Merlin Fanfiction: Love As Thou Wilt | Part 3a
Part 3
Merlin blinks at Alice’s words. She ignores his confusion, tugging at his arm and leading him out of the house and into a waiting carriage. He’d only just gotten back that morning, feeling sore and empty, and his magic for once quiet.
She takes him to a small village outside of the city that is known for its hot springs. He flushes bright red when she motions for him to start taking his clothing off, but she just ignores him, slipping out of her dress and wrapping a large towel around her torso and walking through the doors of the changing rooms to the communal spring.
She is already submerged in the heated water when Merlin finally emerges later, towel wrapped low around his waist. Slipping in quickly, he can’t help the groan that escapes when the hot water makes contact with abused muscles.
“There is no need to be shy, Merlin. I have seen more than enough male bodies, yours is nothing new,” Alice says with a chuckle. They are quiet for a while, listening to the forest around them, only a wall of woven reeds keeping their bathing private.
“They say that the waters have a restorative property, especially for us magic users,” she says, gliding through the water until she is next to him. She lifts his chin, examining the bruise forming there from D’Cote’s strike. “We always were better healers then those without magic. It should heal quickly with how much magic you have. I hear D’Cote makes love like he hunts, is it true?”
Merlin chokes on a laugh, remembering the way the man had wielded his cock like a spear to take down game. “It is,” he admits, slipping further under the water until it was up to his chin. The heat felt good against his sore entrance and soothed away some of the ache. “He certainly has stamina.”
“Was there anything that you felt unprepared for?” she asks, concerned.
Merlin shakes his head. “My lord D’Cote was more interested in giving than receiving.”
“Others will. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask me.” She gives him a small smile. “Do you think he will ask for you again?”
Remembering his rage fueled questions and actions, Merlin nods. “He will think it is to best Kilgharrah, but will not realize that the hook is already set and that Kilgharrah is just waiting to reel him in,” Merlin says, running fingers through his hair, turning his locks into short spikes.
“Be careful, my dear. If he finds you out, he will lash out and that will make him more dangerous than he was before.” Her face grows grave, her eyes sad. “I do not know what Kilgharrah plans, but I hope his plans do not put you in any more danger.”
“Kilgharrah knows what he does and has prepared us for this,” Merlin says, pushing off from the rocky shelf he is sitting on and swims out a few feet.
“I hope you are right, dear. Come let us get out. They should be serving the noon meal and we should have time for one more soak before we leave.” They clamber out of the hot spring, sliding into simple cotton robes.
Merlin is dropped off before sunset, refreshed and feeling much improved. He gives his report to Kilgharrah and his master praises him for playing D’Cote so. “Tell him nothing and he will eventually let something slip in hopes that you will as well. Here,” he set a small purse on the table, the coins inside clinking together. “A patron gift towards your Mearcung, sent by courier this afternoon while you were away. Most likely, he wants it to be a reminder to me of his conquest of you that will be permanently etched into your skin. Do you wish to accept?”
“He was my first, he should be allowed some room for boasting,” Merlin jokes with a small smirk.
“I will make an appointment then,” Kilgharrah says, dismissing Merlin from his study.
~*~
A week later, Merlin’s first appointment with the tattooist arrives. He goes to the same man as Freya, a master artist of his trade. Master Morholt Saracen is an old man who has been plying his trade for three decades. Kilgharrah had paid dearly for his bond-price and only the best would do.
Merlin spends the first hour, lying on his stomach naked on a table being measured. He holds still as Master Saracen walks around him, tape and calipers in hand, muttering measurements that his apprentice takes down. As Merlin dresses, Master Saracen transfers his measurements to paper.
He sends the boy for Kilgharrah. As they wait, Master Saracen pulls out a scroll, pinning it to the wall. Merlin knows Freya’s Mearcung from seeing the base but had not known what it would turn into. The image he sees is one of pure artistic genius. A leaping feline creature seems to spring from the base, the tail curling where her spin ends. Its wings spread out, surrounding its body as it stares out with shining yellow-green eyes. It is made of thick and thin black lines, hints of color standing out.
Kilgharrah arrives and the two spend the next hour hunched over Merlin’s own scroll, discussing designs and images. Sketch after sketch is made, refined and discarded until at last, both are satisfied with the end result. Master Saracen painstakingly transfers the finished image to the scroll.
Finally, he finishes and Kilgharrah holds it up for Merlin to see. It is a dragon, long and sinuous, with golden eyes. It is wrapped around a sword that is partially obscured by the beast’s wings and limbs. Merlin can make out Drycræft symbols written on the blade of the sword: Take me up. Cast me away. It seems fitting, for what he does. Shots of deep, dark blue and bright gold and red highlight the dragon in places, contrasting against the stark, thick black lines.
“It is beautiful,” Merlin whispers, staring at the drawing, awed.
“I thought so to. I will wait in the wine shop. Send your boy when you are done with him,” Kilgharrah says and leaves.
Merlin disrobes again and lies down. He tries not to twitch too much as the outline is sketched onto his back with a quill. Master Saracen constantly rechecks his measurements until at last, he is satisfied. It seems to take forever before he is done, but Merlin waits patiently. Master Saracen’s apprentice spends this time gathering the master’s tools and supplies, mixing the ink and readying the brazier to warm the shop up.
At last, it is time to start and Merlin waits for the first strike of the needles. There’s a tap and then a point of pain and Merlin gasps as his magic reacts, rising to the surface of his skin. “Damn warlock,” Master Saracen mutters, smacking his arse to get him to stay still. “My grandfather was right, he said they are worse than the criers and bleeders and now I know why.” Flushing, Merlin held completely still as the mallet tapped and tapped and tapped at his skin, creating the base of his Mearcung.
~*~
After his first assignation, the offers for Merlin start to pour in. It is now that Merlin sees Kilgharrah’s plans. Freya’s patrons are from a broader range, meant to draw people in so that he could select those he wanted.
But Merlin’s patrons are a different area. His is a select group that Kilgharrah knows well. His patrons are the power hungry ones, who thrive over having power at their fingertips, who take pleasure in lording over someone who is stronger than them. Merlin is the bait for Kilgharrah’s more elusive prey.
Although, not all his patrons are like D’Cote’s brute display of power. His second patron is George Glasson, Treasury Chancellor. A small man, his demeanor submissive, he seemed to just fade into the background. He just lies on the bed and tells Merlin to please him.
Eager to prove his skill, Merlin falls to the task willingly, using all the tricks he has learned. When nothing seems to stir the man, Merlin grows desperate, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes from frustration. Taking Glasson into his mouth, he sucks and laps, but the most he gets is a half-hearted stirring.
His eyes burn with shame at not being able to do as he is bid. “You’re not very good, are you?” Glasson asks, sitting up. “Fine, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“My lord, I’m sorry…” Merlin starts to say. Glasson just presses Merlin down onto his back and rummages through a drawer in his side table. He pulls out silken cords, looping them around his wrists and ankles to the bed posts. Merlin notices then that Glasson is erect, the head of his cock already engorged enough to leak precome down the thick sides.
“Do you wish to give the signal?” he asks Merlin, pulling out a small chest to set it on the bed. Merlin can just make out an array of items inside the look like they are made from wood and stone. Merlin shakes his head no, breathing already shallow, his magic stirring under his skin.
As with his first assignation, Merlin has his interview with Kilgharrah, spilling all he can give. Though neither is sure what is important and what is not, they assume Kilgharrah knows what to do with the information that steadily trickles into the kingdom.
During this time, Uther suffers a minor seizure, leaving his right hand shaking constantly. Morgana still remains unwed and suitors constantly circle her and the throne, hungering for the power that comes with her hand in marriage.
The most ambitious of these is Morgana’s own half-sister, Morgause. She is often called the Escetian Viper, and with good cause, for her sword could strike as fast a snake. Merlin learns of her ambition through one of his patrons.
~*~
The Marquise Sharia Gairn contracts him for two days in her country estate. She spends her time putting him to demeaning chores that are impossible to accomplish without magic and she forbids him from using his magic, and then chastises him later for his incompetence. It is an easy script to remember, though he doesn’t have to like it completely.
It is during one of these chores that he hears of Morgause’s plans. Gairn returns before he is finished with his assignment, decked out in riding attire, boots covered in dust and riding crop in hand. “You incompetent fool!” she yells aloud, bringing the crop onto his right shoulder in a stinging smack that forces a cry out of his throat. “You were supposed to be done by my return. This is not done.” She smacks him again, harder, on the other shoulder.
“You ask too much,” Merlin hisses out.
Her eyes grow hard, seeming to turn into blue gemstones as she stares down at him. “I only ask that I be served well,” she hisses out, using the crop to push his chin up, digging it into the flesh there. “I will not stand for incompetence. Take your clothing off.”
This is not Merlin’s first time with her and he knows what he must do. Stripping off his clothing, he turns around, hands resting on his knees, back exposed to Gairn. The blows rain down quickly, the slap of the crop loud in the quiet room. She does not hit him hard enough to leave a mark, but he will be feeling the wells for the rest of the day.
She finally stops and he can breathe again. She beckons him over to where she is leaned against the arm of the couch. With shaking hands, he unbuttons her ridding pants, her small hands carding through his hair as he presses his mouth against the heated folds of her sex.
Of course, her steward comes in at this moment, averting his eyes, saying that Morgause has sent a messenger for the Marquise. “That damn harpy, what does she want now?” she swears, pushing Merlin away and doing up her clothing. “Send him in.” She turns back to Merlin. “I am not done with you. Get dressed and wait here quietly.”
Merlin does and is kneeling by the time the messenger is shown into the room. Merlin doesn’t look up to take in the man’s features, but he listens to him as he hands Morgause’s message over. Sharia Gairn reads the letter aloud, much to Merlin’s relief.
Rumors abound of one of the kings in the lands to the south of Albion having sent a request for Morgana’s hand to ally the two lands through marriage. Morgause proposes that Gairn string this man along with false promises until he agrees to cede rights to the islands just south of Albion and then later have the messages discovered so that no alliance could be formed.
The Marquise is highly ranked in Uther’s court; she could do this, though she would be putting herself on the line to do this treason. She paces, the crop still in her hand swishing through the air close to Merlin. “And what does Morgause offer?” she asks the messenger.
The man answers, “A title in Escetia, with lands along the coast and two hundred men-at-arms with an income of thirty thousand gold pieces annual.”
The crop twitches and smacks against her boot. “I’ll do it, but I want the title in hand and safe passage before I send out the orders. Tell her that I want an escort by Prince Dillon and his little group. Let us see if she is truly earnest.”
“I will tell her, my lady. Title in hand and Prince Dillon as an escort.” Merlin hears him bow and his steps as he leaves the room, the door closing with a snap.
Merlin can feel her eyes on him as she turns from the door. “It seems I have a reason to celebrate. What do you know, you’re here just for me,” she whispers softly, running the edge of the crop along his neck and Merlin shudders.
~*~
Morgause turns the Marquise’s counteroffer down. It seems even she has a stopping point: her step son. Prince Dillon was not her child to bargain with, though she had acted as his mother since her marriage to Cenred after his first wife’s death from child birth.
