[fanfic] Why We Fight - Part Three (Merlin/Arthur)
Sunlight spills through the canopy of leaves above them as they stroll hand in hand. He loves the gardens at this time of year, when the grass and trees are a vibrant green and flowers overrun the grounds with color. Beside him, she laughs at the birds and rabbits that pop into sight as he passes them and at the occasional tree branch or flower that shifts towards him just a little. The magic inside him draws all kinds of plant- and wildlife to him, and when he is relaxed and carefree like now, he lets it free, allowing the connection between him and nature because it fills him with warmth and calm. Her thin pale hand squeezes his lightly, and she smiles, half-mocking and half-affectionate. And that’s another reason he likes the gardens at this time; it is often during one of the rare times that she lets her mask fall and lets him see the woman she is inside.
“Really, Merlin,” she remarks as he reaches up to stroke the feathers of a small falcon. She lets go of his hand to pluck a flower from the ground and toy with it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you care about birds and trees more than you care about me.”
He turns to protest the jibe, but she is already moving away from him. He calls after her, but she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t stop walking. He runs to catch up with her, but with every step, the distance between them keeps increasing. A fog is descending in the distance, darkening their surroundings.
“Wait!” he shouts to her, but she doesn’t hear him. The fog swallows her up.
Merlin woke with an ache in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. Taking deep breaths, he calmed the racing of his heart. He did not want to remember. He did not want to think. He pushed the dream from his mind, fixating on the dim sliver of light outlining the trapdoor out of the cell. He forced himself to stay awake, to keep at bay any other dreams, any other pseudo-memories.
When morning finally came and Tom dropped down the ladder, Merlin climbed up right away. His back felt stiff as a board, but at least it wasn’t hurting anymore. Tom waved him over to the bath and a clean tunic set aside for him to look presentable at the petitions. The bath, Merlin discovered, was filled with clean water, a rarity since the water would usually be shared with at least four slaves.
“Master Tom, the water, tha-”
“No need for thanks. Don’t want your welts to get infected. The prince said to take care of you until you were better, after all,” the slave master said. “Best get a move on. You wouldn’t want the prince angry at you now.”
Merlin didn’t have to worry though. The prince was in a good mood when Merlin took his place at the writing table for petitions. No doubt he had gotten a good night’s sleep with the enchantment broken. Arthur did not acknowledge him; they had reverted back to master and slave. Merlin scanned the crowd, but saw no signs of Morgause, and felt himself relax just a little. He briefly checked the notes from the scribe who’d covered for him the day before and settled down to work. Petitions proceeded, with the prince making more or less correct decisions and nothing too eventful happening. Merlin followed the same routine he had before, working after the petitions ended for the day to complete the records and fix up the decrees until it was time for him to return to the slave house for a meal and sleep. To his relief, no dreams came to him.
However, it seemed it was too much to hope for to have everything run smoothly for more than a few days because just two days after Merlin’s return, Arthur showed up to petitions two hours late. All through petitions that day, he was short tempered and brusque, going so far as to goad the supplicants to speak faster-which only made a mess of things as the peasants would cower and the nobleman would bite back, no doubt, scandalized remarks.
The next day, the prince didn’t show up at all, and petitions had to be canceled for the day. Merlin heard from the whispers of other servants that Arthur did, however, attend training and proceeded to beat the brains out of his knights. The courtiers were grumbling over the prince’s behavior, but even Merlin knew the prince never shirked his duties, despite all of his faults. Something was wrong.
And when Tom woke him up in the middle of the night, Merlin couldn’t say he felt very surprised. He wondered, as he strode down the dimly lit halls of the castle to Arthur’s room, what the problem was this time and hoped he would have a solution. He then promptly pushed the thought away. Hope was not meant for a slave, and actively putting himself more in the way of Morgause than he already was while holding no magic at all was a sure way to damn him. Shaking his head, he slowed his walk, attempting to dampen the faint sense of anticipation in him.
“Where is it? Find the thing so I can get rid of it!” the prince demanded the moment Merlin entered his chambers.
Merlin frowned, not bothering to hide his bewilderment. It was much too late at night for him to engage in conversations that seemed to have started before he had even begun them.
“Something is wrong again, so do what you did last time, and find what’s causing it,” Arthur answered, pacing back and forth in his antechamber.
“Sire, I can see that, but if I don’t know what’s wrong, I can’t help you,” Merlin said, although he was already scanning the room for anything that might just be out of place.
Arthur stopped pacing and stalked over to Merlin, grabbing him by the collar. He pointed a threatening finger at him, just a few centimeters from Merlin’s face, and growled, “If you tell anyone about this, you’re going to wish you were dead when I’m through with you. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Sire,” Merlin answered, putting on his most openly earnest expression. Arthur released him and half-turned from him, fists clenched tightly by his side.
“I can’t…It didn’t work when I was with a maid yesterday or today, and it didn’t work when I tried to do it myself,” the prince muttered, just barely loud enough for Merlin to hear.
“What…?” And then it hit him. Merlin would have snickered if he hadn’t known that it would have gotten him killed and that it was indeed a grave matter. As the future king of Camelot, Arthur was expected to be healthy in all aspects; impotency could not be accepted. “That…Has Morgause given you anything new?”
“No. And she has left for Stafford if that means anything to you.”
“Not really. Morgause is powerful enough to work spells at a distance. This might have been planned beforehand too. You never know,” Merlin replied with a shrug.
Arthur stared at Merlin for a while, but when Merlin failed to say or do anything, he growled, “Well? Fix this.”
“Ah, right.” Merlin searched through his slightly hazy knowledge concerning the issue. “Um, well, there’s nothing enchanted in your rooms, and I don’t sense any dark magic.” He paused, following the few possibilities left. Spells were rarely ever used for this, if he recalled correctly.
“Well what is it then, Merlin? I haven’t got all night.”
Merlin resisted the urge to snipe at him and instead said, “I know of herbs that could create such an effect when placed in one’s food. That could be why.”
Arthur’s face darkened. “There’s a traitor in the kitchens then. I’ll have their heads.”
“It could still be Morgause!” Merlin protested before the prince could get too carried away. “I’ve heard that Morgause can use her magic to help…persuade people into doing things. And I wouldn’t put it past her to disguise herself to slip the herbs in. If you go to the kitchens, you’ll tip her off that you suspect.”
The prince let out a long-suffering sigh and asked, “Then what do I do?”
“Um…the effects should wear off, so why don’t you fast for a day or two? Get it out of your system, and all.”
“Very well, I’ll give it a try,” Arthur said, sitting down at the table. “Before the Lady Morgause left, she asked me about my…illness. She wanted to know what remedy I used to get better.”
Merlin stiffened. If Morgause knew that he had any involvement in breaking the spell, it wouldn’t be too hard for her to dig up information, linking Merlin’s name to magic and then to Emrys. How Morgause would react to this discover was a mystery. Would she be furious that the ‘greatest’ sorcerer in Albion was now a lowly slave to the prince of Camelot? Or would she sneer at him for failing his duty to protect Carmarthen?
“What did you say?” he questioned, hoping the prince wouldn’t notice the extent of his unease. Arthur gave him a pointed look.
“I said I hadn’t done anything, and that perhaps, I had a guardian spirit watching over me,” Arthur replied with a smirk, startling out a snort from Merlin.
“I am no guardian spirit, sire,” he remarked. The prince shrugged before dismissing him with a wave.
The prince nearly scared Merlin out of his skin two days later, when Arthur came up behind him before petitions and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Merlin looked tentatively over his shoulder, hoping the prince wasn’t about to thrash him for something.
Instead the prince practically chirped, “Good morning, Merlin,” and gave him a conspiratorial smile.
Ah. So, the fasting had worked after all.
Arthur released his shoulder and clapped his back before romping over to his throne.
As the two-week period for petitions drew to an end, Arthur maintained a relatively good mood, considering he was now enchantment-free. Merlin was even permitted to finally sleep aboveground, outside of the cell he had grown to know too well. Instead, he slept in the large central chamber of the slave house, amongst all of the castle’s house slaves.
Perhaps it was because of his new proximity to other human beings, or the prince’s recent troubles, that dreams returned to him yet again, this time not nightmarish, but almost embarrassingly heated. He dreamt of sun-kissed skin and soft hair, clear blue eyes and long muscled limbs. Definitely not usual.
It was not really the why he was having them that bothered him. After being celibate for nearly thirteen years, it could hardly be a wonder why. However, it was a question of why now of all times? In the first few years of captivity, he’d dreamed such dreams, but he lost parts of him through years of slavery and the dreams faded away into nothing. What confused him was that before, they had been filled with pale skin and soft curves, long silken black hair and green eyes. Now, not so much, at all.
And it was during one of these new dreams that Merlin was shaken awake by Tom.
“I should just sleep in the prince’s room if he keeps asking for me at night,” Merlin grumbled as he rubbed his eyes and forcibly pushed his dreams to the back of his mind.
“The prince does not ask for you this time, Merlin. I do,” the slave master whispered, and Merlin woke up just a bit quicker.
“What is it?”
“We bought a few new slaves a few days ago,” the slave master began his explanation. “There is a boy among them, an ex-sorcerer like you. He refuses to work.”
Merlin eyed him warily and replied, “If you think I’m going to convince him…” Tom shook his head.
“It’s not about that. He refuses to eat, Merlin. He said he would rather die than submit."
And Merlin couldn’t help but sigh. Of course it was so; he had been just the same before another slave had talked some sense into him. Slavery was looked down upon by his people, sorcerers especially. To unwillingly submit to another human being…it was degrading, and even in a tolerant and wise kingdom such as Carmarthen, slaves and ex-slaves were viewed as less than people. It was one of the reasons why Merlin knew he could never show his face to his people again. But at the very least, he was alive. He wondered where this new slave had come from; not many sorcerers were turned into slaves nowadays.
“Take me to him then,” he acquiesced, getting to his feet.
When Merlin dropped that last foot from the ladder to the ground, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the light coming from the open trapdoor he had just descended through. It was only after he could properly make out the outlines of the ladder and the grooves between the bricks of the walls did he turn around to face the only occupant in the cell. There was a boy curled up in the corner on the straw pallet, already wearing the standard collar and braces. There are marks on his back, no doubt rewards for his refusal to obey, but Tom, the strangely kind slave master that he was, had cleaned and treated them, protecting them from infection. The boy shifted slightly to look over his shoulder at Merlin. Then he curled back up and stared at the wall.
“If they sent you here to make me eat, you can go back up and leave me alone,” the boy said.
Merlin sighed, suspecting this would take a while. He sat down cross-legged beside the boy, leaning back against the wall.
