made him easily identifiable as a powerful sorcerer and, in the case of more experienced sorcerers who knew how to look, as Emrys of prophecy. He did not know if he could still be identified without his magic; he did not want to know, not after he had failed Carmarthen. He also did not want to be found out by Morgause, of all people, and in front of Prince Arthur. He did not have to worry it seemed; Morgause was more interested in the meal on her plate than the slave pouring her wine.

However, as he straightened to step away, a hand grabbed his wrist. He just barely avoided splashing wine all over the table. He stiffened as Morgause’s other hand gripped his chin, turning his head to look at her. The high priestess was beautiful in a cold way, with high cheekbones, pale skin and assessing brown eyes rimmed with kohl.

Dread filled him at his imminent discovery before she tilted back his head a bit. He then realized that she was looking at the dragon on his left cheek, her assessing gaze moving from his face to Arthur to the Cardons.

“You are the one who has set everything in motion,” the priestess murmured, sounding as cryptic as a seer. “The impetus, the catalyst. How clever of the little prince, to flaunt you out before them.”

Arthur noticed them before Merlin could think of what to say or do.

“Has my slave offended you, milady?” the prince inquired. His tone was light, airy, but the look he shot Merlin promised retribution if it was the case.

“No, your highness, he merely caught my eye,” Morgause replied. She released Merlin, though still eyeing the dragon brand. “He may go back to his duties. Forgive me for the disturbance.” The priestess inclined her head to Arthur before turning back to her meal.

Merlin shuffled a step away from the high priestess, avoiding the prince’s probing eyes, and moved on to pouring for the lord seated to Morgause’s left. As he did so, he let out a slow breath he had not even realized he’d been holding. Relief and despair tugged back and forth inside him. He hadn’t been recognized, and it confirmed that without his magic, he was Emrys no more. He was Merlin, just Merlin, the Carmarthian slave.

It was just after the meal was done and people had begun milling about that Arthur made his move. The prince took off a leather glove and tossed it to the floor by Lord Rylan’s feet. Immediately, all the noise in the hall died down, the court’s full attention on Arthur and Rylan.

“I challenge you, Lord Rylan Cardon, for your act of espionage and treason to a trial by combat. Should you chose to refuse, your life is forfeit,” said Arthur, looking the man dead in the eye without a hint of emotion, only regal bearing.

And really, Arthur’s solution was a good one. Lord Rylan would still be punished for treason, but it would look as if he had been given a margin of mercy, a slim chance of escaping death, something the Cardons could not complain about. However, while Merlin has never seen the prince fight, there could be no doubt that Arthur was the superior fighter, if his title as First Knight was anything to go by. The prince could not be stupid enough to risk a fight to the death unless if his survival was certain. Lord Rylan was most assuredly a dead man.

With a trembling hand, Rylan bent over and picked up the prince’s glove.

“I accept your challenge, Prince Arthur Pendragon,” Rylan stated, impressively without a stammer.

“Good. The duel will take place an hour after dawn. Do not be late,” said Arthur.

“Yes, sire,” Rylan answered with a deep bow.

With a nod, Arthur turned and headed for the back doors of the hall reserved for royalty. But when he was almost at the doors, he paused and spun back around. The prince scanned the crowd, ignoring their staring back at him, before resting his eyes on Merlin, much to his unease.

“Merlin, come,” the prince beckoned, and Merlin tried not to wince. He looked over to where Morgause was conversing with some knights, wondering if she knew of Emrys’s other name. But the high priestess did not even look in the prince’s direction when he said Merlin’s name. Merlin sighed in relief before hurrying forward to answer Arthur’s summons.

“Your highness,” he greeted with a deep bow.

With a jerk of his head, telling him to follow along, the prince headed out the doors at a quick but even pace.

“Do you know how to put on armor?” the prince soon asked.

“Yes, sire,” Merlin replied with a small frown. What was the prince suggesting? The caring and fitting of armor was a task requiring a level of trust, given to servants or squires. A slave was never to touch armor. He had worn light armor during the war; after his capture, he hadn’t worn or touched armor since. He felt compelled to add, “It’s been years though. I probably don’t remember a thing.” At this, the prince glanced back over his shoulder at Merlin with a raised eyebrow, and Merlin wondered if he’d said too much, which he had probably did.

“Right, well, tomorrow, you’ll be fitting me into my armor. Go to the squires and learn how to do it properly before then.”

Merlin slowed to the halt, looking at the prince with an open frown. He repeated, “I am to…fit you into your armor?”

Arthur turned around to face him, a look of impatience and anger on his face. “Yes, are you really an idiot, or are you questioning my orders?”

“No, sire, never. I will do as you say,” Merlin replied quickly, bowing to the prince.

“Good. I have no more need of you tonight. Go back to the room.”