Of course, the rumors are entirely false. Morgana has no plans to marry a foreigner’s son and so the islands to the south remain out of Albion’s reach. Kilgharrah still prizes the information, for it reveals Morgause’s true ambition and what she might be trying to stir up.
To the north, the border has become quiet and the forces of Camelot and Escetia are disbanded to the bear minimum. But while the army is happy to return home, Dillon’s Men stay, roaming the border, looking for battles. Uther and Cenred let them, knowing that to try to stop them will just bring more trouble than it’s worth to their capitals. The prince is still seen at court, in both Camelot and Escetia and despite Uriens and Cenred’s attempts to stop it, he is still seen with Nimueh de l’Isle.
There are rumors that both Morgause and Cenred threatened to disown him and it seems even Nimueh has a stopping point, knowing when she can’t best an enemy.
Merlin has only seen Nimueh once since he first took his Rites. At one of Kilgharrah’s gathering, she shines out amongst the rest and Merlin is unable to look away, his magic drawn towards her despite him fighting it. She corners him in a hall on his way back from the kitchen with a cool smirk on her crimson lips.
“Turn,” she says and Merlin can only do what she says, his mind starting to go fuzzy at her close proximity and his magic is sparking under his skin. Her fingers untuck his shirt, pushing it and his tunic up, exposing his back and started Mearcung. He jumps as her fingers skim across the inked lines and gooseflesh breaks out over his skin. His magic is going crazy at her touch.
“Your name is spreading, young warlock,” she says, using Kilgharrah’s name for him mockingly. “Have you used your signal yet?”
“No,” Merlin breathes out, quaking under her touch and voice.
“I thought not,” she says quietly and Merlin can hear her smirk. She gently straightens his clothing, putting him to rights. “Maybe one day, we will see whose magic is stronger.”
Nimueh knows full well what Kilgharrah uses Merlin and Freya for. She knows that Merlin is bait for her, but she will take the bait in her own time. Merlin learned patience from Kilgharrah. He hopes it will serve him well when it comes to Nimueh.
The Pict threat has faded some and where the soldiers of Camelot and Escetia are not, Dillon’s Men patrol, seeking glory where they can. Merlin learns later of what Kilgharrah had asked of his old friend that night at Freya’s debut.
Plaine de Bawes arrives from the northern regions of Albion with news. Only Kilgharrah, Merlin and Freya are there to hear it. The study is dim, only a few candles and the fire in the hearth lighting up the room. Kilgharrah sits to the side, pipe in hand as his friend talks.
“There are rumors, Sel Mon,” Plaine’s says quietly, sipping at his goblet of wine.
Merlin perks up, wondering why Plaine has called Kilgharrah Sel Mon, Great One. He doesn’t dare ask for fear that Kilgharrah will dismiss him and he won’t be allowed to hear Plaine’s news.
“There are always rumors, my friend. Albion would die of boredom if not for rumors,” Kilgharrah rumbles, blowing smoke towards the fire. The light turns it red and makes it look like he is blowing flames. “What rumor is it this time?”
Plaine sits forward, goblet held loosely in his hands. “They say that the Pictish tribes have found a leader. Their own Wigfruma.” The Wigfruma was an ancient king of Hibernia who had united the four houses of Hibernia in time to defend against an invasion from the lands to the south.
Kilgharrah laughs aloud at Plaine’s words. “Surely you jest? As if those squabbling tribes could ever unite. In fact, our border has never been so quiet.”
“My point exactly,” Plaine’s says and nods in thanks as Freya refills his goblet. “They have found someone who can think.”
Kilgharrah ponders his words. Although confined to the northern most portion of Albion and its mountains, the Pictish tribes are numerous in numbers, more numerous than the Hibernian tribes who are isolated to Albion’s west, confined by the Fisher King, not a threat to Albion. A united Pictish force is something else though.
“What are you saying?” Kilgharrah asks after a moment of silence.
“Not much, yet. The few Pict who venture from the mountains as mercenaries started the rumor, whispering it around the camp fires at night. And they change regularly, though most wouldn’t notice, replacing their numbers. I spoke with a merchant from the north and he confirmed that those he hired have changed multiple times now, never the same ones. They are growing cunning.”
“He believes they might be gathering information?” Kilgharrah asks, emptying his pipe and setting it to the side. “What for?”
“I don’t know, but they whisper a name: Selises Arrœk, the Cunning One. Last summer, there were no Pict to be seen along the border or among the caravans and it is rumored that Arrœk summoned a high council of the tribes. I also have word that one of Cenred’s men bore a message to him and it asked for his daughter, Dalia de la Escetia’ hand in marriage. It was signed King Selises Arrœk.” Plaine’s set his goblet down, empty. “These are only rumors, but it was said that Cenred laughed and tossed the message into the fire and sent the messenger back to deliver his message. The man was never seen again, as rumor would have it. I tell you, the borders are too quiet for this to be good.”
Kilgharrah let out a long sigh, “And meanwhile, the prince of Escetia and his men ride the border, seeking glory. You are right, this is worse than I first gave you credit for. If you can, keep an eye on the border and if you hear anything else, send word.”
Kilgharrah seems to finally realize that the two of them are in the room. “Merlin, Freya, off to bed with you. Plaine and I have much to discuss and none of it is for your ears.” Grumbling quietly, Merlin stood with Freya, bidding the two men good night.
~*~
Although Plaine’s news is unsettling, it is news from a different direction that has people stirring in interest. Word arrives of the death of the Frumgar of Hibernia, slain by his own son who sought to overturn the ancient matriarchal ways of succession and take kingship for himself.
The Frumgar’s true heir, his crippled nephew, is said to have fled with his mother and sisters and taken refuge among Wigend whose lord and lady gave them asylum on their western coastal lands.
Although few had cared about the Hibernian regency before, because of the Frumgar’s recent visit to Albion, this event draws people’s interest. In a joint effort between Camelot and Acestir, Petit Fils is ordered to sail his fleet along the coast, scouting the Hibernian coastline. Although it strengthens ties between Camelot and Acestir, it comes to naught since the Fisher King still controls the waters between the two lands. Petit leaves a small portion of his fleet on Camelot’s closest piece of land to Hibernia. Petit boasts of his cunning at one of Kilgharrah’s gatherings. He’s drunk but Merlin nods indulgingly.
Kilgharrah is summoned twice to the castle and says nothing afterwards.
The northern border remains quiet with no word from Plaine. Dillon’s men continue to roam the border and the prince himself splits his time between the border fighting, the Escetian court and Camelot’s court. Word of Cenred’s ire with Uther reaches the Emrys household. The Escetian king is put out that Uther chose Acestir over his own small fleet. Merlin isn’t sure it is Cenred Uther mistrusts, but his wife Morgause and her ambitions and that he uses the event to undermine her play for power.
Kilgharrah and Uriens have a falling out over this quarrel between the two kingdoms and although Merlin should probably pay more attention to what is going on, he can’t, too caught up in his own world of his youth and his magic. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it is starting to go to his head.
So far, Merlin has declined D’Cote’s offer three times and though Kilgharrah watches worriedly, he allows it, confident in Merlin’s ability to read D’Cote. Finally, he accepts D’Cote’s fourth and final offer. That night, D’Cote’s anger is like a raging storm.
It is also the night he takes the red-hot poker to Merlin’s skin and the night he finally lets slip his patron’s name.
Courtesans are not the only ones with patrons. Nearly everyone has a patron or patronizes someone and it is only the services that differ. Kilgharrah is one of the few people to stand apart from this system. Merlin thinks it is one of the reason D’Cote hates Kilgharrah so much. It is one reason he always presses Merlin so much at each meeting, to find out Kilgharrah’s motives.
Merlin knows that as soon as D’Cote uses the poker, D’Cote knows he’s crossed a line he shouldn’t have. For his part, Merlin can only lie where he is, hands bound over his head, ears ringing horribly, stomach roiling as the smell of burnt flesh registered in his mind. He is only barely holding onto consciousness, his magic raging inside, demanding to be let free, to protect him. Merlin holds it back with all he has.
His stomach knots as D’Cote removes the poker from his outer thigh, the skin tearing sickeningly where it has burnt and stuck to the hot metal. In his pain fogged mind, Merlin hears D’Cote as if from a distance, can feel the man’s hand smacking the side of his face gently. “Merlin, Merlin, wake up child. Damn it all, wake up!”
His rough hands smooth over Merlin’s sweat dampened locks and his voice is brusque but gentle, gentler than he has even spoken to Merlin thus far. “Kay l’Ector will have my head if Kilgharrah makes a charge. Merlin, come child, wake up. Warlock, it is nothing but a burn, tis a small thing…”
Slowly, Merlin opens his eyes, fighting back unconsciousness and nausea until he can see properly, his magic quelling somewhat. D’Cote gives a mighty sigh of relief, swiftly untying Merlin’s hands. Gently lifting him into his arms, D’Cote strides from the room, shouting for his servant to call for his physician.
Kilgharrah is not pleaded when Merlin is returned, but he withholds comments, confining Merlin to his bed and calling upon Gaius, the king’s own physician, to see to Merlin. Gaius tuts at him, but says nothing, laying a soothing poultice across the burn, reducing the swelling and drawing anything from it that might cause an infection. He gently bandages the burn in soft cloth.
“I will return in two days to check on him,” Gaius says to Kilgharrah who has only just stopped pacing the short length of Merlin’s room. Freya is seated in a small chair out of both of their ways, holding onto Merlin’s hand firmly. “Check on it in the morning though, and if you smell the odor of mortification, send for me quickly.”
Kilgharrah nods and thanks him. Gaius turns to look at Merlin, “You are lucky young warlock. Try not to make a habit of this.” He pats Merlin’s uninjured leg on the knee and takes his leave. It’s not until Gaius has been shown out by one of the servants that Kilgharrah rounds on Merlin, eyes fiery in his anger and worry.
“I hope that this was worth it,” he says, tone rough with his emotions.
“You tell me, my lord,” Merlin says, wiggling a little, trying to get the pillows to prop him up better. Kilgharrah sighs and between him and Freya, they have Merlin sitting up properly.
“All right,” Kilgharrah says in an annoyed tone, “there is a small mountain’s worth of apology gifts for you from D’Cote and if he doesn’t stop soon, I expect the royal crown of Uther Pendragon will be next. What is so worth you becoming a braised rack of lamb?”
Merlin smirks, sinking into the cushions. “Breunor D’Cote answers to Kay l’Ector.” Duc l’Ector is Uther de la Pendragon’s cousin through marriage. He also has ties to the Tintagel royal family, being cousin to the Ygraine, Tristan, and Agravaine through blood.
“So D’Cote is the front for l’Ector’s ambitions,” Kilgharrah mused aloud. “I have always wondered what kept l’Ector in Camelot when he had more ties in Tintagel. Did you tell him anything?”
“My lord!” Merlin says aloud, sitting up in indignation that Kilgharrah would think such a thing of him.
“I’m sorry, but I had to be sure,” Kilgharrah says, helping to settle Merlin back against the mound of pillows. “Although this information is invaluable, promise me next time, you will use your signal.”
“I will do what I must to aid you, but I swear I did not know he would use the poker,” Merlin tells him sincerely. “My lord, who was Ygraine de la Pendragon to you, that even now she has such sway over you from the grave?”