“Well, yes, but I’m just here to talk,” he said. When the boy did not reply, Merlin just sat there for a few minutes, considering how to proceed. He then said, “I’m going to sit here until you talk to me so you might as well. I’m Merlin, by the way.”
The boy rolled over and glared at him, but did not say a word. Merlin simply stared back. The boy was young, perhaps no more than sixteen. In the dim light, he noted the boy’s dark hair, cut short as all slaves’ hair tended to be, skinny frame and ears that stuck out. The twisting in Merlin’s gut at the sight was no surprise. This boy had not even come into his power yet. And oh, how he was reminded of himself…
“Right now, my words probably mean nothing to you, but I understand what you are going through.”
“How could you possibly understand?” the boy snapped, sitting up. “My magic is gone!” The boy’s voice cracked, but no tears were shed; they had probably been shed already. “I wasn’t good at anything but magic. Without magic, I’m a nobody!”
The boy’s words made Merlin ache inside. He did understand. He had been this boy twelve years ago, raging against his captors, against the world, immediately after recovering from the Rites. Losing his magic had been like losing a limb, as if he still had the stump of it, but really, there was no use for a stump. Without magic, he had felt like a nobody. His entire life, he had lived and breathed magic. Magic was what he was. Losing magic had made him less a person than becoming a slave had. But he had had to learn to live without that large part of him, or the ache would have consumed him.
“And that is what slaves are-nobodies,” Merlin said. “If you wish to survive here, that is what you must accept and become.”
The boy scoffed and replied, “I’d rather die.”
Merlin winced. He had thought that too.
“Listen to me,” he insisted, “I don’t know what is being taught these days, but I was taught the importance of life, the balance of life and death. Killing yourself is not the answer; it will never be the answer. Sorcerers should never upset the balance with senseless deaths.”
The boy’s eyes widened as he said, “You were a sorcerer…”
“Yes…yes, I was.” Merlin definitely had his attention now, though he feared the forthcoming talk would open old wounds.
“How long ago?”
“Since Carmarthen’s Fall, when I was seventeen.” Even in the dim light, the boy looked a little pale. It wasn’t a surprise. Twelve years-thirteen years in a month’s time or so. That was nearly all of the boy’s life.
“Then you fought in the war?”
“I was one of the last to fall,” Merlin murmured, looking away from the boy. He shouldn’t have fallen. The oh-so-great Emrys wasn’t supposed to have fallen. But he did, and Carmarthen and thousands of people paid for it. And he should be convincing the boy to eat,not wallowing in guilt. What passed had passed, and all that mattered now was the present. “But that isn’t important. The past doesn’t matter anymore. Just the present.”
After a moment’s silence, the boy demanded, “What are you here for?”
Merlin nodded in quiet approval. The boy knew to be wary; it was a good skill to know, especially while serving in houses deep in politics.
“No slave owner wants a dead slave; it would be a waste of their coin. But the slave master here, he’s…well, he’s a bit different. He’s almost nice-as nice as you can be when you’re a slave master anyways. He doesn’t want you to kill yourself. He knows a thing or two about sorcerers, and I reckon he was sympathetic towards Carmarthen. He knew I was a Carmarthian sorcerer, so he asked me to speak with you.”
Merlin wanted to ask where the boy came from, but knew it was not his place to ask. Like he had said, the past was to be left behind. A slave was a slave, and it didn’t matter where one came from.
But then the boy answered his silent question anyways: “…my name is Gilli. I don’t remember much of it, but I was born in Carmarthen, before the war.”
Unbidden excitement jumped up inside him before he pushed it back down. The boy was too young; he couldn’t know any of the people Merlin grew up with-most of them were dead anyways.
“Good to meet you, Gilli,” he choked out through the familiar wave of guilt.
They didn’t speak for a few minutes, wallowing in their own thoughts.
“Merlin?” Tom’s voice drifted down from above.
“I’m coming up soon,” Merlin called back. He sighed, looking back at Gilli. “There’s something I have to warn you before I leave you,” he said. “Morgause is here, in Astolat.”
“The High Priestess of the Old Religion? Why?” Gilli asked with wide eyes. Merlin hoped that meant whoever had been the boy’s mentor had warned him about the priestesses.
“I don’t know for sure, but she doesn’t mean well. She didn’t identify me as a sorcerer, so there shouldn’t be a problem for you. But just in case, stay away from her, okay?” Merlin waited for the boy to nod before he got to his feet. “I’ll ask Tom to send down some food. Listen to what I said. Life is precious, you know that. Better to live a slave than not live at all. Yeah?” Gilli frowned, but nodded again. “Great. Good night, Gilli.”
“Good night…”
Grabbing hold off the ladder, Merlin gave him a small smile that he hoped was encouraging before climbing back out of the cell.
In the morning, Merlin and a number of other slaves were moved out of the slave house and into one of the empty servants’ chambers in the castle. The prince’s coming-of-age was in a month, and they were to be close at hand for any work needed for the preparations. He did not see Gilli at all in the following few days. As the prince’s scribe, he was charged with writing down everything that was needed and everything that had to be done before the ceremony-which meant endless amounts of writing from dawn to sunset. He had very little time to think, a whole soup of words floating around in his head when he wasn’t eating or sleeping. He feared that he’d never get the ink off his hands.
Merlin was in the little closet of a room, updating the records, when a slave hurried in to retrieve him. When the slave said it was Tom who wanted him, Merlin suspected the worst.
And the worst had happened, as Merlin discovered when Tom led him to a small room inside the slave house.
“Oh, Gilli, you stupid child,” Merlin sighed, falling to his knees besides the boy lying on a pallet. He brushed Gilli’s bangs from his brow. The boy had cut his belly with the shaving knife, but the blade had been made dull purposefully so that the slaves would not harm themselves or anyone else. Gilli would slowly, and painfully, bleed to death.
“S-sorry. I couldn’t…” Gilli gasped, a hand pressed to his belly. Merlin leaned in closer to catch the boy’s words. “Couldn’t stand it…not as strong as you…”
Merlin squeezed Gilli’s other hand, at a loss for words. He wasn’t strong. He really wasn’t. Years ago, he had thrown away his pride, his dignity-everything, just so he would survive to see another day. He lived for the little things-pitiful, laughable little things-a sunny day, a scrap of meat or a warm bath, a little bird greeting him by chance. Gilli winced, pulling Merlin from his thoughts.
“I’m sorry. If only I could make this easier for you,” he whispered, giving the boy’s free hand a squeeze.
“Gaius spoke of you,” Gilli rasped into Merlin’s ear, and Merlin’s heart nearly stopped. Gaius, Gaius still lived. “He told me about a young sorcerer who fought in the war at seventeen. His nephew, who had had so much power and yet acted like an idiot half the time.”
Merlin couldn’t help the startled laugh from coming out of him.
“He always said I had a grave mental affliction,” Merlin said, and the tiniest smile ghosted Gilli’s lips.
“Yeah, exactly that.”
“It’s…” Merlin swallowed at the lump forming in his throat. “It’s good to hear that he’s alive.”
“There’s a refuge-” Gilli had to stop as he coughed up blood.
“Shh, don’t talk,” Merlin hushed him.
“Refuge,” the boy continued on anyway. “From the war. Four hundred…four hundred Carmarthians…hiding.” Gilli coughed again, choking on the blood that came trickling out of his mouth and down his face. “Go home…ask the griffin.”
“Easy, easy. It’s okay, Gilli. It’s okay.” Merlin gripped the boy’s hand tighter. He could see Gilli’s eyes glaze over.
“The griffin…will show you…will take you home. Just ask…”
The boy fell silent, eyes falling shut and hand going limp in Merlin’s.
Merlin threw himself into his work after that. Having finished all the required list-making, Farran the chamberlain had him join the other house slaves in the task of cleaning up the castle as well as its occupants. Gifts wishing the prince well and celebrating his coming-of-age were flooding in from all across the kingdom and needed to be stowed for the prince’s perusal. Every waking moment, he was on his feet, clearing rooms, moving furniture, putting up tapestries, washing bedding, mending clothes-anything that was needed to be done. Every night, he’d fall to the floor and sleep like the dead until morning came and work started once again.
But even so, he couldn’t forget what Gilli had told him. Four hundred. Four hundred Carmarthians still gathered together. Merlin had thought all the survivors of the Fall would have scattered, integrating themselves into the rest of Albion to avoid slavery or death. That there was an actual refuge hidden away somewhere had been too much to hope for. Ask the griffin, the boy had said. But griffins were impossible to find; he couldn’t have meant an actual griffin. It would sooner kill you than let you speak. Then what could it mean?
Merlin shook himself, trying to push the thoughts away. Gilli’s short presence in Merlin’s life had opened his mind, prying out all the memories and emotions Merlin had locked away, hoping never to access them again. They were no use to him here. He couldn’t simply take off in search of a griffin, and even if he miraculously escaped from bondage, he could not dare show his face to his people. Besides, the dragon brand on his cheek marked him forever as property of the Pendragons; there was no escape for him, only servitude.
A few days later, he was summoned by the prince to read a message from Sir Tristan. It was short, only a few lines that seemed to radiate the old knights’ displeasure.
Arthur,
Lady Guinevere will be well protected on her journey to Astolat, as you’ve asked. I will not be travelling with her or the King and Queen, but I will be in time for the start of celebrations.
Tristan
The prince simply shook his head at the letter before dismissing Merlin, not requiring an answering message. It would be a few more days before Merlin saw the prince again.
A week after Gilli’s death and three weeks until the prince’s coming-of-age, the prince was to select the entertainment to be had at the welcome feast and the night of the coming-of-age ceremony. And as it was for an official occasion, Merlin was required to be there to keep records. So for the ensuing week, Merlin’s days fell into a similar pattern as during the petitions. He reported to the throne room in the mornings, where he would sit behind the writing desk until noon, writing down all of Arthur’s selections. The people hoping to entertain in the castle for the coming-of-age seemed to never end. Musicians and dancers, bards and tricksters, self-named entertainers from everywhere across the kingdom came, all auditioning to be a part of the crowning of Camelot’s sole prince.
Although Merlin had been interested in hearing the songs and tales and jokes the auditioners had to offer, the novelty of it wore out before the first day was even out. Everything started to sound the same and Merlin found himself half-tuning everything out.
Arthur, it seemed, was not much better off. After the first few auditioners, the prince would stop an auditioner only minutes after they began, occasionally throwing an insult before dismissing them with an impatient wave of his hand and calling for the next person to come forward.