As Merlin sat back in his cell, eating the usual meal sent down to him for dinner, he could not help the wandering of his mind. He could not make heads or tails of the prince. Reading his emotions was one thing, but understanding the way he thought was another. The prince had proven himself as more than just a brainless knight, but would he make a good king? The rashness of his actions towards Sir Caradoc begged to differ, but his letter and his course of action with Lord Rylan…

Merlin shook his head at himself. What did it matter if Arthur made a good king or not? He was all but crown prince. Nothing short of insanity or death would prevent the prince from succeeding King Uther on the throne.

His thoughts shifted to Morgause. When she had said “everything,” he hoped that it only meant the prince’s conflict with the Cardons and nothing more. Really, Merlin would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation if he weren’t the cause-the flogging of a knight and a lord’s trial by combat for treason, all brought about by a slave worth sixty pieces.

With a sigh, he shoved the food basket away and curled up on his straw pallet, emptying his mind of all thoughts and welcoming sleep.

The next day dawned bright and much too sunny for a man to be killed that day. To the east of the castle, an arena had sprung up from the ground overnight. Merlin pitied the slaves who'd been charged with its building and who'd no doubt gotten no sleep at all. However, he was thankful the prince hadn't set him to the task as well. Instead, Tom pulled him out of the cell just before dawn and sent him on his way to the armory.

The young squire waiting for him there was in no way a good mood, scowling at Merlin the moment he entered the armory. Never mind that the boy was only up to Merlin's waist.

“I don't understand why you're putting on the prince's armor. You're a slave,” said the squire, wrinkling his nose at Merlin.

“Well, I don't know either. It’s not our places to know how the prince thinks. Let's just get this done, or the prince will have both our hides, yeah?” Merlin said with a smile, refusing to let a squire less than half his age, and who'd probably never seen battle before, look down him. There was only so low he was willing to go.

The squire frowned but didn't say anymore on the topic, instead picking up one of the pieces of armor on the table.

“His highness should already be wearing his gambeson, hauberk and surcoat. So the first thing you'll need to put on him is the-”

“Gorget,” Merlin finished for him, “which goes around his neck. Then the rerebrace and pauldron, followed by the couter. And then his vambraces, sword and helmet.”

The squire looked up at him with wide eyes and then reluctant approval, a different scowl than before creasing his brow.

“Well, if you knew all of that, what did you need me for?” the boy huffed.

Merlin shrugged and replied, “To refresh my memory, I suppose. Does he have any special preferences? Because I see he only wears one arm of armor. Is it for his right arm or left?”

“His right. And no, just have his armor nice and snug. And don't drop anything.”

“Great, thanks.” He gave the squire another smile, and this time the boy gave him a small hesitant smile in return. It was a good start to the day.

That was, until he was with the prince again and couldn't keep his mouth shut.

The prince stood silent as Merlin worked around him, fitting him into his armor. No doubt he was scrutinizing him for any mistakes to punish him about. There was a tense air around the prince, and it was making Merlin tense as well. And with the sun shine down on them just right, lighting up his hair and turning his skin gold, it was hard not to think of the prince as the perfect golden boy of Camelot, of Albion even.

He pulled his head from the clouds. He then was compelled to kick himself when he said the first thing to come to mind: “Nervous?”

Merlin flinched at his idiocy, and the prince shot him a glare as Merlin hurriedly carried on tightening the buckles on his armor and adjusting his belt and sword.

“You forget who I am. The prince does not get nervous,” Arthur gritted out, looking ready to smack Merlin. “Learn to hold your tongue, Merlin.” He snatched up the helmet Merlin held out to him and headed for the arena. Giving him some space, Merlin trailed after the prince. He hadn’t exactly been dismissed, and besides, he wanted to see how this duel would end.

The prince was playing with Rylan, drawing the fight out with unhurried blows and precise blocks. Merlin was sure even those unfamiliar with swordplay could see it. Even so, Lord Rylan fought hard, looking very enthusiastic to have his blade contact with the prince’s body. With his life on the line, it hardly came as a surprise.

Eventually though, Arthur began fighting for real. His every strike certain and strong, leaving Rylan no room for anything but blocks and pushing him further and further back across the field. Merlin had thought the prince would look smug during all of this, but instead, Arthur looked merely focused, intent on the fight despite his clear advantage. For a brief moment, Merlin could imagine Arthur in the midst of battle, looking glorious and golden, sunlight haloing his hair and his armor shining even as dirt and blood spattered him. With a twist and flick of his wrist, Arthur sent Rylan’s sword flying from his hand, and the image faded. A kick in the stomach then sent Rylan sprawling on his back in the dirt. The tip of the prince’s sword rested at the lord’s throat as Arthur stood over him, looking barely winded by the bout. Rylan did not say a word as he looked up at the prince, keeping perfectly still under that sharp blade. Merlin pushed himself off the barrier separating the spectators from the field, where he had been watching alongside the other people in the stands. He would see the Cardons from where he stood, looking grim and tense; they had had no hopes of Rylan standing a chance against the prince. Now, it was clear to all that the match was coming to an end, and Merlin made to leave and wait for the prince elsewhere. He had no interest in watching a man die.