“Sometimes young warlock, ignorance is best and in this it truly is. Were D’Cote to suspect that you truly knew something worthwhile about me, he would not be so gentle with you.” With a touch to Merlin’s head, he bid the warlock to sleep and heal.
When Gaius returns two days later, he pronounces Merlin to be healing just fine. He gives the warlock a cream to place on the healing burn that will keep the flesh from scaring to horribly and will aid in the growth of new skin.
Kilgharrah forbids Merlin from seeing any more patrons until he is fully healed, so instead he spends his time with Gwaine. Gwaine has risen in station as much as Merlin has and after a heated and long debate with his mother, he eventually gets her to relent some of her hard earned money and buys the building their small home is in. With the rent coming in from their new tenants and the earnings his mother brings in, they live comfortably now, allowing his mother to take in fewer loads of laundry.
This is a good thing, for Gwaine’s mother is not a young woman anymore, her frame thinning and height shrinking, though she still has the muscle from her youth. She smiles softly at Merlin when he arrives, relaxing on one of her not-so-rare-anymore days off. He and Gwaine are soon off, ensconcing themselves at their usual table in the pub.
“So D’Cote is in L’Ector’s pocket,” Gwaine says with a low whistle as Merlin tells him news. “That is something. What does Kilgharrah make of it?”
“Nothing,” Merlin says waspishly. “He gets close-lipped and sprouts off things about ignorance being the smart path. Yet I think he tells Freya things he wouldn’t tell me because she known him longer.” Merlin took a large gulp of his ale, brows furrowed in annoyance.
Gwaine just grins and tosses a coin into the air and catches it, plays it over his knuckles and has it disappear. A trick he’d learned from one of their tenants in return for rent. “You’re jealous.”
“No!” Merlin says hotly and then stops and sighs. “Yes…”
“Has he bedded her yet?” Gwaine asks Merlin.
“No, Kilgharrah isn’t like that, he would never do that,” Merlin says, looking at Gwaine.
Gwaine just shrugs good-naturedly, “Perhaps not, but you have to consider the possibility.”
“No, he is freer with her because her patrons are not as dangerous as mine, or not inclined towards violence. They’ve been in the thick of it ever since he took her to court when the Frumgar was here and had her pose as a scribe. I don’t get why though when the Frumgar is slain and another rules in his place.”
There was a lull in the noise of the pub and someone spoke up behind them. “Pay heed; do not discount the Read Heorot.” They both turned to look but like the time before that, no one was there. Merlin felt a shiver run up his spin and Gwaine looked wary.
“What does it mean?” Gwaine asks.
“The Read Heorot means the Red Hart. It is the symbol of the Frumgar’s line, the line under which his true heir rules. ‘Do not discount the red hart.’” It was just as clear as the first had been and Merlin wondered what it could possibly mean.
When Merlin returns home, he tells Kilgharrah of what he heard. He is in a foul mood and dismisses Merlin’s words. “It was probably someone you couldn’t see.”
“Someone who can speak Hibernian, my lord?” Merlin asks. “I’ve heard it once before and they said I would rue the day I found my answers to my questions about you.”
Kilgharrah’s brows lowered, “Is that so?” Merlin nods.
Freya comes in with a fresh jug of wine, refilling all of their goblets. “My lord, you remember I told you about the Hibernian delegation’s whisperings of why they crossed the strait. They said they followed a vision of a red hart and a golden dragon.”
Kilgharrah hums softly, mulling over their words. “Freya, send word to Juliana de Listinoise tomorrow. Tell her I wish to speak with her.” Freya just nods.
~*~
What Kilgharrah wished to speak of to Juliana, Merlin never learns, but his mind is elsewhere at this time. Nimueh de l’Isle is holding a birthday celebration for Prince Dillon de la Escetia. She contracts the entirety of the Fire branch of the Moonlight Court for the night and invites all three of them to the celebration.
Nimueh is an incredibly wealthy woman, the l’Isle estates are extensive and prosperous and with the added estates of her two deceased husbands, Nimueh lives very comfortably and yet if it weren’t for the rumors surrounding the deaths of these two husbands, Morgause would have considered Nimueh a good match for Prince Dillon.
The city is abuzz with excitement for the Prince’s party. Invitations written in ink that only becomes visible when it is handled by its intended and that give off a fragrance favorable of the invitee are sent out and everyone applauds the use of magic.
“My entire household? I hope you are not implying that you wish them to be part of you contract with the Fire Branch?” Kilgharrah asks as she hands them each an individually rolled scroll. Kilgharrah opens his and the smell of sulfur impregnates the room briefly before he rolls it shut.
“Tut, tut, Kilgharrah, you think so poorly of me. This is why I came to deliver them myself. This is my party and I invite them because they are interesting. They shall be guests, not entertainment.” She smirks just as Freya opens hers and the smell of lavender floods the room briefly.
“I thought the party was Prince Dillon’s?” Kilgharrah asks.
“The party is for the Prince, but it is still my party, Kilgharrah. Surely you can tell that much.”
“If you think you can get the prince to defy his viper of a mother, you are mistaken and will only walk away with fang bites for your trouble,” Kilgharrah says with a smirk and an arched brow.
She laughs softly at his words. “Oh, Kilgharrah, you never stop fishing, do you? If you do not wish to attend…?”
“No, we will attend, you can be sure of that,” he says.
“I look forward to it then,” she answers and curtsies slightly before turning and leaving. Before she leaves the room, she looks at Merlin who still hasn’t opened his invitation yet. Sending him a smirk and blowing a kiss, she finishes her exit.
“Whatever happens, keep your eyes open you two. Nimueh does nothing without reason and though I can see no purpose yet, I still feel something will happen soon.” Letting a small sigh escape, Kilgharrah leaves his two pupils in the study, striding out through Nimueh’s exit.
Merlin waits until he’s in his room to open the invitation. His appears as shining gold ink and the scent of the forest wafts up to his nose. His magic reacts a little at the slight spark of Nimueh’s magic that resides in the invitation. Setting it aside, he gets his magic under control even as memories of Nimueh’s departure appear in his mind.
~*~
They cut a striking image, the three of them. With Kilgharrah in a dark forest green doublet trimmed in silver thread and black hose, Freya in a flattering lavender dress, and Merlin in a red tunic and brown hose, all cut to fit them perfectly, they stand out even amongst Nimueh’s higher up entourage.
Merlin fiddles with the edge of his cloak. A new knife courtesy of D’Cote’s apology gifts, hangs at his belt, shining in the candlelight. “Are you all right?” Freya asks as the carriage pulls up in front of the Court.
“I’m fine,” Merlin says with a smile, forcing himself to still his fidgeting hands. They descend from the carriage to the Prince’s party already in full swing.
Merlin can’t help but stare. Never in his life has he seen the Court so. All the doors and windows stand open, light streaming out from hundreds of candles and torches. Garlands and vases of flowers overflow everywhere, weaving their delicate scents with the smell of roasting meat and human sweat. Voices flood the air, people’s laughter, shouts, moans mingling with music, the noise a cacophony of sound, pounding on his ears. Everything had been paid for by Nimueh, including the members of the Court.
Merlin feels a spark of envy. To be bought for the night, able to be with whomever he chooses, no matter if they have information or not, it is a heady thought. For a moment, Merlin wishes he was still at the Court. And then it hits him that he’s a guest here.
They are escorted into the main hall of the Court, torches and candles illuminating every nook and cranny of the room. The last time Merlin had been in here was the Midwinter Masquerade as a child of ten. It is decorated gaily, flourishes of color splashing the walls, people in silks and velvets of such bright colors that they seem to glow dancing and chatting.
A man in livery stops them, taking their cloaks as another announces their names to the crowd. “Merlin,” someone calls out and he turns to see Dame Fors standing behind him.
She has aged, gray threading through her hair, but her skin is still smooth except for a few lines and her eyes are still bright. She smiles warmly at him, arms opened in greeting. Merlin steps forward into her embrace, her perfume rolling off of her subtly, a floral fragrance. “Welcome back, dear,” she whispers to him.
He pulls away, smiling and nodding and tackled from the side. Staggering, he holds himself and Gwen up, stopping their fall. “Merlin,” she says joyously, hugging him fiercely.
“Must you jump on me every time I come here?” he asks her with a wide grin.
“Sorry,” Gwen says, blushing and stepping back to brush her dress down.
Dame steps forward, “I must speak with Kilgharrah, go enjoy yourself dear.” Nodding, Merlin watches the two of them fade into the crowd.
Gwen and Freya grab him by an arm and tug him through the crowd. When Gwen tugs them into an empty room, he frowns, wondering why they are in there. “I wanted to show you something,” she admits. Reaching behind her, she unfastens her dress, tugging at the shoulders, the pale yellow material sliding down.
Turning, Merlin and Freya let out a collective gasp. Gwen’s Mearcung is completely finished. It is a riot of color; twining white lilies, daisies, and iris cover her upper back, the green of their stems flowing to rest just above the dip of her buttock. Flecks of yellow stand out against the white of the flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” Freya whispers. She steps forward to help Gwen redo her dress.
“When did you finish it?” Merlin asks.
“Last month. I’ve been meaning to meet up with you, but I’ve been busy, what with preparing for this party.” Dress back in place, she smiles at him. “I’m leaving the court for good.”
Merlin’s heart stutters, but he puts a smile on his face. “Where will you go then?”
“Don’t be angry. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I never really belonged here what with me having no magic. And though I’m grateful for Dame taking me in, this isn’t where I wish to spend the rest of my life,” Gwen explains, cupping his cheek.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. Dame contacted someone she knows for work on the Du Lac family grounds as an assistant to their gardener. You know how I always loved to garden,” Merlin nods, throat closing up.
“Will I get to see you again?” Merlin asks.
“Of course, you silly man. You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Gwen says hotly, hugging him around the neck, Merlin wrapping his arms tightly around the waist of his oldest friend. Pulling away from him, Gwen turns to Freya. “I’ll miss you as well.” The two hug,
“I’ve already spoken to Gwaine and he told me to tell you two that if you ever need to send me a letter, just send it through him and it will get to me,” she informs them. Merlin nods. “Now come, there’s a party for all and this should be a happy night.” She grabs them by the arm and tugs them out of the room.
As they make their way through the crowds, they come upon a throng of people in front of the dais at the head of the room. Kilgharrah is there as well, eyeing the group seated on the dais. Prince Dillon de la Escetia sat with a two of his higher ranking men and Nimueh de l’Isle.
“Well, look who has arrived,” Dillon says aloud, nudging the man to his right. He stretches back, staring down regally at the four of them. “My lord Kilgharrah, I so hope you have made up with my kinsmen Uriens. He did so speak fondly of you and it pains me to see him unhappy over your quarrel. Tell me what have you brought, more charming bedfellows?”
“You have a good humor, your majesty. May I introduce to you my two wards, Freya nó Emrys and Merlin nó Emrys. We come bearing wishes for your good health on this joyous occasion of your birth,” Kilgharrah says evenly, bowing. Merlin and Freya follow likewise.
One of the Court steps forward with a wrapped gift, handing it to Kilgharrah. Thanking the girl, he walks forward to hand it to the prince. “For you, your majesty.” The prince doesn’t even open it, setting it aside with a nod.