On the first day, only one person gained the prince’s approval, a lute player with a level of skill Merlin has seldom encountered and whose performance left Arthur with a pleased smile. The second day was more fruitful: a bard whose words drew his listeners in like children to sweets, a group of acrobatic dancers with a dash of comedy that earned a nod of approval and a smile, a pair of jesters who left many in the room in stitches, and a harp player whose melodies removed all the tension from her listeners and left them relaxed and euphoric. Needless to say, the prince was in a good mood that day.
However, the third day was full of dull performances and blunders. With every failed audition, the prince’s mood grew darker and his temper soured. All the courtiers looked upon the prince with visible unease, and Merlin wished that the day would quickly be over.
The last auditioner of the day was a man playing the vielle. When he began playing, he sounded fairly decent, better than some of the other auditioners before him. Until he started playing a section of his song that left Merlin cringing and looking at the prince for his inevitable disapproval.
“Enough!” Arthur shouted. He shot to his feet, looking ready to charge at the man. “I’ll hear no more of your screeching. Leave before I put you in the stocks for wasting my time.”
He watched with a glower as the poor man left the hall with a bowed head and the few courtiers still in attendance left as well. But Merlin wasn’t quick enough to hide his disapproval when Arthur turned to leave, and the prince caught his expression before he could duck his head down.
“What? Have you got something to say to me, Merlin?” he snapped.
“No, sire,” Merlin replied, fixing his eyes on the parchment before him.
“Don’t lie to me. It’s obvious you’ve got something on your mind. You always seem to have something to say. Whether you’re feeling insolent enough to say it is a different matter.”
“You are mistaken, sire. There is nothing I have to say,” Merlin said. He wished the prince would just drop the whole issue, but considering how stubborn Arthur was, he probably wouldn’t.
“Merlin, I am giving you an order to speak your mind. Don’t you dare lie to me. Speak the truth. Or else.”
Merlin stared down at where his ink-stained hands rested on his lap and clenched them into fists. He could feel Arthur’s gaze on him. Everything seemed to press down on him-his powerlessness, the branding of his face, the frustrating contradictions the prince was made of, Morgause’s suspicious presence, Gilli’s death-and now this order, this challenge, to speak openly was pushing him over the edge.
He sucked in a deep breath before saying, “All these people you reject so hastily, they’ve travelled from all across the kingdom to come here. And why is that, sire?” Merlin paused to look the prince in the eye before continuing. “Because they wish to serve you. Yes, I suppose a part of it is selfishness, so that they get a reward and recognition for performing at your coming-of-age. But more importantly, they wish to please you, to pay their respects to you, the crown prince and future king of Camelot. And yet, here you are, throwing them out without so much as a kind word. Even if you aren’t willing to spare them a coin for their efforts, the very least you can do is say thanks and wish them a safe journey home. Is that too much to ask for?”
Merlin let out a long shuttering breath, trying to calm the anger threatening to make him lose control.
“Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?”
“No, sire. You asked for me to be frank, so I spoke my mind. If you did not wish to hear it after all, then I apologize for my impertinence,” Merlin gritted out, sliding off his stool and bowing deeply to the prince.
Arthur looked as if he was going to hit Merlin, already standing from his throne and fists balled tightly at his side. But in the end, the prince did not lift a hand.
“Get out. I’ll have none of your cheekiness tomorrow, or I’ll do more than just have you flogged.”
Merlin cursed himself for losing control, for letting Arthur’s words goad him. If he wished to live, he needed to keep his head down and his mouth shut. That resolve didn’t seem to work so well around the prince, and he couldn’t even begin to understand why. He was grateful, however, that while the prince was quick to temper and slow to forgive and forget, he displayed an awareness of what kinds of punishment were appropriate for what offenses. This explained why Sir Caradoc had been flogged while Lord Rylan was essentially dead to society. And this was probably why Arthur did not follow through his threats at Merlin’s slips of the tongue. Merlin couldn’t rely on that judgment forever though. If Merlin kept slipping up and saying too much, one of these days the prince would surely snap and Merlin would be in a far worse position than he was in now.
The next day of auditions found the prince in a foul mood. Arthur spent much of the time with displeasure almost visibly rolling off his person. But he did not interrupt any performances or, strangely enough, say a harsh word to the auditioners. If they failed, they were merely dismissed with a shake of the head and a wave.
It was fortunate that the day was a significant improvement from before. Three more people made their way onto the list of approved entertainers: a songstress with a voice like honeyed wine, a flute player that could turn the fiercest lions into the sweetest kittens, and a man who probably knew more tales than all the people in the room did combined.
At the end of the day’s auditions, Merlin waited for the prince to depart for training, as he usually did before returning to whatever duties the chamberlain
“There, Merlin, does my behavior today meet your approval?” the prince demanded, standing with hands at his hips.
“You are the prince, sire. You can behave as you wish. My approval means nothing,” Merlin answered, bowing his head and keeping his eyes to the ground.
The prince laughed, sharp and derisive, and said, “So you choose again to watch your tongue? You’re like an open book, Merlin. I’ve seen how you are when you speak your mind, and it’s much better than watching you lie.”
Merlin looked up at the prince looming over him and froze. A wave of…something-a feeling, a sense of almost-nostalgia- swept through him. His vision seemed to shift, and everything seemed to take on a slightly golden edge. The man before was still Arthur, but he was older and there was a crown on his head. While there was still that proud gleam in his eyes, it was tempered with warmth and wisdom. The little magic inside of Merlin was pulling at him, drawing him towards Arthur and filling him with a deep certainty.
The Once and Future King.
The vision left him then. With a gasp, Merlin reeled back, almost toppling off his stool before he grabbed hold of the writing table. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as his head spun.
No, no, no, it couldn’t be right.
Arthur Pendragon, prince to the very kingdom that destroyed Carmarthen and enslaved and killed so many sorcerers, simply could not be the Once and Future King.
But his magic, the tiny amount left to him, had reacted. While Merlin had never been much of a seer, what he’d seen just now hadn’t been a silly daydream. It had been an actual vision.
Merlin looked up and found the prince staring at him with not anger but bemusement. And he had to shake his head to rid the image that popped up, a residual memory of his vision.
“What’s the matter with you now?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing, sire,” Merlin replied a little too quickly to be prudent, and the prince glared at him.
“There you go again. Lying. I would cut your tongue if I didn’t know it wouldn’t change a thing.”
Before Arthur could say more, Sir Leon entered the hall and walked straight up to the prince.
“Sire, we’ve received reports that Kanen and his men are attacking the western-lying villages,” the knight said.
“Kanen again,” the prince muttered, glowering at the floor as if in thought. Then he looked back up at Sir Leon and said, “It’s too late to set out after them today. Go select a few of the knights and get yourselves ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Will you be leading?” Sir Leon inquired.
“Yes, I want to deal with Kanen myself,” Arthur said, and Merlin couldn’t help the shiver up his spine at the prince’s sharp-edged tone.
Sir Leon left with a bow, and almost seconds later, Morgause swept into the hall, dressed surprisingly in armour.
“Prince Arthur,” the priestess greeted him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She paid no attention to Merlin, who warily watched her in case she chose to enchant Arthur again.
Sure enough, after Arthur had greeted her and commented on her return from Stafford, she pulled out a finely carved, rectangular box the length of her forearm. The instant, she opened the lid, Merlin felt his attention being dragged towards the box’s contents, just like it had with the Eye of the Phoenix. Nestled in cushion was a long dagger with a simple but elegant sheath. Arthur, Merlin could tell, was also drawn the knife, though he could not tell if it was because of an enchantment or the obvious quality of the knife even when sheathed.
“I come bearing you a gift, Prince Arthur Pendragon, for the hospitality you have shown,” Morgause said, offering forth the box.
Merlin glared at Arthur, trying to will the prince to remember his warning, to at least look at Merlin and then maybe remember the last time he’d accepted something from Morgause.
Arthur didn’t. With a look of delight, Arthur lifted the dagger from its cushion and unsheathed it. Morgause took a step back, staring at Arthur, but the prince was oblivious, his eyes trained on the finely cast blade. Her mouth started moving, and Merlin knew right away that she was whispering an enchantment.
Without a second thought, Merlin jumped to his feet and “accidentally” knocked into the writing table. The ink bottle flew off the table and shattered on the floor, splattering ink at Morgause’s feet and startling her out of her concentration and Arthur from his study of the knife. Both of their attentions snapped to Merlin, although, Morgause looked furious while Arthur wore that same unreadable expression he sometimes got. Merlin scrambled forward, and bowed deeply.
“Forgive me, sire, milady, for my clumsiness,” he begged.
“You impudent buffoon, how dare you!” Morgause hissed. “Prince Arthur, I will not stand for this insult. I demand for this slave to be punished.”
Arthur glared at Merlin, and he couldn’t tell if the prince recognized his “clumsiness” for what it was or if he was simply irritated by it.
“Of course, milady,” the prince said, though his eyes were still on Merlin. “He is to be flogged, twenty-five lashes.”
The blood rushed from Merlin’s face, and he was sure he was as pale as a sheet. Even in his first years of slavery, he’d never received so many lashes at once. The prince hadn’t remembered his caution, or hadn’t taken it to heart, and now he was once again going to pay for saving Arthur’s life.
“Guard, come escort this slave back to Tom,” Arthur called before facing Morgause. “Now, you will have to excuse me, Lady Morgause, but I am late for training and must take my leave. Welcome back to Astolat.”
The prince headed for the doors without another look at Merlin. A guard stepped forward and hauled Merlin to his feet. But as he turned on shaking legs to leave with the guard through the servant’s entrance, a glint of metal on the floor caught his eyes. It was Morgause’s dagger, lying in the pool of ink he’d spilt. He left the throne room utterly confused.
Tom just sighed and shook his head disapprovingly when Merlin showed up in front of the slave house. Merlin was once again put in that small back room with his wrists manacled above his head. He was waiting with tense shoulders and frayed nerves for Tom to return with the whip when a vaguely familiar-looking, middle-aged man entered to room. He was dressed simply in long dark robes with a leather satchel slung across his chest and resting against his hip. In his hands was a small glass bottle, which he offered forth to Merlin.
“I am Marius, the physician. The prince asked me to give you this,” the man said.
“It’s not poison, is it?” Merlin asked, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.
The physician quirked his lips in a small smile and replied, “No. It’ll help. And you are to be looked after afterwards. But if you rather not take it…”
“No! No, I’ll take it then,” Merlin said, his mood brightening a bit.
His confusion was now answered. The flogging wasn’t because the prince was an ass who’d chosen to forget his warning; it was for the prince to save face, to keep Morgause from suspecting he knew of her treachery. Not that it made much of a difference, since, unfortunately, Merlin was the one to bear the brunt of it all-again. And if the potion would help, then he’d take it.