Then, Arthur did the unexpected. Tossing his sword aside, the prince swiftly bent down and struck Rylan with a fist. There was a very audible crack as he broke the lord’s nose.

“From this day forward, Lord Rylan Cardon is dead. You are stripped of your title and rank. From here on, you will be just a peasant,” the prince announced before stepping away from Rylan.

Merlin stared. The prince’s act of mercy was another deed to be added to the pile of contradictions that made up Merlin’s view of him. Although, breaking the man’s nose seemed like such a petty act in the face of taking away Rylan’s life and identity. The Cardons, however, looked openly relieved by the turn of events, streaming forward across the field to the prince and bowing their thanks.

With a shake of his head, Merlin turned away, making to exit the stands, and froze upon spotting Morgause. The high priestess stood on the edge of the field, black-rimmed eyes fixed on the prince with a calculating, almost predatory look. A chill ran up Merlin’s spine, and he prayed the creeping suspicion he had that Morgause was planning something sinister was unfounded.



For the first night in years, Merlin dreamed. He dreamt of golden hair and shining armour. He dreamt of kohl-rimmed eyes, glaring, and red smiling lips, sweet but insidious. And for the next few nights, the dreams repeated, infused with flashes of dragons and white fire, spilled ink and swords.

It was after tossing and turning through one of those nights that the slave master woke him up. He was to report to the throne room, where he would be documenting the occurrences of the petitions under the supervision of the prince and steward.

The first two weeks of every other month, time was set aside for petitions from the kingdom’s subjects, be they nobles or peasants. These petitions could be taken up in Camelot, where the king held court, or here in Astolat, where the prince held court. All proceedings, the disputes, messages and decisions, were written down for the kingdom’s records-and also for the king to no doubt check up on the prince. However…

“Do slaves usually take the place of royal scribes?” Merlin asked as he washed up with the water Tom had set out for him and the other slaves to use.

“No, they don’t. It’s what the royal scribes are for,” the slave master answered, hunkering down on a worn rug and picking up a whetstone. He began sharpening a sword that looked newly forged.

“Then why me?” Drying off, he pulled on the fresh tunic Tom had laid out for him.

The slave master paused in his sharpening and looked pointedly at Merlin’s left cheek before saying, “Perhaps as a reminder. Where you have been concerned, the prince has been…unpredictable.”

Brilliant. So the prince’s capriciousness was because of Merlin. Now the question was which side, the arrogant arse or the perceptive princeling, was his normal side. Merlin then removed himself from the speculation, because as a slave he should not care. He should be acting as docile and mindless as any slave was expected to be and keep out of his master’s way. Thus, he turned to head out the door.

“The prince calls you Merlin when he asks for you,” Tom said before Merlin had reached the door. Looking back over his shoulder, Merlin saw that the slave master had not looked up, still sharpening his sword.

“Yes, that’s my name. Merlin,” he said, wondering where the slave master was heading with this.

“I have heard sorcerers have two names. It’s not your true name, is it?”

Merlin could feel his mood dampening instantly, but he replied, “No, it isn’t. You know something about sorcerers?”

“Once upon a time, I lived just outside the border of Carmarthen. I learned a few things about sorcerers,” the slave master said, still not looking up. After a slight pause he added, “Like how most sorcerers are good.”

There was a finality in his voice, and Merlin could find no way to reply without giving too much of himself away, so instead he cautioned, “Just as a warning, Master Tom, Morgause is a sorceress, and not one to be trusted,” Merlin said. Finally, Tom looked up at him, eyes wide, but Merlin hurried out the door before giving him a chance to speak.

In the throne room, which doubled as the audience hall, the steward placed Merlin at the writing table set up to the prince’s right. From there he was able to observe the proceedings and Arthur without being too conspicuous, though a few of the courtiers did notice him and comment to their neighbors on his presence and the role he’d played in the recent events involving Sir Caradoc and the former lord Rylan. Arthur had already been seated on the throne when Merlin entered the room, but he had barely spared him a glance, instead engaged in conversation with a few of his knights.