“It is much appreciated; you and your…guests have leave to enjoy yourself.” Merlin sees Freya flush slightly, but Kilgharrah just bows again.
“That’s him, the warlock that I’ve been hearing about. Look at his eyes,” the man on Dillon’s left exclaims standing up. Drawing his sword, he goes to lift Merlin’s tunic, “Come, warlock, show us some magic.”
Before Merlin can even react, the sound of metal on metal rings through the hall and Kilgharrah’s sword it out, the soldier’s sword on the ground. The man wrings his hand from the impact, glaring at Kilgharrah.
“Your majesty, may I remind you that my wards are not only under my protection, but yours and my lady Nimueh’s, as well as being guests?” Kilgharrah says smoothly to the prince who is standing, hand resting on the hilt of his own sword.
“You’ve made your point, you old dragon, no need to blow smoke at me. Leave the children alone, boys. We have the whole of the court to entertain us.” Sheathing his sword, Kilgharrah steps back to allow the man to retrieve his sword from the ground.
Dillon’s eyes return to Merlin a moment later, taking in the flecks of gold in Merlin’s eyes and sliding down his frame. “A true warlock, huh?” Nimueh smirks and leans over, whispering something into his ear. He smirks at her words, kissing the back of her hand. “You are brilliant, my lady.” Seeing those gathered around the dais, he sits back. “If you wish to please me, go, enjoy yourselves. I command it.”
Kilgharrah snorts but complies, stepping back and leading, Merlin, Freya, and Gwen away from the dais. Merlin glances back once to see Nimueh following their path. Unnerved, Merlin slips away, letting the flow of the crowds carry him where they will.
Thirsty, Merlin searches out a drink bearer and finds one stationed along the wall. Her eyes are down and she holds the tray of drinks out. As he grabs a goblet of wine, he lets his fingers brush against her hand. She glances up, cheeks flushed a little. Feeling a little uncomfortable from this side of the scene, he smiles and walks off, ignoring her questioning glance.
Merlin tries to pay attention as Kilgharrah had asked them to but the wine and the music and the heat all play to distract him, making him feel buoyant, as if floating through the other guests. What he does hear is nothing new: talk about the king and is ailments, the princess and heir and her lack of marriage, the restless Pict.
Growing warm in the mass of people, Merlin starts to make his way out, hoping for some cool air to clear his head. Following an old familiar path to the back garden, he stops as a familiar voice sounds. Stepping back into the shadows, he listens.
“Why do you constantly refuse me?” Reynold Gunter asks, voice strained with anger and frustration.
Merlin starts as Freya’s voice answers him, cool and aloof, “I had not expected to see you here tonight, sir. Tintagel and Escetia are not known to be friends.”
“But they are not enemies either. The Lady Nimueh pays well for the information a trader might pick up, especially that concerning the royal lines. I am just a lowly merchant and must make my keep somehow. Why have you not accepted any of my offers for your trade?” His voice is wheedling.
Merlin can hear the sound of cloth rustling, as if Freya has shaken Reynold off. “I am a practitioner of the Old Religion, not some back alley whore. I have accepted your offer seven times and seven times you have paid you contract and given nothing in offering towards my Mearcung!”
“I will this time, I swear. A patron-gift of your choosing, whatever it is you desire, it will be yours.” Reynold’s voice shakes in his desperation.
Freya takes a breath and blows it out, “Enough to finish my Mearcung and the answer to Kilgharrah’s question. That is my price.”
“You ask too much,” he says, breathing coming in a sharp gasp.
“It is the only price I will accept,” she says firmly. Merlin presses against the wall, straining to hear all that is happening. “Merlin feels a twinge of guilt. He had known for some time that Freya did not enjoy the act of homage as Merlin did, but he had been so caught up in himself that he had never realized how much she disliked it.
“If I pay this, I will not see you again,” he says, trying to reason.
“If you pay it, you will see me once more. If you do not, you will never see me again,” she says, voice like steel.
Reynold gives out a pained moan. “It is too much. I need to think on it.”
Freya does not reply and Merlin presses further back into the shadows as Reynold leaves. As Freya leaves, Merlin leans forward to get a glimpse of her face. Her jaw is set and her eyes hard. A fine tremor runs through her body as the shock of the deal she just struck hits her.
She starts to walk away and Merlin lets her. As her footsteps fade, he emerges from the shadows and goes in the opposite direction. He emerges in the back gardens of the Court. They are still as he remembers, the fountain off to the side, the vine covered trellis on the back wall. But even here, Merlin is not alone. Lovers cling to each other under the moonlight.
He feels alone for the first time since he was a child. He wishes Gwaine were here. At least then he could laugh with his friend.
“Merlin.”
He knows that voice and turns to see Nimueh de l’Isle standing behind him, surrounded by night blooming flowers and moonlight. The light makes her pale skin glow and her eyes are as dark as the sky between the stars.
“Why are you here alone?” she asks. “Would you reject my hospitality so easily?”
Merlin shakes his head, clearing away the thought from earlier. He needs a clear head when dealing with this woman. “No, my lady.”
“Good,” she is close enough that Merlin can smell her perfume and feel the heat radiating from her body. “Do you know what is said about the very first warlock?” Merlin shakes his head, his senses already spinning out of control. “It is said that an ancient king offered him all the riches of the world, if the warlock would stop the great change from happening and that the man refused for his love of the balance of the Old Religion.”
Running a hand along his cheek, she caresses his skin, leaving a trail of fire in her wake. “I believe I have found the perfect gift for Prince Dillon tonight.” Sharp finger tips grip his chin in a harsh grip, pulling his head down hard and she kisses him.
Merlin gasps as she lets him go, falling to the rim of the fountain behind him. He presses a hand to his lips as he fights to control his magic as it roils in his body, fighting to be free of his control. Pulling his hand away from his mouth, he sees red. She had bitten his lip.
“Unfortunately, he is well entertained here and I promised to join him. I will talk with your mater on the morrow about making arrangements. I own him that much of a farewell gift,” she says, straightening her dress. She turns and beckons to a young man waiting in the shadows. “Merlin is my guest. See that he is well pleased.” He bows gracefully as Nimueh leaves.
~*~
Merlin isn’t sure if the others availed themselves of Nimueh’s hospitality like he did, but Kilgharrah gives his disheveled appearance a sidelong glance and a smirk on the carriage ride home.
True to her word, Nimueh sends a man around the next morning to Kilgharrah pay her a visit. Merlin spends Kilgharrah’s time away reading up on a book that Gaius had given him sometime back. It contained stories and legends of past warlocks and their feats. It is in Druidic and he spends most of his time translating it and honing his skills that have been neglected.
Merlin is still awake when Kilgharrah returns to find him curled up in a chair near the fire, reading the spidery and faded script on the yellowing pages. He arches a brow and Merlin lowers the book, using a piece of scrap parchment to mark his spot in the book. “You have somehow caught Prince Dillon’s eye and Nimueh has a mind to buy him a night with you.”
Merlin shrugs, setting the book on the table. “Is it not to our advantage? You know I am prudent when it comes to both of them.”
“You are agreeable then?” Merlin nods and he sighs, taking a seat next to the fire. He notices Merlin’s translations on the table and picks them up.
“How could I not be? With Uriens still mad at you and Sharia Gairn out of favor with Morgause, we have no channels into Escetia,” Merlin says, sitting forward.
“Prince Dillon de Escetia has not only been raised by Morgause and Cenred since birth, he has Nimueh in his shadow, controlling the strings. He is a dangerous man should he catch you at your game. You must promise me you will keep your lips sealed. One word from Nimueh and he will have you head, young warlock.” He set the parchment down, finished reading it. “A fair translation. Make a copy and I will send it to Plaine. He has interest in such things.”
Merlin nods to Kilgharrah. “My lady Nimueh is your friend, do you trust her so little to think she would betray you?”
Taking up his pipe, he lit it with a taper from the fire. Sucking in a drag, he let the smoke out with a mighty gust. “Nimueh has always played a subtle game, and I do not know what it is she plays at. If our paths were ever to cross, I would not rely too heavily on our friendship to see me through. She knows at what lengths I will go to-,” Kilgharrah stops his words. “It matters not. Just remember my words in that she is not to be trusted and say nothing to her, young warlock.”
“Was she your lover?” Merlin asks, wondering what their connection is besides friendship.
Kilgharrah smirks, “A long time ago.” His words give nothing away and Merlin frowns a little. “We are well matched, but that wasn’t one of them. Or it could be we were too well matched.” Taking another drag, he let it out slowly. “If it is your wish to accept the contract, then I will have it drawn up.”
“It is.”
~*~
The date is set for some weeks ahead. Merlin busies himself with the translations for Plaine de Bawes. They are interesting to Merlin, but when he shows them to Freya, she only skims them briefly. He can’t blame her though.
A week has passed since she gave Reynold her price and there has still been no word back. Merlin holds his tongue about his knowledge of Freya’s demand, not even telling Kilgharrah. He does speak of it with Alice when she drags him away to the hot springs.
“You are right not to interfere. This is between Freya and the Balance. If her heart is true, all will right itself in the end,” Alice says, relaxing into the heated water.
“Her heart has always been true,” Merlin says with a smile, remembering his sister of choice.
“Then all shall be fine in the end,” Alice says with conviction.
~*~
Eventually, the day finally arrives for Merlin’s assignation. With it arrives clothing from Nimueh, an entire outfit made of cloth-of-gold. Merlin can’t help but caress the cloth. Merlin has never lacked for fine clothing since he came to be a part of Kilgharrah’s household, but he has never had something as fine as this.
Freya sits on his bed as he turns in the mirror, adjusting a hem there and a line there until he is satisfied.
“Be careful, Merlin,” she says softly.
“I am always careful,” Merlin assures her, looking at her dark eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“You weren’t careful with D’Cote and you will not be careful with Nimueh. You lose yourself every time she is near, I’ve seen it. And she knows what we are.”
“I am for the prince tonight, not Nimueh,” Merlin says instead of admitting her words right.
“She will still be there. I have heard rumors that she is the spark for his desire,” she tells him.
“I will be careful,” Merlin says softly. The carriage arrives and no more is said as they descend the stairs. Kilgharrah waits at the door to inspect him.
“Good,” he says, voice a deep rumble as he settles Merlin’s cloak over his shoulders, the deep blue-black contrasting sharply with the cloth-of-gold. “A member of the house of Emrys with a Prince of Escetia. Who would have thought this to be?” he says softly, a smirk playing over his lips. “Be wary, young warlock. I would hate to have to find another one as skilled as you,” Kilgharrah jokes softly.
Grinning, Merlin walks out with Will a silent shadow at his back.
Merlin isn’t sure how many residents Nimueh has, but he does know that she has one in the city. He had assumed it would be close to the castle, but instead it is on the outskirts of the city, butting up against the forests that surround Camelot. She uses it for private entertaining, for her and Prince Dillon.
Merlin is surprised when the servants open the door and Nimueh is standing there to welcome him like a guest. “Merlin,” she says with a smile, lips painted their usual crimson. “I do not believe you have been formally introduced yet to Prince Dillon de la Escetia?”
“Your majesty,” Merlin says with a bow.