The physician uncorked the bottle and held it to Merlin’s lips. Merlin grimaced at the sharp and bitter taste of the liquid inside, but swallowed it down. The effects were almost immediate, a heavy exhaustion falling over him and his limbs growing heavy.
“Thank you,” he murmured before closing his eyes. Consciousness left him in an instant.
When Merlin woke up early the next day, he was feeling better than could possibly be expected after receiving twenty-five lashes. Again, it seemed that Tom had made stripes that looked worse than they actually were, and Merlin faintly wondered if Arthur had asked for him to do so. Merlin discovered that in addition to giving him the potion, Marius had left Tom the same healing salve as before to use on his back. The salve worked wonders, numbing and cooling the dull pain in his back; he had almost no trouble at all walking or kneeling, though a little when bending over.
The prince summoned him to his chambers that morning, when the sun was just peeking up from the horizon. Merlin stepped inside the antechamber to spot a pair of servants flit about, packing a travel bag for the prince and straightening items around the room. Arthur stood near his table, in discussion with Farren the chamberlain. However, he looked up when Merlin entered and broke from conversation.
“Merlin, already up and walking?” the prince remarked. Though Merlin couldn’t be sure, he chose to take that as a thinly veiled inquiry to his well-being after the flogging and all.
“Yes, sire,” he replied with a bow. When he straightened, he eyed the knife hanging from Arthur’s belt. Although he was risking it, speaking freely to the prince with the chamberlain present, he had to ask: “And you, sire. Are you well?”
Catching his gaze on the knife, the prince nodded and said, “I’ve never been better.” For a second, he partially unsheathed the knife at his belt-Merlin recognized it as Arthur’s own-before he began to address both Merlin and Farran. “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few days. Merlin will be in charge of all my correspondences. If he judges that it is important enough, he can have a messenger sent to me.”
Merlin and the chamberlain looked at the prince with similar open-mouthed expressions of disbelief.
“Wait, what?” Merlin blurted out.
“Sire, you can’t be serious?” the chamberlain exclaimed at the same time. “We have a number of royal scribes here who’d be more worthy for this job. To give this slave such a privilege, it’s not right!”
“I am the prince. If I wanted Merlin to be a steward, I could make him a steward.” Farran let out a scandalized choking noise but Arthur continued on, “If I want him in charge of my correspondences, I can make him in charge.”
“But sire!”
“Are you questioning me?” Arthur hissed. This seemed to be the key phrase for Arthur to get people to do things, because immediately, the chamberlain began to bow frantically, murmuring his apologies.
“Good. That’ll be all. Both of you may leave.”
The prince and his knights returned four days later. Merlin spent those days without the prince working alongside the other house slaves and pointedly not thinking about the maybe-vision he’d had of Arthur as king. And when the prince returned, Merlin was surprised that while the prince had left eagerly looking forward to dealing with the bandits, he returned in a foul mood, glowering at all who spoke to him and brooding at the world in general. He did little more than grunt when Merlin informed him that no letters had come for him.
Merlin and Sir Leon, who had been receiving orders on the knights’ next course of action, were both dismissed from Arthur’s chambers when he expressed the desire to bathe. Merlin looked at the knight out of the corner of his eye. From what he’d heard from the servants, Sir Leon was a gentleman knight, calmer and more patient than the prince, an excellent leader but never unnecessarily harsh or cruel. It was even said that the knight had several friends among the common folk. Merlin decided to risk questioning the knight.
“Sir…” he tentatively began, and the tall knight turned his head to look at Merlin. He didn’t look angry at being addressed by a slave; instead, he looked reserved and even a little curious actually. They slowed to a stop to properly face each other. “If I may ask, why is the prince in such a-well, he’d looked excited when he left here a few days ago. But now…”
Sir Leon sighed and nodded wearily, understanding what Merlin was trying to say. “A peasant gave his life to protect the prince. He pushed the prince out of the way and took an arrow meant for him,” the knight said. “Kanen and his men were dealt with but the prince has been upset since.”
“But he is the future king. Whether he likes it or not, there will always be people dying for him,” Merlin remarked with a frown. Shouldn’t the prince already know that by now? And he certainly hadn’t expected the prince to care that much. Sir Leon looked at him with an expression that Merlin just knew had to say Oh, he’s not an idiot after all.
“I don’t believe he has actually given it serious thought until now,” the knight said after a moment of silence. “The prince probably didn’t think of the implications. What I don’t understand is why that has changed.” He then eyed Merlin suspiciously, as if Merlin had had something to do with it, which he couldn’t possibly have had.
Merlin shrugged, having nothing to say. The two of them started walking again, soon separating to go their own ways.
The prince was still in a bad mood the next day, when Merlin was once again called to the throne room to work as a scribe. It was a bit fascinating that Arthur could sit up straight but still look as if he was sulking.
As per the king’s suggestion, the prince was to select tricksters to the list of entertainers for Arthur’s coming of age celebrations. “Trickster” was the court’s more common term for a magician, who only had enough power to do small illusions and tricks. Magicians weren’t as looked down upon as full-fledged sorcerers, if only because their tricks were superfluous and could almost be explained away as mind tricks and sleight of hands. Merlin wasn’t sure how he felt about having to watch them. He’d seen a few tricksters before in his years of bondage, but never so many at once. He couldn’t help the twinge of envy whenever he saw them perform. Though they could only do rudimentary spells, creating light shows and butterflies from air, they were still doing magic, something Merlin could no longer hope to do.
The prince, Merlin discovered, held little respect for tricksters. He too seemed to find little interest in silly little tricks-especially when every magician who’d come to audition performed virtually the same spells. Arthur rejected one trickster after the other. By the end of the day, not one had been accepted.
Merlin was packing up to leave when the prince turned to him instead of leaving and said, “Tell me, Merlin, is it that hard for sorcerers to come up with something original and not utterly boring?”
Merlin frowned at the insult, but replied, “Tricksters-magicians-are sorcerers with little power, sire. There isn’t much they can do.”
“And an actual sorcerer would be better?”
“…an actual sorcerer, sire, would not lower themselves to perform cheap parlor tricks. For anyone.” And that was not what he’d meant to say. Merlin sat very still on his stool, waiting for the prince’s reaction.
Arthur glared at him and snapped, “Well it’s a good thing you aren’t one now then.”
The barb hurt more that he’d care to admit. If the prince noticed Merlin’s expression, he didn’t say, instead turning on his heels and sweeping out the room.
Now alone in the audience hall but for two guards at the door, Merlin took the opportunity to curse at fate and arrogant royal prats under his breath. Arthur couldn’t possibly be the Once and Future King, maybe-visions be damned.
The next day, the prince’s black mood had passed, and instead he was strangely quiet and thoughtful. He didn’t acknowledge Merlin or show any indications that Merlin’s last slip of tongue bothered him. Arthur sat in his throne with his elbow on the armrest and his head propped up by a fist, and indicated with his free hand for the first magician auditioning for the day to begin. This however did not change his reception of the tricksters auditioning as every person to step forward was rejected within the first few minutes.
Halfway through the allotted audition time for the day, it seemed the prince had had enough.
“If one more magician decides that colorful lights or winged creatures conjured from thin air are going to impress, then I’m going to end auditions right here and now. Is that understood?”
The remaining ten or so magicians in the room looked at the prince with nearly identical aghast expressions, which was a bit ridiculous because Merlin was sure there was at least a few magicians who could come up with something.
Before anything could be said though, a squire scurried into the room and up to the prince.
“Sire, Lady Guinevere Leodegrance of Cameliard has arrived. She is on her way here,” the boy informed the prince. Arthur grimaced, but gave the boy a nod. The squire left and the prince turned back to the magicians.
“You lot, due to Lady Guinevere’s arrival, I’m afraid I have to cut the auditions short for today,” Arthur said, looking completely unrepentant. “Come back tomorrow, but my declaration still stands. Is that clear?”
The magicians collectively nodded and exited the hall. Merlin hopped off his stool, making to clear the writing tools from the table. He was not quick enough however to leave before the lady arrived.
Lady Guinevere was the perfect picture of a lady. She had slightly dark skin, warm brown eyes and long curly black hair that was swept back from her face and up into a elegant hairstyle. Her purple gown, though fine, was practical, made for riding and travel. She was not a tall woman, but her back was straight and her footsteps were sure. There was a quiet strength to her, and Merlin could even imagine her with a crown on her head. Thus, he was now curious as to why the prince did not wish to be her fiancé.
Arthur got to his feet and said rather stiffly, “Lady Guineviere, welcome back to Astolat. I trust your journey was uneventful.”
“Thank you, sire. Yes, thanks to Sir Tristan, my journey from Cameliard was perfectly fine,” the lady said with a graceful curtsy. Arthur visibly brightened at the mention of his uncle.
“Did Sir Tristan mention when he’ll be arriving?” the prince asked, but Lady Guinevere shook her head.
“He didn’t say. He left for Camelot shortly after I left Cameliard. Perhaps the King will have some news?”
The prince shrugged, a gesture that almost hid his disappointment, before saying, “Well. I’m glad that your journey was safe.”
Merlin decided that for whatever reason Arthur was opposed to marrying Lady Guinevere, it left him awkward and made him fall back to his more princely mannerisms. Merlin also figured he should probably take the chance to slip out before Arthur yelled at him for eavesdropping.
But the moment he made to leave was the moment the lady noticed him.
“And who is this, Arthur? A new scribe?” she asked. Merlin found both of their attentions on him in an instant.
“Yes, he’s my new writing slave. He has work to do so he should be leaving now,” the prince said, giving Merlin a pointed look.
Merlin bowed and turned to leave, but Guinevere stepped forward.
“Wait just a moment,” she said, walking over to Merlin. Merlin bowed his head to the lady, but then she put a hand under his chin and tilted his head back up. As she stared at him, he knew right away that she was looking at the brand on his cheek. Her eyes hardened and her lips thinned into an angry line. She dropped her hand and quickly turned back to the prince, who was looking at her with surprisingly wary expression. “You branded his face,” she bit out, her voice heavy with censure. “It is one thing to have a slave, and I can accept that, though I don’t approve. But to brand his face? I expected better from you, Arthur.”
“It wasn’t me,” Arthur replied, looking rather uncomfortable under her judging eyes. “Sir Caradoc was trying to make a statement. I’ll have you know that he’s been punished for his mistake.” The prince visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping just a fraction, as the cold judgment left Guinevere’s face. And that must have been it, Merlin realized. The Lady Guinevere’s shrewd opinions of the prince left him uncomfortable, because it seemed she believed Arthur should be a better person while he acted for the most part like a spoiled, arrogant prat. “Anyways, get going, Merlin. You’ve got work to do.”