When the petitions began, Merlin half-expected the prince to be inattentive and unconcerned with the issues and disputes brought up by the peasants, if not the nobles. Instead, while Arthur looked uninterested, leaning back against his chair in a far too relaxed manner, his eyes were sharp and focused as he listened to even the smallest issues-a string of small robberies in the town market, a stray dog that kept causing trouble but could never to caught, two men contesting ownership of a pub. Merlin wrote them all down, dividing the petitions up by which were resolved right away, which had been put off for another reviewing, and which would be dealt with through the aid of the castle guards or knights. By the end of the session for the day, Merlin had gone through several sheets of parchment, and his fingers were stained black with ink. Immediately after the throne room was emptied of petitioners and spectators, Arthur hopped to his feet with a stretch before gathering up the knights in the room and heading off to training. Merlin was left tidying up the records with a hostile steward, who, like everyone other than the prince, did not understand why a slave was left with a royal scribe’s job.

The next day of petitions, two nobles came to the prince to settle a dispute. There was a plot of land just on the edge of the city. One of the nobles was a young man from the Talbot family, one of the oldest lines of nobility in Camelot, and claimed the land belongs to the Talbots. However, the other noble, an older lord from the Hynde family, attested that the land had not been touched by the Talbots in years. On the piece of land, the Hyndes built and started a respectable workhouse and an inn. It was only when the two establishments started gaining more attention that the Talbots chose to raise protests. The Talbots wanted to claim ownership of the establishments since they were on the Talbots’ land. Needless to say, the Hyndes strongly disagreed.

And so, it was before the prince that the representatives of the two families took up their argument. The two nobles kept talking over the other, arguing point after point repeatedly, and trading insults. Merlin thought, half-amused and half as annoyed as the prince was beginning to look, that the two vied for Arthur’s support the way children fought for a parents’ attention. He tuned out the two nobles, instead keeping a close eye on the prince. Any moment now, the prince would lose his temper, if the slow clenching and unclenching of his right fist was any indication.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Arthur slammed a fist down on the armrest of his throne.

“Shut up already!” the prince shouted. The court fell silent, and the two bickering nobles turned to the prince with identically affronted looks.

“Now, let’s say we go have a look at these…establishments,” the prince said with an almost mocking smile.

It was because of this that Merlin was out in the actual city of Astolat for the first time since he’d been bought by Arthur. The prince didn’t bring a great number of people with him, only the minimum required: two of his knights, the steward, the two nobles and Merlin, who was required to come to witness and record the proceedings later.

Merlin tried not to think of the cold still lingering in the town, although wearing no trousers, only braies, made the task difficult. He also tried to ignore the squelching of mud over the flimsy sandals all slaves were given to wear, hoping that Tom would allow him to wash his feet after he returned to the slave house. Instead, he tried to focus on the prince and the reactions he garnered at being out in the city on foot.

Astolat wasn’t a bad city; Merlin had definitely seen worse. There weren’t any rundown buildings in sight, and the few dark corners Merlin could spot could be overlooked by the presence of good and honest townspeople bustling by and carrying on their businesses. There were, of course, signs of poverty, but again, Merlin had seen worse. The town square was open and friendly, bustling with people. An impressive statue of a griffin stood in the center, surrounded by playing children, and Merlin couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

The peasants bowed to the prince as he passed, but most did not gape at him or linger. This, coupled with the fact that the prince looked as if he knew exactly where he was and where he was headed in the city, told Merlin that the prince was not a stranger to the city and people of Astolat. He couldn’t decide whether to be impressed by Arthur’s sense of duty to his people or to take such demonstration of duty as expected from the prince.

Merlin was pulled from his musings when a woman and a child stumbled into the street before Arthur. They landed in the mud a mere foot or so from Arthur’s feet. The young Talbot jumped into action, no doubt wishing to gain the prince’s favor.

“Get away from his highness, you filth!” he shouted, flinging the little boy to the side and kicking the woman away. Merlin hurried forward, catching the child and holding him out of further harm’s way. Quicker than a man could blink, Arthur drew his sword from his sheath and pointed at the throat of the young Talbot. All noise in the vicinity stopped, everyone’s attention drawn to the young lord and the prince.

“If you ever dare to lay a hand or foot on my people again, I will make you regret it,” Arthur said, his voice low with righteous fury. “Is that clear?”

The wide-eyed youth stammered out an apology, and Arthur returned his sword to his sheath. He turned to the woman, who still lay in the mud, looking stunned. The prince bent down and helped her to her feet, asking if she was all right and passing her a few coins.

And Merlin gaped at that singular moment of clarity, where he could just see the kind of king Arthur could become, if only his arrogance was lost and his volatile temperament improved.

The child squirming in his arms pulled him out of his surprise, and Merlin let him go. The boy ran to his mother, clinging at her skirts. At that moment, the prince turned and looked straight at Merlin, and he stiffened, wondering what the prince could possible want from him. Surely not to shout at him for protecting the child?

However, Arthur merely frowned for a moment and turned back to the woman. The woman bowed, thanking him profusely, before taking her boy by the hand and leading him away. And then the prince proceeded onwards, as if he hadn’t stopped at all in the first place.

But the moment they reached the lands in dispute, the prince called for a cloak.