“I am honored to have one so touched by the Old Religion to accept my invitation,” he says, pulling Merlin up with a hand to his chin. Up close he is handsomer than Merlin remembers. His face is tanned, a thin scar running up the side of his face. Crisp curling locks, like his fathers, accent the sharp lines of his face and bring out the honeyed highlights in his dark brown eyes.
“Come,” Nimueh says softly, laying a hand on Merlin shoulder. His magic sparks under his skin and for a second he trembles, caught between the two of them. “Would you play for us?” she asks and Merlin has to drag in a steadying breath before he can nod.
She motions to a servant who has just appeared. “See to Kilgharrah’s man.” The servant bows and leads Will away as Merlin follows Nimueh and Dillon into an adjoining room.
It takes Merlin a second to draw up the skills to play the small lute. It has been some years since he last played for anyone by request and even longer since he played for pleasure. Feeling clumsy, he starts to play until his fingers warm up and the music sounds as it should.
Servants serve the two seated at the table, bringing course after course. Nimueh and Dillon speak in low hushed tones, eating and feeding each other as Merlin plays.
As the last dish is served and cleared away, Nimueh turns to Merlin, “Come join us.” Setting the lute aside, Merlin stands and walks over to stand next to them at the table. “Drink,” she says handing him a goblet of wine. Merlin drinks deeply, thirsty after so long playing, and savors the rich wine.
“You were raised at the Court,” Dillon says sipping from his goblet, “are you as delicate as some of the members there seemed to be?” He stands and circles to stand behind Merlin.
“No, sire,” Merlin says softly, ignoring the desire to defend his old home. Sword calloused hands grip at his waist, pulling him back until he is pressed up against the prince. He can feel the prince’s cock stir against his arse through the layers of clothing and Merlin’s breathe catches in his throat.
“Merlin is a warlock, my prince. He is by no means delicate,” Nimueh purrs from across the table, sipping at her wine with smirking lips.
“It is hard to imagine so much power in one body,” he says softly, running a hand up Merlin’s side. “And yet you speak truthfully,” he says, thumbing at Merlin nipple, drawing a soft inhale from Merlin. “And dressed fit for a prince as well.” Strong fingers dig into his hair, pulling Merlin’s head back, bearing his neck as Dillon sucked at the pale skin there. “Shall I have him for dessert?” he asks, looking at Nimueh with a laugh.
“You have all night, my prince. This is but the first round. Have him on the table if you truly wish,” she says, settling back into her chair.
The hand in his hair lowers to Merlin’s neck, pressing him forward until he is bent over the table, cheek mashed into the fine linen tablecloth. With one hand Dillon yanks down Merlin hose and undoes his own breeches.
Merlin had prepared himself before hand and the prince gives a low growl of approval as he thrusts into Merlin. Prince Dillon is no green lad to end it all quickly and Merlin can only gasp and clutch at the cloth beneath him as the man behind him moves with long, slow thrusts, pulling humiliating whimpers from Merlin’s throat.
The chair creaks as Nimueh stands and her dress rustles as she comes to stand behind the prince. “Drive him hard, my love,” she says with a sultry voice, “I want to watch him come from your thrusts alone.”
Merlin can only gasp and whine as Dillon’s thrusts drive him on and over the edge. He claws at the cloth, arching off of the table, as much as he can with Dillon’s hand still pressing him to the table. Dillon gives a howl, spending himself inside Merlin; thrusts slowing as he works himself through the aftershocks.
“I need to get me one of these,” he says panting as he pulls out of Merlin. Merlin straightens uncomfortably, fixing his clothing.
“Unfortunately, Merlin is a thing of rarity and he is pledged to Kilgharrah and the Balance. Besides, this was just a taste. There is more to be had…unless you wish to give the signal?” Nimueh asks, turning to look at Merlin.
Merlin shakes his head. He will not speak that word to Prince Dillon and certainly not to Nimueh while she serves his pleasure. “Well, then, let us play.”
Nimueh leads them down a short hall to another room. Inside is a whole play chamber from a bed set into a corner, to the flogging posts on the other side of the room. Merlin gulps slightly, but bites his tongue.
They usher him into the room and gently strip the cloth-of-gold from his body until he stands naked in the room. Shivering at a slight draft, he allows himself to be tied to the posts. With his arms and legs outstretched eagle-style, he is exposed. Merlin shivers again.
“How is it done?” Dillon asks, not on who usually uses toys. “Do I give a Pictish war cry and charge him?” he asks in jest. “Selises Arrœk!” he shouts and laughs again. Merlin flinches at the name.
“You may do it however you wish,” Nimueh says, walking around to see Merlin’s face. She has a flogger in her hand, the thin pieces of soft leather swinging with each step she takes. Stepping up behind him, she makes sure he is secured to the posts before stepping back.
“Like this,” she says and then lines of warmth run down Merlin’s back. She hadn’t hit hard enough to properly damage the skin, but the welts left will certainly be there for a few days. Merlin flinches as the flogger cracks and instead of lines, there are points of heat on his skin, only the tips of the leather striking his skin.
It goes on for some time with Nimueh showing Dillon the different ways to wield the instrument. After a while though, the prince grows bored with the warlock and tugs Nimueh over to the bed, leaving Merlin strapped to the posts.
Merlin isn’t sure when he passed out, but he wakes up in a bed in one of Nimueh’s guest chambers. His back is a little sore, but other than that he feels fine. A servant leads him to the dining room from the night before, Nimueh already seated at it, sipping at her tea.
She smiles as Merlin walks in. “The carriage is ready and Kilgharrah’s man is waiting for you.” She places a purse on the table between them. “The clothing is yours to keep and this is a patron-gift, to honor the Balance.” She smirks again as he picks up the pouch, feeling the heavy coins inside. “You are indeed a gift fit for a prince, Merlin.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Fit for a farewell gift, my lady? Who is saying goodbye?”
She laughs softly, “Kilgharrah’s pupil indeed. I will tell you if you tell me what you know of Selises Arrœk.”
Merlin doesn’t reply and she laughs again. Standing she comes around to kiss him on the cheek. “Give Kilgharrah my regards. One day, perhaps we can meet again, young warlock, and there will be no prince between us.”
Merlin shudders as she leaves. Shaking himself free of her spell, he walks out.
~*~
Merlin doesn’t even wait for Kilgharrah to summon him to his study. The moment he steps out of the carriage, he walks towards the study where he knows the man to be waiting. Although he does not tell Kilgharrah everything, some things are better left unsaid; he lays everything else on the table for Kilgharrah to pick through.
He frowns, thinking over all that Merlin has told him. “Dillon thought it was a Pictish war cry?” Merlin nods. “Did he give any sign that the words meant aught else to him?” Remembering the way he had laughed, Merlin shakes his head. Prince Dillon is ignorant of what the words truly mean.
“No, he joked about it, but he knew not what they meant. They meant something to Nimueh though.” Merlin leans forward, elbows braced against his knees.
“And he gave no acknowledgement that you were a…what did Nimueh call it? A farewell gift?”
Merlin shakes his head. “No, he gave no indication he knew and Nimueh only spoke of it when we were alone.” Merlin frowns, remembering how Kilgharrah had brought Nimueh to flaunt Merlin in front of her so many years before. “She wants an audience and she has chosen you, my lord. Whatever is to happen, she wants you to know that she is the hand behind it.”
Kilgharrah turns solemn eyes on Merlin. “You may be right, but the question remains: what is to occur?”
~*~
Part 3b
Merlin blinks at Alice’s words. She ignores his confusion, tugging at his arm and leading him out of the house and into a waiting carriage. He’d only just gotten back that morning, feeling sore and empty, and his magic for once quiet.
She takes him to a small village outside of the city that is known for its hot springs. He flushes bright red when she motions for him to start taking his clothing off, but she just ignores him, slipping out of her dress and wrapping a large towel around her torso and walking through the doors of the changing rooms to the communal spring.
She is already submerged in the heated water when Merlin finally emerges later, towel wrapped low around his waist. Slipping in quickly, he can’t help the groan that escapes when the hot water makes contact with abused muscles.
“There is no need to be shy, Merlin. I have seen more than enough male bodies, yours is nothing new,” Alice says with a chuckle. They are quiet for a while, listening to the forest around them, only a wall of woven reeds keeping their bathing private.
“They say that the waters have a restorative property, especially for us magic users,” she says, gliding through the water until she is next to him. She lifts his chin, examining the bruise forming there from D’Cote’s strike. “We always were better healers then those without magic. It should heal quickly with how much magic you have. I hear D’Cote makes love like he hunts, is it true?”
Merlin chokes on a laugh, remembering the way the man had wielded his cock like a spear to take down game. “It is,” he admits, slipping further under the water until it was up to his chin. The heat felt good against his sore entrance and soothed away some of the ache. “He certainly has stamina.”
“Was there anything that you felt unprepared for?” she asks, concerned.
Merlin shakes his head. “My lord D’Cote was more interested in giving than receiving.”
“Others will. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask me.” She gives him a small smile. “Do you think he will ask for you again?”
Remembering his rage fueled questions and actions, Merlin nods. “He will think it is to best Kilgharrah, but will not realize that the hook is already set and that Kilgharrah is just waiting to reel him in,” Merlin says, running fingers through his hair, turning his locks into short spikes.
“Be careful, my dear. If he finds you out, he will lash out and that will make him more dangerous than he was before.” Her face grows grave, her eyes sad. “I do not know what Kilgharrah plans, but I hope his plans do not put you in any more danger.”
“Kilgharrah knows what he does and has prepared us for this,” Merlin says, pushing off from the rocky shelf he is sitting on and swims out a few feet.
“I hope you are right, dear. Come let us get out. They should be serving the noon meal and we should have time for one more soak before we leave.” They clamber out of the hot spring, sliding into simple cotton robes.
Merlin is dropped off before sunset, refreshed and feeling much improved. He gives his report to Kilgharrah and his master praises him for playing D’Cote so. “Tell him nothing and he will eventually let something slip in hopes that you will as well. Here,” he set a small purse on the table, the coins inside clinking together. “A patron gift towards your Mearcung, sent by courier this afternoon while you were away. Most likely, he wants it to be a reminder to me of his conquest of you that will be permanently etched into your skin. Do you wish to accept?”
“He was my first, he should be allowed some room for boasting,” Merlin jokes with a small smirk.
“I will make an appointment then,” Kilgharrah says, dismissing Merlin from his study.
~*~
A week later, Merlin’s first appointment with the tattooist arrives. He goes to the same man as Freya, a master artist of his trade. Master Morholt Saracen is an old man who has been plying his trade for three decades. Kilgharrah had paid dearly for his bond-price and only the best would do.
Merlin spends the first hour, lying on his stomach naked on a table being measured. He holds still as Master Saracen walks around him, tape and calipers in hand, muttering measurements that his apprentice takes down. As Merlin dresses, Master Saracen transfers his measurements to paper.
He sends the boy for Kilgharrah. As they wait, Master Saracen pulls out a scroll, pinning it to the wall. Merlin knows Freya’s Mearcung from seeing the base but had not known what it would turn into. The image he sees is one of pure artistic genius. A leaping feline creature seems to spring from the base, the tail curling where her spin ends. Its wings spread out, surrounding its body as it stares out with shining yellow-green eyes. It is made of thick and thin black lines, hints of color standing out.