Merlin bowed once again and left before the lady could possibly detain him again. He carefully hid his smile as he made his way to the records room. He hoped that he’d get another chance to see the prince squirm under Lady Guinevere’s judgment.
On to Part Four | Masterpost
“Really, Merlin,” she remarks as he reaches up to stroke the feathers of a small falcon. She lets go of his hand to pluck a flower from the ground and toy with it. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you care about birds and trees more than you care about me.”
He turns to protest the jibe, but she is already moving away from him. He calls after her, but she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t stop walking. He runs to catch up with her, but with every step, the distance between them keeps increasing. A fog is descending in the distance, darkening their surroundings.
“Wait!” he shouts to her, but she doesn’t hear him. The fog swallows her up.
Merlin woke with an ache in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. Taking deep breaths, he calmed the racing of his heart. He did not want to remember. He did not want to think. He pushed the dream from his mind, fixating on the dim sliver of light outlining the trapdoor out of the cell. He forced himself to stay awake, to keep at bay any other dreams, any other pseudo-memories.
When morning finally came and Tom dropped down the ladder, Merlin climbed up right away. His back felt stiff as a board, but at least it wasn’t hurting anymore. Tom waved him over to the bath and a clean tunic set aside for him to look presentable at the petitions. The bath, Merlin discovered, was filled with clean water, a rarity since the water would usually be shared with at least four slaves.
“Master Tom, the water, tha-”
“No need for thanks. Don’t want your welts to get infected. The prince said to take care of you until you were better, after all,” the slave master said. “Best get a move on. You wouldn’t want the prince angry at you now.”
Merlin didn’t have to worry though. The prince was in a good mood when Merlin took his place at the writing table for petitions. No doubt he had gotten a good night’s sleep with the enchantment broken. Arthur did not acknowledge him; they had reverted back to master and slave. Merlin scanned the crowd, but saw no signs of Morgause, and felt himself relax just a little. He briefly checked the notes from the scribe who’d covered for him the day before and settled down to work. Petitions proceeded, with the prince making more or less correct decisions and nothing too eventful happening. Merlin followed the same routine he had before, working after the petitions ended for the day to complete the records and fix up the decrees until it was time for him to return to the slave house for a meal and sleep. To his relief, no dreams came to him.
However, it seemed it was too much to hope for to have everything run smoothly for more than a few days because just two days after Merlin’s return, Arthur showed up to petitions two hours late. All through petitions that day, he was short tempered and brusque, going so far as to goad the supplicants to speak faster-which only made a mess of things as the peasants would cower and the nobleman would bite back, no doubt, scandalized remarks.
The next day, the prince didn’t show up at all, and petitions had to be canceled for the day. Merlin heard from the whispers of other servants that Arthur did, however, attend training and proceeded to beat the brains out of his knights. The courtiers were grumbling over the prince’s behavior, but even Merlin knew the prince never shirked his duties, despite all of his faults. Something was wrong.
And when Tom woke him up in the middle of the night, Merlin couldn’t say he felt very surprised. He wondered, as he strode down the dimly lit halls of the castle to Arthur’s room, what the problem was this time and hoped he would have a solution. He then promptly pushed the thought away. Hope was not meant for a slave, and actively putting himself more in the way of Morgause than he already was while holding no magic at all was a sure way to damn him. Shaking his head, he slowed his walk, attempting to dampen the faint sense of anticipation in him.
“Where is it? Find the thing so I can get rid of it!” the prince demanded the moment Merlin entered his chambers.
Merlin frowned, not bothering to hide his bewilderment. It was much too late at night for him to engage in conversations that seemed to have started before he had even begun them.
“Something is wrong again, so do what you did last time, and find what’s causing it,” Arthur answered, pacing back and forth in his antechamber.
“Sire, I can see that, but if I don’t know what’s wrong, I can’t help you,” Merlin said, although he was already scanning the room for anything that might just be out of place.
Arthur stopped pacing and stalked over to Merlin, grabbing him by the collar. He pointed a threatening finger at him, just a few centimeters from Merlin’s face, and growled, “If you tell anyone about this, you’re going to wish you were dead when I’m through with you. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Sire,” Merlin answered, putting on his most openly earnest expression. Arthur released him and half-turned from him, fists clenched tightly by his side.
“I can’t…It didn’t work when I was with a maid yesterday or today, and it didn’t work when I tried to do it myself,” the prince muttered, just barely loud enough for Merlin to hear.
“What…?” And then it hit him. Merlin would have snickered if he hadn’t known that it would have gotten him killed and that it was indeed a grave matter. As the future king of Camelot, Arthur was expected to be healthy in all aspects; impotency could not be accepted. “That…Has Morgause given you anything new?”
“No. And she has left for Stafford if that means anything to you.”
“Not really. Morgause is powerful enough to work spells at a distance. This might have been planned beforehand too. You never know,” Merlin replied with a shrug.
Arthur stared at Merlin for a while, but when Merlin failed to say or do anything, he growled, “Well? Fix this.”
“Ah, right.” Merlin searched through his slightly hazy knowledge concerning the issue. “Um, well, there’s nothing enchanted in your rooms, and I don’t sense any dark magic.” He paused, following the few possibilities left. Spells were rarely ever used for this, if he recalled correctly.
“Well what is it then, Merlin? I haven’t got all night.”
Merlin resisted the urge to snipe at him and instead said, “I know of herbs that could create such an effect when placed in one’s food. That could be why.”
Arthur’s face darkened. “There’s a traitor in the kitchens then. I’ll have their heads.”
“It could still be Morgause!” Merlin protested before the prince could get too carried away. “I’ve heard that Morgause can use her magic to help…persuade people into doing things. And I wouldn’t put it past her to disguise herself to slip the herbs in. If you go to the kitchens, you’ll tip her off that you suspect.”
The prince let out a long-suffering sigh and asked, “Then what do I do?”
“Um…the effects should wear off, so why don’t you fast for a day or two? Get it out of your system, and all.”
“Very well, I’ll give it a try,” Arthur said, sitting down at the table. “Before the Lady Morgause left, she asked me about my…illness. She wanted to know what remedy I used to get better.”
Merlin stiffened. If Morgause knew that he had any involvement in breaking the spell, it wouldn’t be too hard for her to dig up information, linking Merlin’s name to magic and then to Emrys. How Morgause would react to this discover was a mystery. Would she be furious that the ‘greatest’ sorcerer in Albion was now a lowly slave to the prince of Camelot? Or would she sneer at him for failing his duty to protect Carmarthen?
“What did you say?” he questioned, hoping the prince wouldn’t notice the extent of his unease. Arthur gave him a pointed look.
“I said I hadn’t done anything, and that perhaps, I had a guardian spirit watching over me,” Arthur replied with a smirk, startling out a snort from Merlin.
“I am no guardian spirit, sire,” he remarked. The prince shrugged before dismissing him with a wave.
The prince nearly scared Merlin out of his skin two days later, when Arthur came up behind him before petitions and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Merlin looked tentatively over his shoulder, hoping the prince wasn’t about to thrash him for something.
Instead the prince practically chirped, “Good morning, Merlin,” and gave him a conspiratorial smile.
Ah. So, the fasting had worked after all.
Arthur released his shoulder and clapped his back before romping over to his throne.
As the two-week period for petitions drew to an end, Arthur maintained a relatively good mood, considering he was now enchantment-free. Merlin was even permitted to finally sleep aboveground, outside of the cell he had grown to know too well. Instead, he slept in the large central chamber of the slave house, amongst all of the castle’s house slaves.
Perhaps it was because of his new proximity to other human beings, or the prince’s recent troubles, that dreams returned to him yet again, this time not nightmarish, but almost embarrassingly heated. He dreamt of sun-kissed skin and soft hair, clear blue eyes and long muscled limbs. Definitely not usual.
It was not really the why he was having them that bothered him. After being celibate for nearly thirteen years, it could hardly be a wonder why. However, it was a question of why now of all times? In the first few years of captivity, he’d dreamed such dreams, but he lost parts of him through years of slavery and the dreams faded away into nothing. What confused him was that before, they had been filled with pale skin and soft curves, long silken black hair and green eyes. Now, not so much, at all.
And it was during one of these new dreams that Merlin was shaken awake by Tom.
“I should just sleep in the prince’s room if he keeps asking for me at night,” Merlin grumbled as he rubbed his eyes and forcibly pushed his dreams to the back of his mind.
“The prince does not ask for you this time, Merlin. I do,” the slave master whispered, and Merlin woke up just a bit quicker.
“What is it?”
“We bought a few new slaves a few days ago,” the slave master began his explanation. “There is a boy among them, an ex-sorcerer like you. He refuses to work.”
Merlin eyed him warily and replied, “If you think I’m going to convince him…” Tom shook his head.
“It’s not about that. He refuses to eat, Merlin. He said he would rather die than submit."
And Merlin couldn’t help but sigh. Of course it was so; he had been just the same before another slave had talked some sense into him. Slavery was looked down upon by his people, sorcerers especially. To unwillingly submit to another human being…it was degrading, and even in a tolerant and wise kingdom such as Carmarthen, slaves and ex-slaves were viewed as less than people. It was one of the reasons why Merlin knew he could never show his face to his people again. But at the very least, he was alive. He wondered where this new slave had come from; not many sorcerers were turned into slaves nowadays.
“Take me to him then,” he acquiesced, getting to his feet.
When Merlin dropped that last foot from the ladder to the ground, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the light coming from the open trapdoor he had just descended through. It was only after he could properly make out the outlines of the ladder and the grooves between the bricks of the walls did he turn around to face the only occupant in the cell. There was a boy curled up in the corner on the straw pallet, already wearing the standard collar and braces. There are marks on his back, no doubt rewards for his refusal to obey, but Tom, the strangely kind slave master that he was, had cleaned and treated them, protecting them from infection. The boy shifted slightly to look over his shoulder at Merlin. Then he curled back up and stared at the wall.
“If they sent you here to make me eat, you can go back up and leave me alone,” the boy said.
Merlin sighed, suspecting this would take a while. He sat down cross-legged beside the boy, leaning back against the wall.
“Well, yes, but I’m just here to talk,” he said. When the boy did not reply, Merlin just sat there for a few minutes, considering how to proceed. He then said, “I’m going to sit here until you talk to me so you might as well. I’m Merlin, by the way.”