“Put this on,” he ordered, tossing it at Merlin. “You’re useless to me if you’re too frozen to move your fingers.”

Merlin fumbled to catch the cloak before it fell in the mud. Clutching the bundle of coarse cloth to his chest, he found himself once again staring at the prince in disbelief. But Arthur merely glared at him until Merlin pulled on the cloak, and then without another word to him, returned his attention to the lands in question and the Hyndes’ workhouse and inn.

After a few moments, the prince announced his decision. The Hyndes were to formally purchase the land from the Talbots, and unless the Talbots chose to negotiate a legitimate business partnership with the Hyndes, they were not to interfere with the Hyndes’ two establishments.

It was a reasonable decision, but for Merlin, the day’s proceedings were completely overshadowed by the accident with the peasant woman and Arthur’s declaration and threat to the Talbot youth.

After that, there were no more jaunts into the city and the court fell into a routine. Arthur would listen to the petitions and pass out his judgments. Merlin would be present to record the proceedings, only being addressed if a formal decree was required to be written. After a break for lunch, petitions would continue for two hours before adjourning for the day. The prince would dismiss the court until dinnertime and head off to training with his knights. The steward would leave Merlin in a stuffy little records room, where he was to add notes and finishing touches to the day’s rulings and records until it was time to return to the slave house for dinner and sleep for the night.

However, things did not remain routine. Two days after the outing, it became apparent that there was something wrong with Arthur. The first day, only Merlin seemed to notice. Arthur’s eyes would at times go out of focus as a noble or peasant made their argument or request to him. Merlin had seen how Arthur took the petitions with at least a certain degree of seriousness, never allowing himself to lose too much focus on what was being said or asked. He at first thought it was simply a lapse in the prince’s sense of duty. However, Arthur grew noticeably paler over the next two days, his judgments slower and his movements almost drunken. It was impossible for the knights and courtiers not to notice, and rumors of the prince’s illness were whispered through the halls.

When one of the knights attending the petitions finally brought up the issue, the prince merely snapped at him. Then Arthur had noticed Merlin watching him and had scowled at him.

“What are you looking at? Get back to work,” the prince growled, and Merlin turned away.

But Merlin froze when his eyes fell on Morgause in the crowd of spectators. Morgause, who was glowering at the prince as if she wanted to get rid of him then and there.

It was not until later that afternoon, as Merlin was sent back to the slave house, that he figured out what that glower had been about. Traversing the courtyard to get to the slave house, he caught a whisper as he passed by two idle chambermaids.

“I hear his highness has been having trouble getting up in the morning, and he doesn’t take his evening meals anymore, just goes right to sleep.”

And then he made the connection, between Arthur and Morgause, between Arthur’s illness and Morgause’s irritation-an enchantment.

An enchantment that affected his sleep and health. It had to be from a magical item then-a piece of jewelry, something small that the prince would have near at hand at night, whether on purpose or chance. The enchantment wouldn’t be too hard to break; just tossing the thing into a fire usually did the trick. If not, then-

Merlin cursed at himself. This is what he got for letting his thoughts run wild. He was a slave. Even if he knew how to break the enchantment, there was nothing he could do with the knowledge. He held no sway on the prince; he suspected no one really did. He couldn’t just go up to the prince, accuse an official delegate of enchanting Arthur and plotting against Camelot, and expect to be believed. It was the surefire way of getting himself killed, by the prince or Morgause. But…

Merlin froze in his tracks.

Whatever the cause of the enchantment was, it was dark magic. If enough time passed, it could drain all of the prince’s energy, in other words his life force. The prince would die.

No, he couldn’t allow that. No one deserved such a fate, even an arrogant prat of a prince. He had sworn years and years ago to fight against the use of dark magic. He had the knowledge to break this enchantment; he could not just let this happen. Even after years without magic of his own, his moral code would not allow him to do such a thing.

Mind made up, Merlin changed directions and headed for the prince’s chambers.

When Merlin reached the doors of Arthur’s chambers, however, he paused. What was he going to say? How would he convince the prince to let him help?

But then he heard footsteps down the hall, and left with no choice but to carry on, he knocked on the prince’s doors.

“Enter,” came Arthur’s voice from inside, and Merlin pushed one of the doors open and slipped inside.

The prince’s chambers were lit only by sunlight, the window curtains partly drawn and the fireplace unlit. Arthur sat slumped in his chair by the table. He looked as if he would close his eyes and fall asleep any second.

“Sire,” Merlin greeted him with a low bow.

The prince glared at him and said, “What are you doing here? I didn’t ask for you.”

“No, sire, you didn’t. But I know your ailment and I know how to fix it.”

“I don’t have an ailment,” he snapped. “Get out before I choose to flog you.”