Kilgharrah arrives and the two spend the next hour hunched over Merlin’s own scroll, discussing designs and images. Sketch after sketch is made, refined and discarded until at last, both are satisfied with the end result. Master Saracen painstakingly transfers the finished image to the scroll.
Finally, he finishes and Kilgharrah holds it up for Merlin to see. It is a dragon, long and sinuous, with golden eyes. It is wrapped around a sword that is partially obscured by the beast’s wings and limbs. Merlin can make out Drycræft symbols written on the blade of the sword: Take me up. Cast me away. It seems fitting, for what he does. Shots of deep, dark blue and bright gold and red highlight the dragon in places, contrasting against the stark, thick black lines.
“It is beautiful,” Merlin whispers, staring at the drawing, awed.
“I thought so to. I will wait in the wine shop. Send your boy when you are done with him,” Kilgharrah says and leaves.
Merlin disrobes again and lies down. He tries not to twitch too much as the outline is sketched onto his back with a quill. Master Saracen constantly rechecks his measurements until at last, he is satisfied. It seems to take forever before he is done, but Merlin waits patiently. Master Saracen’s apprentice spends this time gathering the master’s tools and supplies, mixing the ink and readying the brazier to warm the shop up.
At last, it is time to start and Merlin waits for the first strike of the needles. There’s a tap and then a point of pain and Merlin gasps as his magic reacts, rising to the surface of his skin. “Damn warlock,” Master Saracen mutters, smacking his arse to get him to stay still. “My grandfather was right, he said they are worse than the criers and bleeders and now I know why.” Flushing, Merlin held completely still as the mallet tapped and tapped and tapped at his skin, creating the base of his Mearcung.
~*~
After his first assignation, the offers for Merlin start to pour in. It is now that Merlin sees Kilgharrah’s plans. Freya’s patrons are from a broader range, meant to draw people in so that he could select those he wanted.
But Merlin’s patrons are a different area. His is a select group that Kilgharrah knows well. His patrons are the power hungry ones, who thrive over having power at their fingertips, who take pleasure in lording over someone who is stronger than them. Merlin is the bait for Kilgharrah’s more elusive prey.
Although, not all his patrons are like D’Cote’s brute display of power. His second patron is George Glasson, Treasury Chancellor. A small man, his demeanor submissive, he seemed to just fade into the background. He just lies on the bed and tells Merlin to please him.
Eager to prove his skill, Merlin falls to the task willingly, using all the tricks he has learned. When nothing seems to stir the man, Merlin grows desperate, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes from frustration. Taking Glasson into his mouth, he sucks and laps, but the most he gets is a half-hearted stirring.
His eyes burn with shame at not being able to do as he is bid. “You’re not very good, are you?” Glasson asks, sitting up. “Fine, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“My lord, I’m sorry…” Merlin starts to say. Glasson just presses Merlin down onto his back and rummages through a drawer in his side table. He pulls out silken cords, looping them around his wrists and ankles to the bed posts. Merlin notices then that Glasson is erect, the head of his cock already engorged enough to leak precome down the thick sides.
“Do you wish to give the signal?” he asks Merlin, pulling out a small chest to set it on the bed. Merlin can just make out an array of items inside the look like they are made from wood and stone. Merlin shakes his head no, breathing already shallow, his magic stirring under his skin.
As with his first assignation, Merlin has his interview with Kilgharrah, spilling all he can give. Though neither is sure what is important and what is not, they assume Kilgharrah knows what to do with the information that steadily trickles into the kingdom.
During this time, Uther suffers a minor seizure, leaving his right hand shaking constantly. Morgana still remains unwed and suitors constantly circle her and the throne, hungering for the power that comes with her hand in marriage.
The most ambitious of these is Morgana’s own half-sister, Morgause. She is often called the Escetian Viper, and with good cause, for her sword could strike as fast a snake. Merlin learns of her ambition through one of his patrons.
~*~
The Marquise Sharia Gairn contracts him for two days in her country estate. She spends her time putting him to demeaning chores that are impossible to accomplish without magic and she forbids him from using his magic, and then chastises him later for his incompetence. It is an easy script to remember, though he doesn’t have to like it completely.
It is during one of these chores that he hears of Morgause’s plans. Gairn returns before he is finished with his assignment, decked out in riding attire, boots covered in dust and riding crop in hand. “You incompetent fool!” she yells aloud, bringing the crop onto his right shoulder in a stinging smack that forces a cry out of his throat. “You were supposed to be done by my return. This is not done.” She smacks him again, harder, on the other shoulder.
“You ask too much,” Merlin hisses out.
Her eyes grow hard, seeming to turn into blue gemstones as she stares down at him. “I only ask that I be served well,” she hisses out, using the crop to push his chin up, digging it into the flesh there. “I will not stand for incompetence. Take your clothing off.”
This is not Merlin’s first time with her and he knows what he must do. Stripping off his clothing, he turns around, hands resting on his knees, back exposed to Gairn. The blows rain down quickly, the slap of the crop loud in the quiet room. She does not hit him hard enough to leave a mark, but he will be feeling the wells for the rest of the day.
She finally stops and he can breathe again. She beckons him over to where she is leaned against the arm of the couch. With shaking hands, he unbuttons her ridding pants, her small hands carding through his hair as he presses his mouth against the heated folds of her sex.
Of course, her steward comes in at this moment, averting his eyes, saying that Morgause has sent a messenger for the Marquise. “That damn harpy, what does she want now?” she swears, pushing Merlin away and doing up her clothing. “Send him in.” She turns back to Merlin. “I am not done with you. Get dressed and wait here quietly.”
Merlin does and is kneeling by the time the messenger is shown into the room. Merlin doesn’t look up to take in the man’s features, but he listens to him as he hands Morgause’s message over. Sharia Gairn reads the letter aloud, much to Merlin’s relief.
Rumors abound of one of the kings in the lands to the south of Albion having sent a request for Morgana’s hand to ally the two lands through marriage. Morgause proposes that Gairn string this man along with false promises until he agrees to cede rights to the islands just south of Albion and then later have the messages discovered so that no alliance could be formed.
The Marquise is highly ranked in Uther’s court; she could do this, though she would be putting herself on the line to do this treason. She paces, the crop still in her hand swishing through the air close to Merlin. “And what does Morgause offer?” she asks the messenger.
The man answers, “A title in Escetia, with lands along the coast and two hundred men-at-arms with an income of thirty thousand gold pieces annual.”
The crop twitches and smacks against her boot. “I’ll do it, but I want the title in hand and safe passage before I send out the orders. Tell her that I want an escort by Prince Dillon and his little group. Let us see if she is truly earnest.”
“I will tell her, my lady. Title in hand and Prince Dillon as an escort.” Merlin hears him bow and his steps as he leaves the room, the door closing with a snap.
Merlin can feel her eyes on him as she turns from the door. “It seems I have a reason to celebrate. What do you know, you’re here just for me,” she whispers softly, running the edge of the crop along his neck and Merlin shudders.
~*~
Morgause turns the Marquise’s counteroffer down. It seems even she has a stopping point: her step son. Prince Dillon was not her child to bargain with, though she had acted as his mother since her marriage to Cenred after his first wife’s death from child birth.
Of course, the rumors are entirely false. Morgana has no plans to marry a foreigner’s son and so the islands to the south remain out of Albion’s reach. Kilgharrah still prizes the information, for it reveals Morgause’s true ambition and what she might be trying to stir up.
To the north, the border has become quiet and the forces of Camelot and Escetia are disbanded to the bear minimum. But while the army is happy to return home, Dillon’s Men stay, roaming the border, looking for battles. Uther and Cenred let them, knowing that to try to stop them will just bring more trouble than it’s worth to their capitals. The prince is still seen at court, in both Camelot and Escetia and despite Uriens and Cenred’s attempts to stop it, he is still seen with Nimueh de l’Isle.
There are rumors that both Morgause and Cenred threatened to disown him and it seems even Nimueh has a stopping point, knowing when she can’t best an enemy.
Merlin has only seen Nimueh once since he first took his Rites. At one of Kilgharrah’s gathering, she shines out amongst the rest and Merlin is unable to look away, his magic drawn towards her despite him fighting it. She corners him in a hall on his way back from the kitchen with a cool smirk on her crimson lips.
“Turn,” she says and Merlin can only do what she says, his mind starting to go fuzzy at her close proximity and his magic is sparking under his skin. Her fingers untuck his shirt, pushing it and his tunic up, exposing his back and started Mearcung. He jumps as her fingers skim across the inked lines and gooseflesh breaks out over his skin. His magic is going crazy at her touch.
“Your name is spreading, young warlock,” she says, using Kilgharrah’s name for him mockingly. “Have you used your signal yet?”
“No,” Merlin breathes out, quaking under her touch and voice.
“I thought not,” she says quietly and Merlin can hear her smirk. She gently straightens his clothing, putting him to rights. “Maybe one day, we will see whose magic is stronger.”
Nimueh knows full well what Kilgharrah uses Merlin and Freya for. She knows that Merlin is bait for her, but she will take the bait in her own time. Merlin learned patience from Kilgharrah. He hopes it will serve him well when it comes to Nimueh.
The Pict threat has faded some and where the soldiers of Camelot and Escetia are not, Dillon’s Men patrol, seeking glory where they can. Merlin learns later of what Kilgharrah had asked of his old friend that night at Freya’s debut.
Plaine de Bawes arrives from the northern regions of Albion with news. Only Kilgharrah, Merlin and Freya are there to hear it. The study is dim, only a few candles and the fire in the hearth lighting up the room. Kilgharrah sits to the side, pipe in hand as his friend talks.
“There are rumors, Sel Mon,” Plaine’s says quietly, sipping at his goblet of wine.
Merlin perks up, wondering why Plaine has called Kilgharrah Sel Mon, Great One. He doesn’t dare ask for fear that Kilgharrah will dismiss him and he won’t be allowed to hear Plaine’s news.
“There are always rumors, my friend. Albion would die of boredom if not for rumors,” Kilgharrah rumbles, blowing smoke towards the fire. The light turns it red and makes it look like he is blowing flames. “What rumor is it this time?”
Plaine sits forward, goblet held loosely in his hands. “They say that the Pictish tribes have found a leader. Their own Wigfruma.” The Wigfruma was an ancient king of Hibernia who had united the four houses of Hibernia in time to defend against an invasion from the lands to the south.
Kilgharrah laughs aloud at Plaine’s words. “Surely you jest? As if those squabbling tribes could ever unite. In fact, our border has never been so quiet.”
“My point exactly,” Plaine’s says and nods in thanks as Freya refills his goblet. “They have found someone who can think.”
Kilgharrah ponders his words. Although confined to the northern most portion of Albion and its mountains, the Pictish tribes are numerous in numbers, more numerous than the Hibernian tribes who are isolated to Albion’s west, confined by the Fisher King, not a threat to Albion. A united Pictish force is something else though.
“What are you saying?” Kilgharrah asks after a moment of silence.
“Not much, yet. The few Pict who venture from the mountains as mercenaries started the rumor, whispering it around the camp fires at night. And they change regularly, though most wouldn’t notice, replacing their numbers. I spoke with a merchant from the north and he confirmed that those he hired have changed multiple times now, never the same ones. They are growing cunning.”