The boy rolled over and glared at him, but did not say a word. Merlin simply stared back. The boy was young, perhaps no more than sixteen. In the dim light, he noted the boy’s dark hair, cut short as all slaves’ hair tended to be, skinny frame and ears that stuck out. The twisting in Merlin’s gut at the sight was no surprise. This boy had not even come into his power yet. And oh, how he was reminded of himself…
“Right now, my words probably mean nothing to you, but I understand what you are going through.”
“How could you possibly understand?” the boy snapped, sitting up. “My magic is gone!” The boy’s voice cracked, but no tears were shed; they had probably been shed already. “I wasn’t good at anything but magic. Without magic, I’m a nobody!”
The boy’s words made Merlin ache inside. He did understand. He had been this boy twelve years ago, raging against his captors, against the world, immediately after recovering from the Rites. Losing his magic had been like losing a limb, as if he still had the stump of it, but really, there was no use for a stump. Without magic, he had felt like a nobody. His entire life, he had lived and breathed magic. Magic was what he was. Losing magic had made him less a person than becoming a slave had. But he had had to learn to live without that large part of him, or the ache would have consumed him.
“And that is what slaves are-nobodies,” Merlin said. “If you wish to survive here, that is what you must accept and become.”
The boy scoffed and replied, “I’d rather die.”
Merlin winced. He had thought that too.
“Listen to me,” he insisted, “I don’t know what is being taught these days, but I was taught the importance of life, the balance of life and death. Killing yourself is not the answer; it will never be the answer. Sorcerers should never upset the balance with senseless deaths.”
The boy’s eyes widened as he said, “You were a sorcerer…”
“Yes…yes, I was.” Merlin definitely had his attention now, though he feared the forthcoming talk would open old wounds.
“How long ago?”
“Since Carmarthen’s Fall, when I was seventeen.” Even in the dim light, the boy looked a little pale. It wasn’t a surprise. Twelve years-thirteen years in a month’s time or so. That was nearly all of the boy’s life.
“Then you fought in the war?”
“I was one of the last to fall,” Merlin murmured, looking away from the boy. He shouldn’t have fallen. The oh-so-great Emrys wasn’t supposed to have fallen. But he did, and Carmarthen and thousands of people paid for it. And he should be convincing the boy to eat,not wallowing in guilt. What passed had passed, and all that mattered now was the present. “But that isn’t important. The past doesn’t matter anymore. Just the present.”
After a moment’s silence, the boy demanded, “What are you here for?”
Merlin nodded in quiet approval. The boy knew to be wary; it was a good skill to know, especially while serving in houses deep in politics.
“No slave owner wants a dead slave; it would be a waste of their coin. But the slave master here, he’s…well, he’s a bit different. He’s almost nice-as nice as you can be when you’re a slave master anyways. He doesn’t want you to kill yourself. He knows a thing or two about sorcerers, and I reckon he was sympathetic towards Carmarthen. He knew I was a Carmarthian sorcerer, so he asked me to speak with you.”
Merlin wanted to ask where the boy came from, but knew it was not his place to ask. Like he had said, the past was to be left behind. A slave was a slave, and it didn’t matter where one came from.
But then the boy answered his silent question anyways: “…my name is Gilli. I don’t remember much of it, but I was born in Carmarthen, before the war.”
Unbidden excitement jumped up inside him before he pushed it back down. The boy was too young; he couldn’t know any of the people Merlin grew up with-most of them were dead anyways.
“Good to meet you, Gilli,” he choked out through the familiar wave of guilt.
They didn’t speak for a few minutes, wallowing in their own thoughts.
“Merlin?” Tom’s voice drifted down from above.
“I’m coming up soon,” Merlin called back. He sighed, looking back at Gilli. “There’s something I have to warn you before I leave you,” he said. “Morgause is here, in Astolat.”
“The High Priestess of the Old Religion? Why?” Gilli asked with wide eyes. Merlin hoped that meant whoever had been the boy’s mentor had warned him about the priestesses.
“I don’t know for sure, but she doesn’t mean well. She didn’t identify me as a sorcerer, so there shouldn’t be a problem for you. But just in case, stay away from her, okay?” Merlin waited for the boy to nod before he got to his feet. “I’ll ask Tom to send down some food. Listen to what I said. Life is precious, you know that. Better to live a slave than not live at all. Yeah?” Gilli frowned, but nodded again. “Great. Good night, Gilli.”
“Good night…”
Grabbing hold off the ladder, Merlin gave him a small smile that he hoped was encouraging before climbing back out of the cell.
In the morning, Merlin and a number of other slaves were moved out of the slave house and into one of the empty servants’ chambers in the castle. The prince’s coming-of-age was in a month, and they were to be close at hand for any work needed for the preparations. He did not see Gilli at all in the following few days. As the prince’s scribe, he was charged with writing down everything that was needed and everything that had to be done before the ceremony-which meant endless amounts of writing from dawn to sunset. He had very little time to think, a whole soup of words floating around in his head when he wasn’t eating or sleeping. He feared that he’d never get the ink off his hands.
Merlin was in the little closet of a room, updating the records, when a slave hurried in to retrieve him. When the slave said it was Tom who wanted him, Merlin suspected the worst.
And the worst had happened, as Merlin discovered when Tom led him to a small room inside the slave house.
“Oh, Gilli, you stupid child,” Merlin sighed, falling to his knees besides the boy lying on a pallet. He brushed Gilli’s bangs from his brow. The boy had cut his belly with the shaving knife, but the blade had been made dull purposefully so that the slaves would not harm themselves or anyone else. Gilli would slowly, and painfully, bleed to death.
“S-sorry. I couldn’t…” Gilli gasped, a hand pressed to his belly. Merlin leaned in closer to catch the boy’s words. “Couldn’t stand it…not as strong as you…”
Merlin squeezed Gilli’s other hand, at a loss for words. He wasn’t strong. He really wasn’t. Years ago, he had thrown away his pride, his dignity-everything, just so he would survive to see another day. He lived for the little things-pitiful, laughable little things-a sunny day, a scrap of meat or a warm bath, a little bird greeting him by chance. Gilli winced, pulling Merlin from his thoughts.
“I’m sorry. If only I could make this easier for you,” he whispered, giving the boy’s free hand a squeeze.
“Gaius spoke of you,” Gilli rasped into Merlin’s ear, and Merlin’s heart nearly stopped. Gaius, Gaius still lived. “He told me about a young sorcerer who fought in the war at seventeen. His nephew, who had had so much power and yet acted like an idiot half the time.”
Merlin couldn’t help the startled laugh from coming out of him.
“He always said I had a grave mental affliction,” Merlin said, and the tiniest smile ghosted Gilli’s lips.
“Yeah, exactly that.”
“It’s…” Merlin swallowed at the lump forming in his throat. “It’s good to hear that he’s alive.”
“There’s a refuge-” Gilli had to stop as he coughed up blood.
“Shh, don’t talk,” Merlin hushed him.
“Refuge,” the boy continued on anyway. “From the war. Four hundred…four hundred Carmarthians…hiding.” Gilli coughed again, choking on the blood that came trickling out of his mouth and down his face. “Go home…ask the griffin.”
“Easy, easy. It’s okay, Gilli. It’s okay.” Merlin gripped the boy’s hand tighter. He could see Gilli’s eyes glaze over.
“The griffin…will show you…will take you home. Just ask…”
The boy fell silent, eyes falling shut and hand going limp in Merlin’s.
Merlin threw himself into his work after that. Having finished all the required list-making, Farran the chamberlain had him join the other house slaves in the task of cleaning up the castle as well as its occupants. Gifts wishing the prince well and celebrating his coming-of-age were flooding in from all across the kingdom and needed to be stowed for the prince’s perusal. Every waking moment, he was on his feet, clearing rooms, moving furniture, putting up tapestries, washing bedding, mending clothes-anything that was needed to be done. Every night, he’d fall to the floor and sleep like the dead until morning came and work started once again.
But even so, he couldn’t forget what Gilli had told him. Four hundred. Four hundred Carmarthians still gathered together. Merlin had thought all the survivors of the Fall would have scattered, integrating themselves into the rest of Albion to avoid slavery or death. That there was an actual refuge hidden away somewhere had been too much to hope for. Ask the griffin, the boy had said. But griffins were impossible to find; he couldn’t have meant an actual griffin. It would sooner kill you than let you speak. Then what could it mean?
Merlin shook himself, trying to push the thoughts away. Gilli’s short presence in Merlin’s life had opened his mind, prying out all the memories and emotions Merlin had locked away, hoping never to access them again. They were no use to him here. He couldn’t simply take off in search of a griffin, and even if he miraculously escaped from bondage, he could not dare show his face to his people. Besides, the dragon brand on his cheek marked him forever as property of the Pendragons; there was no escape for him, only servitude.
A few days later, he was summoned by the prince to read a message from Sir Tristan. It was short, only a few lines that seemed to radiate the old knights’ displeasure.
Arthur,
Lady Guinevere will be well protected on her journey to Astolat, as you’ve asked. I will not be travelling with her or the King and Queen, but I will be in time for the start of celebrations.
Tristan
The prince simply shook his head at the letter before dismissing Merlin, not requiring an answering message. It would be a few more days before Merlin saw the prince again.
A week after Gilli’s death and three weeks until the prince’s coming-of-age, the prince was to select the entertainment to be had at the welcome feast and the night of the coming-of-age ceremony. And as it was for an official occasion, Merlin was required to be there to keep records. So for the ensuing week, Merlin’s days fell into a similar pattern as during the petitions. He reported to the throne room in the mornings, where he would sit behind the writing desk until noon, writing down all of Arthur’s selections. The people hoping to entertain in the castle for the coming-of-age seemed to never end. Musicians and dancers, bards and tricksters, self-named entertainers from everywhere across the kingdom came, all auditioning to be a part of the crowning of Camelot’s sole prince.
Although Merlin had been interested in hearing the songs and tales and jokes the auditioners had to offer, the novelty of it wore out before the first day was even out. Everything started to sound the same and Merlin found himself half-tuning everything out.
Arthur, it seemed, was not much better off. After the first few auditioners, the prince would stop an auditioner only minutes after they began, occasionally throwing an insult before dismissing them with an impatient wave of his hand and calling for the next person to come forward.
On the first day, only one person gained the prince’s approval, a lute player with a level of skill Merlin has seldom encountered and whose performance left Arthur with a pleased smile. The second day was more fruitful: a bard whose words drew his listeners in like children to sweets, a group of acrobatic dancers with a dash of comedy that earned a nod of approval and a smile, a pair of jesters who left many in the room in stitches, and a harp player whose melodies removed all the tension from her listeners and left them relaxed and euphoric. Needless to say, the prince was in a good mood that day.