Merlin flinched but pressed the issue. “Please, you have to listen to me. If you let this continue, it will kill you!” Arthur rose to his feet, eyes flashing, but Merlin kept talking. “Just hear me out. Just before you started losing your strength, you were given a gift-a piece of jewelry, perhaps. Let me find it and tell you who gave it to you. If I’m right, please listen to what I have to say.”

The prince maintained his scowl but Merlin noticed the small hint of recognition in Arthur’s eyes at what he’s saying. After a moment, the prince finally said, “Get on with it then.”

Merlin bowed to the prince before circling the antechamber. Sensing nothing, he glanced over at the prince, who stood with arms crossed watching his every move, and proceeded into Arthur’s bedchamber.

He felt it the moment he approached Arthur’s bed, his head turning sharply to the nightstand, drawn by the strong magic permeating into the air. He pulled open the little drawer and discovered a finely crafted bracelet, a large amber gem set between two outstretched silver wings. The Eye of the Phoenix. A bracelet made from dark magic that sucked away a human’s life force. But this was one far more powerful than any he’d heard of, because normally, only its wearer would be affected. Arthur, however, was being affected by just having it by his bedside. In fact, he was surprise Arthur had managed to fight its effects. A lesser man would probably have been bedridden by now. He gingerly picked up the bracelet, but he is unaffected by its magic; it was directed only to Arthur.

“This bracelet is the source, sire. The Lady Morgause gave this to you, didn’t she?”

“What sorcery is this? I thought you had no magic left. Do I have to put you through the Rites again?” the prince hissed.

“No, sire, the Rites left me powerless. But this bracelet is one I recognize from my studies. The dark magic is so strong, any sorcerer, with or without magic, can sense it. You have to get rid of it; melting it down would be the best option. You should feel better almost right away.”

Arthur was silent, eyes trained on the bracelet in Merlin’s outstretched hand. As every second passed by, Merlin grew more and more anxious. The prince’s face had gone expressionless, much like the time Arthur discovered Merlin’s branding, and he just knew that wasn’t a good sign.

“Why are you helping me?” Arthur finally demanded. “Did you expect a reward? My favor perhaps? Did you really think I’d believe the word of a sorcerer?”

Merlin barely saw the backhand coming before he was sent stumbling backwards into the wall. He winced as his head hit the stone. He pressed a hand to where he could feel the blood rushing to his stinging cheek.

“The Lady Morgause is an honored guest of Camelot, regardless of my opinions of her. What did you think you would get for placing blame on her? Who isn’t to say you are the one who has done this to me? If you continue to speak such insult, your life is forfeit,” Arthur growled, hauling Merlin from the wall by his shirt. The prince fixed him with the most furious gaze he’d seen yet. “Is. That. Understood?”

Words caught in his throat, Merlin could only nod fervently. The prince released him with a shove.

“You are to receive ten lashes for your slander and impertinence.” Arthur crossed into the antechamber and out the door, and Merlin heard him calling for a guard. In seconds, the prince returned to him, seizing him by the arm and hauling him out of the door to a guard.

Merlin stumbled along down the halls back towards the slave house, the guard’s hand clamped tightly over his shoulder. He silently berated himself; he had been so so stupid. He should have just let Arthur be, let the ungrateful ass figure out how to break the enchantment instead. But now, he was to pay for his good intentions, and the prince was going to end up dying anyways. The thought left him queasy. He had a strong disliking for the prince, but certainly didn’t wish him dead.

He didn’t remember much of the flogging. It had been years since he’d last been whipped. Tom, grim-faced and silent, had put him in a little cell in the slave house kept especially for flogging slaves and shackled up his arms. Pain ripped through his body at the first few strokes, bringing tears to his eyes and wrenching shouts from his throat. After the fifth stroke, everything started going numb. After the sixth, he blacked out.

At some point afterwards, he woke up, disoriented from the haze of pain rolling up his back and into his head, and discovered a man he had never seen before kneeling beside him. There was a jar of ointment in his left hand, while his right scooped up some of the salve and applied it to Merlin’s back. Almost instantly, coolness spread over his back and sank into his skin, numbing the pain. He didn’t stop the hum of relief at the sensation.

“I am the physician. The prince said to make sure you’re properly taken care of,” he heard the man murmured, but he was already succumbing to the troughs of sleep and did not get the chance to wonder at the man’s words.

“Merlin, wake up!” a voice called him from somewhere above. He let out a groan but didn’t react otherwise. The tonic Tom had given him some time before still clung to him, turning his head to wool. “Merlin!”

“What?” he managed to moan out.

“The prince wants you. Now you better get up.”

With another groan, Merlin got up from his pallet and, gritting his teeth, began climbing up the ladder out of the cell.

“You seem to quite like that room,” Tom remarked once he’d pulled Merlin up the last section of the ladder and out of the cell.