“He believes they might be gathering information?” Kilgharrah asks, emptying his pipe and setting it to the side. “What for?”
“I don’t know, but they whisper a name: Selises Arrœk, the Cunning One. Last summer, there were no Pict to be seen along the border or among the caravans and it is rumored that Arrœk summoned a high council of the tribes. I also have word that one of Cenred’s men bore a message to him and it asked for his daughter, Dalia de la Escetia’ hand in marriage. It was signed King Selises Arrœk.” Plaine’s set his goblet down, empty. “These are only rumors, but it was said that Cenred laughed and tossed the message into the fire and sent the messenger back to deliver his message. The man was never seen again, as rumor would have it. I tell you, the borders are too quiet for this to be good.”
Kilgharrah let out a long sigh, “And meanwhile, the prince of Escetia and his men ride the border, seeking glory. You are right, this is worse than I first gave you credit for. If you can, keep an eye on the border and if you hear anything else, send word.”
Kilgharrah seems to finally realize that the two of them are in the room. “Merlin, Freya, off to bed with you. Plaine and I have much to discuss and none of it is for your ears.” Grumbling quietly, Merlin stood with Freya, bidding the two men good night.
~*~
Although Plaine’s news is unsettling, it is news from a different direction that has people stirring in interest. Word arrives of the death of the Frumgar of Hibernia, slain by his own son who sought to overturn the ancient matriarchal ways of succession and take kingship for himself.
The Frumgar’s true heir, his crippled nephew, is said to have fled with his mother and sisters and taken refuge among Wigend whose lord and lady gave them asylum on their western coastal lands.
Although few had cared about the Hibernian regency before, because of the Frumgar’s recent visit to Albion, this event draws people’s interest. In a joint effort between Camelot and Acestir, Petit Fils is ordered to sail his fleet along the coast, scouting the Hibernian coastline. Although it strengthens ties between Camelot and Acestir, it comes to naught since the Fisher King still controls the waters between the two lands. Petit leaves a small portion of his fleet on Camelot’s closest piece of land to Hibernia. Petit boasts of his cunning at one of Kilgharrah’s gatherings. He’s drunk but Merlin nods indulgingly.
Kilgharrah is summoned twice to the castle and says nothing afterwards.
The northern border remains quiet with no word from Plaine. Dillon’s men continue to roam the border and the prince himself splits his time between the border fighting, the Escetian court and Camelot’s court. Word of Cenred’s ire with Uther reaches the Emrys household. The Escetian king is put out that Uther chose Acestir over his own small fleet. Merlin isn’t sure it is Cenred Uther mistrusts, but his wife Morgause and her ambitions and that he uses the event to undermine her play for power.
Kilgharrah and Uriens have a falling out over this quarrel between the two kingdoms and although Merlin should probably pay more attention to what is going on, he can’t, too caught up in his own world of his youth and his magic. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it is starting to go to his head.
So far, Merlin has declined D’Cote’s offer three times and though Kilgharrah watches worriedly, he allows it, confident in Merlin’s ability to read D’Cote. Finally, he accepts D’Cote’s fourth and final offer. That night, D’Cote’s anger is like a raging storm.
It is also the night he takes the red-hot poker to Merlin’s skin and the night he finally lets slip his patron’s name.
Courtesans are not the only ones with patrons. Nearly everyone has a patron or patronizes someone and it is only the services that differ. Kilgharrah is one of the few people to stand apart from this system. Merlin thinks it is one of the reason D’Cote hates Kilgharrah so much. It is one reason he always presses Merlin so much at each meeting, to find out Kilgharrah’s motives.
Merlin knows that as soon as D’Cote uses the poker, D’Cote knows he’s crossed a line he shouldn’t have. For his part, Merlin can only lie where he is, hands bound over his head, ears ringing horribly, stomach roiling as the smell of burnt flesh registered in his mind. He is only barely holding onto consciousness, his magic raging inside, demanding to be let free, to protect him. Merlin holds it back with all he has.
His stomach knots as D’Cote removes the poker from his outer thigh, the skin tearing sickeningly where it has burnt and stuck to the hot metal. In his pain fogged mind, Merlin hears D’Cote as if from a distance, can feel the man’s hand smacking the side of his face gently. “Merlin, Merlin, wake up child. Damn it all, wake up!”
His rough hands smooth over Merlin’s sweat dampened locks and his voice is brusque but gentle, gentler than he has even spoken to Merlin thus far. “Kay l’Ector will have my head if Kilgharrah makes a charge. Merlin, come child, wake up. Warlock, it is nothing but a burn, tis a small thing…”
Slowly, Merlin opens his eyes, fighting back unconsciousness and nausea until he can see properly, his magic quelling somewhat. D’Cote gives a mighty sigh of relief, swiftly untying Merlin’s hands. Gently lifting him into his arms, D’Cote strides from the room, shouting for his servant to call for his physician.
Kilgharrah is not pleaded when Merlin is returned, but he withholds comments, confining Merlin to his bed and calling upon Gaius, the king’s own physician, to see to Merlin. Gaius tuts at him, but says nothing, laying a soothing poultice across the burn, reducing the swelling and drawing anything from it that might cause an infection. He gently bandages the burn in soft cloth.
“I will return in two days to check on him,” Gaius says to Kilgharrah who has only just stopped pacing the short length of Merlin’s room. Freya is seated in a small chair out of both of their ways, holding onto Merlin’s hand firmly. “Check on it in the morning though, and if you smell the odor of mortification, send for me quickly.”
Kilgharrah nods and thanks him. Gaius turns to look at Merlin, “You are lucky young warlock. Try not to make a habit of this.” He pats Merlin’s uninjured leg on the knee and takes his leave. It’s not until Gaius has been shown out by one of the servants that Kilgharrah rounds on Merlin, eyes fiery in his anger and worry.
“I hope that this was worth it,” he says, tone rough with his emotions.
“You tell me, my lord,” Merlin says, wiggling a little, trying to get the pillows to prop him up better. Kilgharrah sighs and between him and Freya, they have Merlin sitting up properly.
“All right,” Kilgharrah says in an annoyed tone, “there is a small mountain’s worth of apology gifts for you from D’Cote and if he doesn’t stop soon, I expect the royal crown of Uther Pendragon will be next. What is so worth you becoming a braised rack of lamb?”
Merlin smirks, sinking into the cushions. “Breunor D’Cote answers to Kay l’Ector.” Duc l’Ector is Uther de la Pendragon’s cousin through marriage. He also has ties to the Tintagel royal family, being cousin to the Ygraine, Tristan, and Agravaine through blood.
“So D’Cote is the front for l’Ector’s ambitions,” Kilgharrah mused aloud. “I have always wondered what kept l’Ector in Camelot when he had more ties in Tintagel. Did you tell him anything?”
“My lord!” Merlin says aloud, sitting up in indignation that Kilgharrah would think such a thing of him.
“I’m sorry, but I had to be sure,” Kilgharrah says, helping to settle Merlin back against the mound of pillows. “Although this information is invaluable, promise me next time, you will use your signal.”
“I will do what I must to aid you, but I swear I did not know he would use the poker,” Merlin tells him sincerely. “My lord, who was Ygraine de la Pendragon to you, that even now she has such sway over you from the grave?”
“Sometimes young warlock, ignorance is best and in this it truly is. Were D’Cote to suspect that you truly knew something worthwhile about me, he would not be so gentle with you.” With a touch to Merlin’s head, he bid the warlock to sleep and heal.
When Gaius returns two days later, he pronounces Merlin to be healing just fine. He gives the warlock a cream to place on the healing burn that will keep the flesh from scaring to horribly and will aid in the growth of new skin.
Kilgharrah forbids Merlin from seeing any more patrons until he is fully healed, so instead he spends his time with Gwaine. Gwaine has risen in station as much as Merlin has and after a heated and long debate with his mother, he eventually gets her to relent some of her hard earned money and buys the building their small home is in. With the rent coming in from their new tenants and the earnings his mother brings in, they live comfortably now, allowing his mother to take in fewer loads of laundry.
This is a good thing, for Gwaine’s mother is not a young woman anymore, her frame thinning and height shrinking, though she still has the muscle from her youth. She smiles softly at Merlin when he arrives, relaxing on one of her not-so-rare-anymore days off. He and Gwaine are soon off, ensconcing themselves at their usual table in the pub.
“So D’Cote is in L’Ector’s pocket,” Gwaine says with a low whistle as Merlin tells him news. “That is something. What does Kilgharrah make of it?”
“Nothing,” Merlin says waspishly. “He gets close-lipped and sprouts off things about ignorance being the smart path. Yet I think he tells Freya things he wouldn’t tell me because she known him longer.” Merlin took a large gulp of his ale, brows furrowed in annoyance.
Gwaine just grins and tosses a coin into the air and catches it, plays it over his knuckles and has it disappear. A trick he’d learned from one of their tenants in return for rent. “You’re jealous.”
“No!” Merlin says hotly and then stops and sighs. “Yes…”
“Has he bedded her yet?” Gwaine asks Merlin.
“No, Kilgharrah isn’t like that, he would never do that,” Merlin says, looking at Gwaine.
Gwaine just shrugs good-naturedly, “Perhaps not, but you have to consider the possibility.”
“No, he is freer with her because her patrons are not as dangerous as mine, or not inclined towards violence. They’ve been in the thick of it ever since he took her to court when the Frumgar was here and had her pose as a scribe. I don’t get why though when the Frumgar is slain and another rules in his place.”
There was a lull in the noise of the pub and someone spoke up behind them. “Pay heed; do not discount the Read Heorot.” They both turned to look but like the time before that, no one was there. Merlin felt a shiver run up his spin and Gwaine looked wary.
“What does it mean?” Gwaine asks.
“The Read Heorot means the Red Hart. It is the symbol of the Frumgar’s line, the line under which his true heir rules. ‘Do not discount the red hart.’” It was just as clear as the first had been and Merlin wondered what it could possibly mean.
When Merlin returns home, he tells Kilgharrah of what he heard. He is in a foul mood and dismisses Merlin’s words. “It was probably someone you couldn’t see.”
“Someone who can speak Hibernian, my lord?” Merlin asks. “I’ve heard it once before and they said I would rue the day I found my answers to my questions about you.”
Kilgharrah’s brows lowered, “Is that so?” Merlin nods.
Freya comes in with a fresh jug of wine, refilling all of their goblets. “My lord, you remember I told you about the Hibernian delegation’s whisperings of why they crossed the strait. They said they followed a vision of a red hart and a golden dragon.”
Kilgharrah hums softly, mulling over their words. “Freya, send word to Juliana de Listinoise tomorrow. Tell her I wish to speak with her.” Freya just nods.
~*~
What Kilgharrah wished to speak of to Juliana, Merlin never learns, but his mind is elsewhere at this time. Nimueh de l’Isle is holding a birthday celebration for Prince Dillon de la Escetia. She contracts the entirety of the Fire branch of the Moonlight Court for the night and invites all three of them to the celebration.
Nimueh is an incredibly wealthy woman, the l’Isle estates are extensive and prosperous and with the added estates of her two deceased husbands, Nimueh lives very comfortably and yet if it weren’t for the rumors surrounding the deaths of these two husbands, Morgause would have considered Nimueh a good match for Prince Dillon.