However, the third day was full of dull performances and blunders. With every failed audition, the prince’s mood grew darker and his temper soured. All the courtiers looked upon the prince with visible unease, and Merlin wished that the day would quickly be over.
The last auditioner of the day was a man playing the vielle. When he began playing, he sounded fairly decent, better than some of the other auditioners before him. Until he started playing a section of his song that left Merlin cringing and looking at the prince for his inevitable disapproval.
“Enough!” Arthur shouted. He shot to his feet, looking ready to charge at the man. “I’ll hear no more of your screeching. Leave before I put you in the stocks for wasting my time.”
He watched with a glower as the poor man left the hall with a bowed head and the few courtiers still in attendance left as well. But Merlin wasn’t quick enough to hide his disapproval when Arthur turned to leave, and the prince caught his expression before he could duck his head down.
“What? Have you got something to say to me, Merlin?” he snapped.
“No, sire,” Merlin replied, fixing his eyes on the parchment before him.
“Don’t lie to me. It’s obvious you’ve got something on your mind. You always seem to have something to say. Whether you’re feeling insolent enough to say it is a different matter.”
“You are mistaken, sire. There is nothing I have to say,” Merlin said. He wished the prince would just drop the whole issue, but considering how stubborn Arthur was, he probably wouldn’t.
“Merlin, I am giving you an order to speak your mind. Don’t you dare lie to me. Speak the truth. Or else.”
Merlin stared down at where his ink-stained hands rested on his lap and clenched them into fists. He could feel Arthur’s gaze on him. Everything seemed to press down on him-his powerlessness, the branding of his face, the frustrating contradictions the prince was made of, Morgause’s suspicious presence, Gilli’s death-and now this order, this challenge, to speak openly was pushing him over the edge.
He sucked in a deep breath before saying, “All these people you reject so hastily, they’ve travelled from all across the kingdom to come here. And why is that, sire?” Merlin paused to look the prince in the eye before continuing. “Because they wish to serve you. Yes, I suppose a part of it is selfishness, so that they get a reward and recognition for performing at your coming-of-age. But more importantly, they wish to please you, to pay their respects to you, the crown prince and future king of Camelot. And yet, here you are, throwing them out without so much as a kind word. Even if you aren’t willing to spare them a coin for their efforts, the very least you can do is say thanks and wish them a safe journey home. Is that too much to ask for?”
Merlin let out a long shuttering breath, trying to calm the anger threatening to make him lose control.
“Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?”
“No, sire. You asked for me to be frank, so I spoke my mind. If you did not wish to hear it after all, then I apologize for my impertinence,” Merlin gritted out, sliding off his stool and bowing deeply to the prince.
Arthur looked as if he was going to hit Merlin, already standing from his throne and fists balled tightly at his side. But in the end, the prince did not lift a hand.
“Get out. I’ll have none of your cheekiness tomorrow, or I’ll do more than just have you flogged.”
Merlin cursed himself for losing control, for letting Arthur’s words goad him. If he wished to live, he needed to keep his head down and his mouth shut. That resolve didn’t seem to work so well around the prince, and he couldn’t even begin to understand why. He was grateful, however, that while the prince was quick to temper and slow to forgive and forget, he displayed an awareness of what kinds of punishment were appropriate for what offenses. This explained why Sir Caradoc had been flogged while Lord Rylan was essentially dead to society. And this was probably why Arthur did not follow through his threats at Merlin’s slips of the tongue. Merlin couldn’t rely on that judgment forever though. If Merlin kept slipping up and saying too much, one of these days the prince would surely snap and Merlin would be in a far worse position than he was in now.
The next day of auditions found the prince in a foul mood. Arthur spent much of the time with displeasure almost visibly rolling off his person. But he did not interrupt any performances or, strangely enough, say a harsh word to the auditioners. If they failed, they were merely dismissed with a shake of the head and a wave.
It was fortunate that the day was a significant improvement from before. Three more people made their way onto the list of approved entertainers: a songstress with a voice like honeyed wine, a flute player that could turn the fiercest lions into the sweetest kittens, and a man who probably knew more tales than all the people in the room did combined.
At the end of the day’s auditions, Merlin waited for the prince to depart for training, as he usually did before returning to whatever duties the chamberlain
“There, Merlin, does my behavior today meet your approval?” the prince demanded, standing with hands at his hips.
“You are the prince, sire. You can behave as you wish. My approval means nothing,” Merlin answered, bowing his head and keeping his eyes to the ground.
The prince laughed, sharp and derisive, and said, “So you choose again to watch your tongue? You’re like an open book, Merlin. I’ve seen how you are when you speak your mind, and it’s much better than watching you lie.”
Merlin looked up at the prince looming over him and froze. A wave of…something-a feeling, a sense of almost-nostalgia- swept through him. His vision seemed to shift, and everything seemed to take on a slightly golden edge. The man before was still Arthur, but he was older and there was a crown on his head. While there was still that proud gleam in his eyes, it was tempered with warmth and wisdom. The little magic inside of Merlin was pulling at him, drawing him towards Arthur and filling him with a deep certainty.
The Once and Future King.
The vision left him then. With a gasp, Merlin reeled back, almost toppling off his stool before he grabbed hold of the writing table. He groaned, rubbing his eyes as his head spun.
No, no, no, it couldn’t be right.
Arthur Pendragon, prince to the very kingdom that destroyed Carmarthen and enslaved and killed so many sorcerers, simply could not be the Once and Future King.
But his magic, the tiny amount left to him, had reacted. While Merlin had never been much of a seer, what he’d seen just now hadn’t been a silly daydream. It had been an actual vision.
Merlin looked up and found the prince staring at him with not anger but bemusement. And he had to shake his head to rid the image that popped up, a residual memory of his vision.
“What’s the matter with you now?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing, sire,” Merlin replied a little too quickly to be prudent, and the prince glared at him.
“There you go again. Lying. I would cut your tongue if I didn’t know it wouldn’t change a thing.”
Before Arthur could say more, Sir Leon entered the hall and walked straight up to the prince.
“Sire, we’ve received reports that Kanen and his men are attacking the western-lying villages,” the knight said.
“Kanen again,” the prince muttered, glowering at the floor as if in thought. Then he looked back up at Sir Leon and said, “It’s too late to set out after them today. Go select a few of the knights and get yourselves ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Will you be leading?” Sir Leon inquired.
“Yes, I want to deal with Kanen myself,” Arthur said, and Merlin couldn’t help the shiver up his spine at the prince’s sharp-edged tone.
Sir Leon left with a bow, and almost seconds later, Morgause swept into the hall, dressed surprisingly in armour.
“Prince Arthur,” the priestess greeted him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She paid no attention to Merlin, who warily watched her in case she chose to enchant Arthur again.
Sure enough, after Arthur had greeted her and commented on her return from Stafford, she pulled out a finely carved, rectangular box the length of her forearm. The instant, she opened the lid, Merlin felt his attention being dragged towards the box’s contents, just like it had with the Eye of the Phoenix. Nestled in cushion was a long dagger with a simple but elegant sheath. Arthur, Merlin could tell, was also drawn the knife, though he could not tell if it was because of an enchantment or the obvious quality of the knife even when sheathed.
“I come bearing you a gift, Prince Arthur Pendragon, for the hospitality you have shown,” Morgause said, offering forth the box.
Merlin glared at Arthur, trying to will the prince to remember his warning, to at least look at Merlin and then maybe remember the last time he’d accepted something from Morgause.
Arthur didn’t. With a look of delight, Arthur lifted the dagger from its cushion and unsheathed it. Morgause took a step back, staring at Arthur, but the prince was oblivious, his eyes trained on the finely cast blade. Her mouth started moving, and Merlin knew right away that she was whispering an enchantment.
Without a second thought, Merlin jumped to his feet and “accidentally” knocked into the writing table. The ink bottle flew off the table and shattered on the floor, splattering ink at Morgause’s feet and startling her out of her concentration and Arthur from his study of the knife. Both of their attentions snapped to Merlin, although, Morgause looked furious while Arthur wore that same unreadable expression he sometimes got. Merlin scrambled forward, and bowed deeply.
“Forgive me, sire, milady, for my clumsiness,” he begged.
“You impudent buffoon, how dare you!” Morgause hissed. “Prince Arthur, I will not stand for this insult. I demand for this slave to be punished.”
Arthur glared at Merlin, and he couldn’t tell if the prince recognized his “clumsiness” for what it was or if he was simply irritated by it.
“Of course, milady,” the prince said, though his eyes were still on Merlin. “He is to be flogged, twenty-five lashes.”
The blood rushed from Merlin’s face, and he was sure he was as pale as a sheet. Even in his first years of slavery, he’d never received so many lashes at once. The prince hadn’t remembered his caution, or hadn’t taken it to heart, and now he was once again going to pay for saving Arthur’s life.
“Guard, come escort this slave back to Tom,” Arthur called before facing Morgause. “Now, you will have to excuse me, Lady Morgause, but I am late for training and must take my leave. Welcome back to Astolat.”
The prince headed for the doors without another look at Merlin. A guard stepped forward and hauled Merlin to his feet. But as he turned on shaking legs to leave with the guard through the servant’s entrance, a glint of metal on the floor caught his eyes. It was Morgause’s dagger, lying in the pool of ink he’d spilt. He left the throne room utterly confused.
Tom just sighed and shook his head disapprovingly when Merlin showed up in front of the slave house. Merlin was once again put in that small back room with his wrists manacled above his head. He was waiting with tense shoulders and frayed nerves for Tom to return with the whip when a vaguely familiar-looking, middle-aged man entered to room. He was dressed simply in long dark robes with a leather satchel slung across his chest and resting against his hip. In his hands was a small glass bottle, which he offered forth to Merlin.
“I am Marius, the physician. The prince asked me to give you this,” the man said.
“It’s not poison, is it?” Merlin asked, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.
The physician quirked his lips in a small smile and replied, “No. It’ll help. And you are to be looked after afterwards. But if you rather not take it…”
“No! No, I’ll take it then,” Merlin said, his mood brightening a bit.
His confusion was now answered. The flogging wasn’t because the prince was an ass who’d chosen to forget his warning; it was for the prince to save face, to keep Morgause from suspecting he knew of her treachery. Not that it made much of a difference, since, unfortunately, Merlin was the one to bear the brunt of it all-again. And if the potion would help, then he’d take it.
The physician uncorked the bottle and held it to Merlin’s lips. Merlin grimaced at the sharp and bitter taste of the liquid inside, but swallowed it down. The effects were almost immediate, a heavy exhaustion falling over him and his limbs growing heavy.
“Thank you,” he murmured before closing his eyes. Consciousness left him in an instant.