“It’s the only place I’ve slept in. Can’t exactly like anywhere else, can I?” Merlin groggily replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while avoiding the sharp flashes of pain that came when he stretched the ragged skin on his back too much. The whip marks might not hurt as much as they looked-he’s sure Tom had purposely altered his strokes for that to happen, though he did not know why-but that didn’t mean they didn’t hurt.

“Don’t let your tongue run off on you, and you might be allowed out with the rest,” said Tom.

Merlin opened his mouth to argue, but the slave master gave him a pointed look that told Merlin he only would be proving his point if he spoke. He closed his mouth and turned around, letting the slave master apply a healing salve to his back.

“…did the prince say why he wanted me?” Merlin ventured another question after a few moments of silence, savoring the coolness sinking into his back.

Tom sighed, but replied, “No, he didn’t. You will just have to see what he wants.”

“Oh, all right.” There was a cup of water set aside for him, and Merlin gratefully took it, though really he was feeling more hungry than thirsty. He wasn’t sure how many days he’d been unconscious.

Once Tom had finished administering the salve, Merlin took the tunic the slave master gave him and stiffly put it on. Bidding the slave master a good night, he left for the prince’s chambers.

Arthur was sitting on the edge of his bed when Merlin entered his chambers, dressed in a nightshirt and trousers, feet bare and hair tousled. He looked wide awake however, and Merlin couldn’t sense the Eye of the Phoenix anywhere. If he recalled correctly, the physician had said he’d been sent by the prince. He hoped that meant the bracelet had been destroyed or at least removed entirely from the prince’s presence.

“You asked for me, sire?” Merlin said with a bow.

“Yes.” After a moment’s pause, the prince continued, “I am willing to admit that I was…not of the right mind when I saw you last. How are you feeling?”

Merlin stared at the prince. There had been an apology somewhere in those words. At least, he thought there had been an apology. No one apologized to a slave. With the combination of Arthur’s words and the residual sluggishness from the sleeping tonic, Merlin was nothing short of stunned.

“Merlin,” the prince reminded him to answer.

“Um, never been better,” he replied. He winced, knowing just how ridiculous that sounded. And then winced again as he made his back hurt at the sudden movement. The prince noticed and scowled at him.

“Oh for gods’ sake, Merlin, sit down before you hurt yourself,” the prince said, grabbing him firmly by the elbow.

He guided Merlin to the chair draped with lambskin by the fireplace-the prince’s personal chair. But Merlin was more focused on the much-welcomed warmth of the fire flooding into his bones than the implications of the prince lending him his chair. Outside and in the slave house, the biting cold made the dull ache in his back sharpen. Here, the fire’s heat eased the pain and wrapped him and his mind in a haze of comfort. His eyes drooped with sleepiness, but he shook his head, remembering why he was there in the prince’s chambers. Arthur stood before the fireplace, his back to Merlin.

Only after a minute or so of silence did the prince finally speak. “Why did you do it?”

Merlin knew exactly what he meant-there was really nothing else Arthur could have been referring to-but he still said, “Do what, sire?”

The prince shot him a glare before returning his gaze to the fire. “Don’t play the fool, Merlin. You may be a bit of an idiot, but you obviously can think.”

Merlin snorted, and before he could stop himself, replied, “Just a bit.”

Arthur turned around to look at him, leaning back against the mantle. There was a spark of something in his eyes, maybe amusement. Merlin was simply glad it wasn’t rage.

“I’m asking again, why did you do it?”

Arthur’s eyes bore into him with an intensity that demanded the truth. Merlin was tired of forever keeping up pretenses, of pretending to be less than a person. That, combined with the warmth enveloping his senses and the way Arthur was treating him as a person, as a man, convinced him to let go and speak the truth Arthur asked for.

“I know of Morgause and her ilk,” he said. “Their reputation exceeds them among my people. They abuse their magic. I won’t stand by and let it just happen if I can help stop it.”

“Magic corrupts all who use it eventually. Carmarthen harbored many sorcerers. How could they possibly be any different from, as you say, ‘Morgause and her ilk’?” The prince would have sounded scornful if it wasn’t for the open curiosity lighting his eyes.

“Magic does not corrupt; power does. Magic is a tool. Magic is to a sorcerer what a sword is to a knight. Without proper training, it cannot be used. Without a code of honour and morals, it can be used for harm.”

“And your people had this code?”

Merlin eyed the prince, but there was no skepticism to be seen, just the inquisitiveness one might find on a pupil’s face, asking for answers to the world.

“Yes, we were taught from the moment we could speak and through all our childhood to heed it.”

“And Morgause?”

“Morgause is a High Priestess of the Old Religion. She and the others were exiled from Carmarthen before I was even born.”

“Why?”

Merlin rubbed his eyes, trying to recall the details behind the exile. He soon brushed the thoughts aside; the prince did not really need to know the exact details.

“Their views on magic didn’t match ours. They think those with magic are superior to man; they think themselves gods.” The prince scoffed. “Their conceit is proof enough that they’re human.”

“Indeed,” the prince remarked noncommittally, crossing his arms and continuing to gaze at Merlin.

“What I don’t understand is what Morgause is doing here. She would never do the bidding of a magic-less king, and Camelot is clear on its stance towards magic.”

“So you suspect her of a treacherous plot?”

“And the enchantment she placed on you isn’t enough?”

“Maybe it was you who placed the enchantment, Merlin,” the prince accused. “You certainly seem to know enough. Perhaps the Rites had not worked after all.”

“Sire, if I still had magic, would I be here now?”

Arthur huffed and admitted, “I suppose not. Unless you were a rubbish sorcerer.”

“I was not!” Merlin snapped, pride-driven anger bubbling up before remembering himself. Arthur looked at him with wide eyes, the first look of genuine surprise Merlin has ever seen from the prince. Shit. He did not want to discuss his past with the prince, with anyone for that matter. He scrubbed his face with his hands, shaking away his inner turmoil. “Anyway, it is Morgause you need to worry about. She is a powerful sorceress, and she will notice immediately that her plan failed. Please be careful, sire. If she is serious in her intentions, she will try again, somehow.”

“I’ll be more careful with everyone from now on. Anyway, it’s not like you have any proof it was Morgause,” Arthur replied, sounding dismissive but with all seriousness in his eyes.

Merlin slowly got to his feet and asked if that had been all that had been required of him.

“No, here. This came today.” The prince crossed the room and retrieved a roll of parchment from the table. “Read it,” Arthur bid, waving the parchment in front of Merlin. The wax was red, so it wasn’t from his cousin Lancelot. Merlin took the letter from the prince and, breaking the seal, began reading:

Arthur,

Word regarding the fate of Rylan Cardon has reached us here in Camelot. You will be glad to hear that your father was pleased by your course of action. You have restored the loyalties the Cardons owe to Camelot with the mercy you showed. However, while Uther does not choose to do so, I must bring up the recklessness of your actions. I should not have to remind you that you will soon be the Crown Prince of Camelot. You cannot treat your life so carelessly as to partake in battles to the death. It is not only your future at stake, Arthur, but the future of the Pendragon line and of Camelot itself. That you are First Knight is no guarantee that you will win every duel you choose to fight. I implore you to listen to sense and remember this the next time you chose to throw down your gauntlet or glove.

I will return in two weeks’ time. Until then, I hope I can trust you to keep a cool head. I’ve attended petitions enough to know you will handle them dutifully and I expect you to continue to do so in my absence. You will need all the support you can get. The Northumbrians suggested for a new capital to be built for our kingdom. Uther spends too much time with the delegates, and I fear for trouble coming our way. I cannot say more until we see each other again.

Tristan

“I’m surprised he and my father aren’t related by blood,” Arthur grumbled. “Nothing I do is ever good enough between the two of them.” The prince’s amicable mood was entirely done now; he paced back and forth before the fire, brooding.

As he was probably not expecting a remark on this, Merlin simply asked, “Do you want for me to write a letter back?”

With a sigh, Arthur sat down in his chair and said, “Yes, might as well. The writing kit is in the cupboard.”

Lighting a candle for the table, Merlin then retrieved the bundle of items required for writing. The prince sat in silence as Merlin set everything up for use.

“Ready, sire.”

With a nod, the prince told him what to write.

Uncle,

I’m sorry to hear my actions still do not please you. I will keep your concerns in mind in the future. Tell Father that replacing Camelot as the capital is a ridiculous idea, and I cannot believe he is even considering it.

Now, I must request something of you once again. Kindly travel to Cameliard and make arrangements to ensure Lady Guinevere’s safe travel to Astolat. I am not expecting you to personally escort her, simply to provide her with the best escort possible. While I still very much disagree with being her fiancé, as my future wife, her safety is important. While this will set back your return to Astolat, you should be able to return before my coming-of-age. Until I am under your guidance again, I will watch my words and actions carefully and act as expected of a crown prince.

Arthur

Merlin resisted the urge to shake his head. Sir Tristan must have great patience to have put up with Arthur all these years. It was clear, however, through their correspondences that Arthur was closer to his uncle than to his own father-which was, Merlin supposed, the rather unfortunate consequence of having a king for a father.

Arthur sealed the letter and set it aside to be sent off in the morning.

“You may go now. I expect to see you back in the throne room tomorrow for the petitions,” the prince said with a wave to the door.

“Yes, sire.” Merlin headed for the doors, but paused, half-turning to add, “Good night, sire.”

The prince gave him an odd look, face hidden half in shadows, but replied, “Good night, Merlin.”



On to Part Three |  Masterpost