When Merlin woke up early the next day, he was feeling better than could possibly be expected after receiving twenty-five lashes. Again, it seemed that Tom had made stripes that looked worse than they actually were, and Merlin faintly wondered if Arthur had asked for him to do so. Merlin discovered that in addition to giving him the potion, Marius had left Tom the same healing salve as before to use on his back. The salve worked wonders, numbing and cooling the dull pain in his back; he had almost no trouble at all walking or kneeling, though a little when bending over.
The prince summoned him to his chambers that morning, when the sun was just peeking up from the horizon. Merlin stepped inside the antechamber to spot a pair of servants flit about, packing a travel bag for the prince and straightening items around the room. Arthur stood near his table, in discussion with Farren the chamberlain. However, he looked up when Merlin entered and broke from conversation.
“Merlin, already up and walking?” the prince remarked. Though Merlin couldn’t be sure, he chose to take that as a thinly veiled inquiry to his well-being after the flogging and all.
“Yes, sire,” he replied with a bow. When he straightened, he eyed the knife hanging from Arthur’s belt. Although he was risking it, speaking freely to the prince with the chamberlain present, he had to ask: “And you, sire. Are you well?”
Catching his gaze on the knife, the prince nodded and said, “I’ve never been better.” For a second, he partially unsheathed the knife at his belt-Merlin recognized it as Arthur’s own-before he began to address both Merlin and Farran. “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few days. Merlin will be in charge of all my correspondences. If he judges that it is important enough, he can have a messenger sent to me.”
Merlin and the chamberlain looked at the prince with similar open-mouthed expressions of disbelief.
“Wait, what?” Merlin blurted out.
“Sire, you can’t be serious?” the chamberlain exclaimed at the same time. “We have a number of royal scribes here who’d be more worthy for this job. To give this slave such a privilege, it’s not right!”
“I am the prince. If I wanted Merlin to be a steward, I could make him a steward.” Farran let out a scandalized choking noise but Arthur continued on, “If I want him in charge of my correspondences, I can make him in charge.”
“But sire!”
“Are you questioning me?” Arthur hissed. This seemed to be the key phrase for Arthur to get people to do things, because immediately, the chamberlain began to bow frantically, murmuring his apologies.
“Good. That’ll be all. Both of you may leave.”
The prince and his knights returned four days later. Merlin spent those days without the prince working alongside the other house slaves and pointedly not thinking about the maybe-vision he’d had of Arthur as king. And when the prince returned, Merlin was surprised that while the prince had left eagerly looking forward to dealing with the bandits, he returned in a foul mood, glowering at all who spoke to him and brooding at the world in general. He did little more than grunt when Merlin informed him that no letters had come for him.
Merlin and Sir Leon, who had been receiving orders on the knights’ next course of action, were both dismissed from Arthur’s chambers when he expressed the desire to bathe. Merlin looked at the knight out of the corner of his eye. From what he’d heard from the servants, Sir Leon was a gentleman knight, calmer and more patient than the prince, an excellent leader but never unnecessarily harsh or cruel. It was even said that the knight had several friends among the common folk. Merlin decided to risk questioning the knight.
“Sir…” he tentatively began, and the tall knight turned his head to look at Merlin. He didn’t look angry at being addressed by a slave; instead, he looked reserved and even a little curious actually. They slowed to a stop to properly face each other. “If I may ask, why is the prince in such a-well, he’d looked excited when he left here a few days ago. But now…”
Sir Leon sighed and nodded wearily, understanding what Merlin was trying to say. “A peasant gave his life to protect the prince. He pushed the prince out of the way and took an arrow meant for him,” the knight said. “Kanen and his men were dealt with but the prince has been upset since.”
“But he is the future king. Whether he likes it or not, there will always be people dying for him,” Merlin remarked with a frown. Shouldn’t the prince already know that by now? And he certainly hadn’t expected the prince to care that much. Sir Leon looked at him with an expression that Merlin just knew had to say Oh, he’s not an idiot after all.
“I don’t believe he has actually given it serious thought until now,” the knight said after a moment of silence. “The prince probably didn’t think of the implications. What I don’t understand is why that has changed.” He then eyed Merlin suspiciously, as if Merlin had had something to do with it, which he couldn’t possibly have had.
Merlin shrugged, having nothing to say. The two of them started walking again, soon separating to go their own ways.
The prince was still in a bad mood the next day, when Merlin was once again called to the throne room to work as a scribe. It was a bit fascinating that Arthur could sit up straight but still look as if he was sulking.
As per the king’s suggestion, the prince was to select tricksters to the list of entertainers for Arthur’s coming of age celebrations. “Trickster” was the court’s more common term for a magician, who only had enough power to do small illusions and tricks. Magicians weren’t as looked down upon as full-fledged sorcerers, if only because their tricks were superfluous and could almost be explained away as mind tricks and sleight of hands. Merlin wasn’t sure how he felt about having to watch them. He’d seen a few tricksters before in his years of bondage, but never so many at once. He couldn’t help the twinge of envy whenever he saw them perform. Though they could only do rudimentary spells, creating light shows and butterflies from air, they were still doing magic, something Merlin could no longer hope to do.
The prince, Merlin discovered, held little respect for tricksters. He too seemed to find little interest in silly little tricks-especially when every magician who’d come to audition performed virtually the same spells. Arthur rejected one trickster after the other. By the end of the day, not one had been accepted.
Merlin was packing up to leave when the prince turned to him instead of leaving and said, “Tell me, Merlin, is it that hard for sorcerers to come up with something original and not utterly boring?”
Merlin frowned at the insult, but replied, “Tricksters-magicians-are sorcerers with little power, sire. There isn’t much they can do.”
“And an actual sorcerer would be better?”
“…an actual sorcerer, sire, would not lower themselves to perform cheap parlor tricks. For anyone.” And that was not what he’d meant to say. Merlin sat very still on his stool, waiting for the prince’s reaction.
Arthur glared at him and snapped, “Well it’s a good thing you aren’t one now then.”
The barb hurt more that he’d care to admit. If the prince noticed Merlin’s expression, he didn’t say, instead turning on his heels and sweeping out the room.
Now alone in the audience hall but for two guards at the door, Merlin took the opportunity to curse at fate and arrogant royal prats under his breath. Arthur couldn’t possibly be the Once and Future King, maybe-visions be damned.
The next day, the prince’s black mood had passed, and instead he was strangely quiet and thoughtful. He didn’t acknowledge Merlin or show any indications that Merlin’s last slip of tongue bothered him. Arthur sat in his throne with his elbow on the armrest and his head propped up by a fist, and indicated with his free hand for the first magician auditioning for the day to begin. This however did not change his reception of the tricksters auditioning as every person to step forward was rejected within the first few minutes.
Halfway through the allotted audition time for the day, it seemed the prince had had enough.
“If one more magician decides that colorful lights or winged creatures conjured from thin air are going to impress, then I’m going to end auditions right here and now. Is that understood?”
The remaining ten or so magicians in the room looked at the prince with nearly identical aghast expressions, which was a bit ridiculous because Merlin was sure there was at least a few magicians who could come up with something.
Before anything could be said though, a squire scurried into the room and up to the prince.
“Sire, Lady Guinevere Leodegrance of Cameliard has arrived. She is on her way here,” the boy informed the prince. Arthur grimaced, but gave the boy a nod. The squire left and the prince turned back to the magicians.
“You lot, due to Lady Guinevere’s arrival, I’m afraid I have to cut the auditions short for today,” Arthur said, looking completely unrepentant. “Come back tomorrow, but my declaration still stands. Is that clear?”
The magicians collectively nodded and exited the hall. Merlin hopped off his stool, making to clear the writing tools from the table. He was not quick enough however to leave before the lady arrived.
Lady Guinevere was the perfect picture of a lady. She had slightly dark skin, warm brown eyes and long curly black hair that was swept back from her face and up into a elegant hairstyle. Her purple gown, though fine, was practical, made for riding and travel. She was not a tall woman, but her back was straight and her footsteps were sure. There was a quiet strength to her, and Merlin could even imagine her with a crown on her head. Thus, he was now curious as to why the prince did not wish to be her fiancé.
Arthur got to his feet and said rather stiffly, “Lady Guineviere, welcome back to Astolat. I trust your journey was uneventful.”
“Thank you, sire. Yes, thanks to Sir Tristan, my journey from Cameliard was perfectly fine,” the lady said with a graceful curtsy. Arthur visibly brightened at the mention of his uncle.
“Did Sir Tristan mention when he’ll be arriving?” the prince asked, but Lady Guinevere shook her head.
“He didn’t say. He left for Camelot shortly after I left Cameliard. Perhaps the King will have some news?”
The prince shrugged, a gesture that almost hid his disappointment, before saying, “Well. I’m glad that your journey was safe.”
Merlin decided that for whatever reason Arthur was opposed to marrying Lady Guinevere, it left him awkward and made him fall back to his more princely mannerisms. Merlin also figured he should probably take the chance to slip out before Arthur yelled at him for eavesdropping.
But the moment he made to leave was the moment the lady noticed him.
“And who is this, Arthur? A new scribe?” she asked. Merlin found both of their attentions on him in an instant.
“Yes, he’s my new writing slave. He has work to do so he should be leaving now,” the prince said, giving Merlin a pointed look.
Merlin bowed and turned to leave, but Guinevere stepped forward.
“Wait just a moment,” she said, walking over to Merlin. Merlin bowed his head to the lady, but then she put a hand under his chin and tilted his head back up. As she stared at him, he knew right away that she was looking at the brand on his cheek. Her eyes hardened and her lips thinned into an angry line. She dropped her hand and quickly turned back to the prince, who was looking at her with surprisingly wary expression. “You branded his face,” she bit out, her voice heavy with censure. “It is one thing to have a slave, and I can accept that, though I don’t approve. But to brand his face? I expected better from you, Arthur.”
“It wasn’t me,” Arthur replied, looking rather uncomfortable under her judging eyes. “Sir Caradoc was trying to make a statement. I’ll have you know that he’s been punished for his mistake.” The prince visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping just a fraction, as the cold judgment left Guinevere’s face. And that must have been it, Merlin realized. The Lady Guinevere’s shrewd opinions of the prince left him uncomfortable, because it seemed she believed Arthur should be a better person while he acted for the most part like a spoiled, arrogant prat. “Anyways, get going, Merlin. You’ve got work to do.”
Merlin bowed once again and left before the lady could possibly detain him again. He carefully hid his smile as he made his way to the records room. He hoped that he’d get another chance to see the prince squirm under Lady Guinevere’s judgment.
On to Part Four | Masterpost