The city is abuzz with excitement for the Prince’s party. Invitations written in ink that only becomes visible when it is handled by its intended and that give off a fragrance favorable of the invitee are sent out and everyone applauds the use of magic.
“My entire household? I hope you are not implying that you wish them to be part of you contract with the Fire Branch?” Kilgharrah asks as she hands them each an individually rolled scroll. Kilgharrah opens his and the smell of sulfur impregnates the room briefly before he rolls it shut.
“Tut, tut, Kilgharrah, you think so poorly of me. This is why I came to deliver them myself. This is my party and I invite them because they are interesting. They shall be guests, not entertainment.” She smirks just as Freya opens hers and the smell of lavender floods the room briefly.
“I thought the party was Prince Dillon’s?” Kilgharrah asks.
“The party is for the Prince, but it is still my party, Kilgharrah. Surely you can tell that much.”
“If you think you can get the prince to defy his viper of a mother, you are mistaken and will only walk away with fang bites for your trouble,” Kilgharrah says with a smirk and an arched brow.
She laughs softly at his words. “Oh, Kilgharrah, you never stop fishing, do you? If you do not wish to attend…?”
“No, we will attend, you can be sure of that,” he says.
“I look forward to it then,” she answers and curtsies slightly before turning and leaving. Before she leaves the room, she looks at Merlin who still hasn’t opened his invitation yet. Sending him a smirk and blowing a kiss, she finishes her exit.
“Whatever happens, keep your eyes open you two. Nimueh does nothing without reason and though I can see no purpose yet, I still feel something will happen soon.” Letting a small sigh escape, Kilgharrah leaves his two pupils in the study, striding out through Nimueh’s exit.
Merlin waits until he’s in his room to open the invitation. His appears as shining gold ink and the scent of the forest wafts up to his nose. His magic reacts a little at the slight spark of Nimueh’s magic that resides in the invitation. Setting it aside, he gets his magic under control even as memories of Nimueh’s departure appear in his mind.
~*~
They cut a striking image, the three of them. With Kilgharrah in a dark forest green doublet trimmed in silver thread and black hose, Freya in a flattering lavender dress, and Merlin in a red tunic and brown hose, all cut to fit them perfectly, they stand out even amongst Nimueh’s higher up entourage.
Merlin fiddles with the edge of his cloak. A new knife courtesy of D’Cote’s apology gifts, hangs at his belt, shining in the candlelight. “Are you all right?” Freya asks as the carriage pulls up in front of the Court.
“I’m fine,” Merlin says with a smile, forcing himself to still his fidgeting hands. They descend from the carriage to the Prince’s party already in full swing.
Merlin can’t help but stare. Never in his life has he seen the Court so. All the doors and windows stand open, light streaming out from hundreds of candles and torches. Garlands and vases of flowers overflow everywhere, weaving their delicate scents with the smell of roasting meat and human sweat. Voices flood the air, people’s laughter, shouts, moans mingling with music, the noise a cacophony of sound, pounding on his ears. Everything had been paid for by Nimueh, including the members of the Court.
Merlin feels a spark of envy. To be bought for the night, able to be with whomever he chooses, no matter if they have information or not, it is a heady thought. For a moment, Merlin wishes he was still at the Court. And then it hits him that he’s a guest here.
They are escorted into the main hall of the Court, torches and candles illuminating every nook and cranny of the room. The last time Merlin had been in here was the Midwinter Masquerade as a child of ten. It is decorated gaily, flourishes of color splashing the walls, people in silks and velvets of such bright colors that they seem to glow dancing and chatting.
A man in livery stops them, taking their cloaks as another announces their names to the crowd. “Merlin,” someone calls out and he turns to see Dame Fors standing behind him.
She has aged, gray threading through her hair, but her skin is still smooth except for a few lines and her eyes are still bright. She smiles warmly at him, arms opened in greeting. Merlin steps forward into her embrace, her perfume rolling off of her subtly, a floral fragrance. “Welcome back, dear,” she whispers to him.
He pulls away, smiling and nodding and tackled from the side. Staggering, he holds himself and Gwen up, stopping their fall. “Merlin,” she says joyously, hugging him fiercely.
“Must you jump on me every time I come here?” he asks her with a wide grin.
“Sorry,” Gwen says, blushing and stepping back to brush her dress down.
Dame steps forward, “I must speak with Kilgharrah, go enjoy yourself dear.” Nodding, Merlin watches the two of them fade into the crowd.
Gwen and Freya grab him by an arm and tug him through the crowd. When Gwen tugs them into an empty room, he frowns, wondering why they are in there. “I wanted to show you something,” she admits. Reaching behind her, she unfastens her dress, tugging at the shoulders, the pale yellow material sliding down.
Turning, Merlin and Freya let out a collective gasp. Gwen’s Mearcung is completely finished. It is a riot of color; twining white lilies, daisies, and iris cover her upper back, the green of their stems flowing to rest just above the dip of her buttock. Flecks of yellow stand out against the white of the flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” Freya whispers. She steps forward to help Gwen redo her dress.
“When did you finish it?” Merlin asks.
“Last month. I’ve been meaning to meet up with you, but I’ve been busy, what with preparing for this party.” Dress back in place, she smiles at him. “I’m leaving the court for good.”
Merlin’s heart stutters, but he puts a smile on his face. “Where will you go then?”
“Don’t be angry. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I never really belonged here what with me having no magic. And though I’m grateful for Dame taking me in, this isn’t where I wish to spend the rest of my life,” Gwen explains, cupping his cheek.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. Dame contacted someone she knows for work on the Du Lac family grounds as an assistant to their gardener. You know how I always loved to garden,” Merlin nods, throat closing up.
“Will I get to see you again?” Merlin asks.
“Of course, you silly man. You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Gwen says hotly, hugging him around the neck, Merlin wrapping his arms tightly around the waist of his oldest friend. Pulling away from him, Gwen turns to Freya. “I’ll miss you as well.” The two hug,
“I’ve already spoken to Gwaine and he told me to tell you two that if you ever need to send me a letter, just send it through him and it will get to me,” she informs them. Merlin nods. “Now come, there’s a party for all and this should be a happy night.” She grabs them by the arm and tugs them out of the room.
As they make their way through the crowds, they come upon a throng of people in front of the dais at the head of the room. Kilgharrah is there as well, eyeing the group seated on the dais. Prince Dillon de la Escetia sat with a two of his higher ranking men and Nimueh de l’Isle.
“Well, look who has arrived,” Dillon says aloud, nudging the man to his right. He stretches back, staring down regally at the four of them. “My lord Kilgharrah, I so hope you have made up with my kinsmen Uriens. He did so speak fondly of you and it pains me to see him unhappy over your quarrel. Tell me what have you brought, more charming bedfellows?”
“You have a good humor, your majesty. May I introduce to you my two wards, Freya nó Emrys and Merlin nó Emrys. We come bearing wishes for your good health on this joyous occasion of your birth,” Kilgharrah says evenly, bowing. Merlin and Freya follow likewise.
One of the Court steps forward with a wrapped gift, handing it to Kilgharrah. Thanking the girl, he walks forward to hand it to the prince. “For you, your majesty.” The prince doesn’t even open it, setting it aside with a nod.
“It is much appreciated; you and your…guests have leave to enjoy yourself.” Merlin sees Freya flush slightly, but Kilgharrah just bows again.
“That’s him, the warlock that I’ve been hearing about. Look at his eyes,” the man on Dillon’s left exclaims standing up. Drawing his sword, he goes to lift Merlin’s tunic, “Come, warlock, show us some magic.”
Before Merlin can even react, the sound of metal on metal rings through the hall and Kilgharrah’s sword it out, the soldier’s sword on the ground. The man wrings his hand from the impact, glaring at Kilgharrah.
“Your majesty, may I remind you that my wards are not only under my protection, but yours and my lady Nimueh’s, as well as being guests?” Kilgharrah says smoothly to the prince who is standing, hand resting on the hilt of his own sword.
“You’ve made your point, you old dragon, no need to blow smoke at me. Leave the children alone, boys. We have the whole of the court to entertain us.” Sheathing his sword, Kilgharrah steps back to allow the man to retrieve his sword from the ground.
Dillon’s eyes return to Merlin a moment later, taking in the flecks of gold in Merlin’s eyes and sliding down his frame. “A true warlock, huh?” Nimueh smirks and leans over, whispering something into his ear. He smirks at her words, kissing the back of her hand. “You are brilliant, my lady.” Seeing those gathered around the dais, he sits back. “If you wish to please me, go, enjoy yourselves. I command it.”
Kilgharrah snorts but complies, stepping back and leading, Merlin, Freya, and Gwen away from the dais. Merlin glances back once to see Nimueh following their path. Unnerved, Merlin slips away, letting the flow of the crowds carry him where they will.
Thirsty, Merlin searches out a drink bearer and finds one stationed along the wall. Her eyes are down and she holds the tray of drinks out. As he grabs a goblet of wine, he lets his fingers brush against her hand. She glances up, cheeks flushed a little. Feeling a little uncomfortable from this side of the scene, he smiles and walks off, ignoring her questioning glance.
Merlin tries to pay attention as Kilgharrah had asked them to but the wine and the music and the heat all play to distract him, making him feel buoyant, as if floating through the other guests. What he does hear is nothing new: talk about the king and is ailments, the princess and heir and her lack of marriage, the restless Pict.
Growing warm in the mass of people, Merlin starts to make his way out, hoping for some cool air to clear his head. Following an old familiar path to the back garden, he stops as a familiar voice sounds. Stepping back into the shadows, he listens.
“Why do you constantly refuse me?” Reynold Gunter asks, voice strained with anger and frustration.
Merlin starts as Freya’s voice answers him, cool and aloof, “I had not expected to see you here tonight, sir. Tintagel and Escetia are not known to be friends.”
“But they are not enemies either. The Lady Nimueh pays well for the information a trader might pick up, especially that concerning the royal lines. I am just a lowly merchant and must make my keep somehow. Why have you not accepted any of my offers for your trade?” His voice is wheedling.
Merlin can hear the sound of cloth rustling, as if Freya has shaken Reynold off. “I am a practitioner of the Old Religion, not some back alley whore. I have accepted your offer seven times and seven times you have paid you contract and given nothing in offering towards my Mearcung!”
“I will this time, I swear. A patron-gift of your choosing, whatever it is you desire, it will be yours.” Reynold’s voice shakes in his desperation.
Freya takes a breath and blows it out, “Enough to finish my Mearcung and the answer to Kilgharrah’s question. That is my price.”
“You ask too much,” he says, breathing coming in a sharp gasp.
“It is the only price I will accept,” she says firmly. Merlin presses against the wall, straining to hear all that is happening. “Merlin feels a twinge of guilt. He had known for some time that Freya did not enjoy the act of homage as Merlin did, but he had been so caught up in himself that he had never realized how much she disliked it.
“If I pay this, I will not see you again,” he says, trying to reason.
“If you pay it, you will see me once more. If you do not, you will never see me again,” she says, voice like steel.
Reynold gives out a pained moan. “It is too much. I need to think on it.”
Freya does not reply and Merlin presses further back into the shadows as Reynold leaves. As Freya leaves, Merlin leans forward to get a glimpse of her face. Her jaw is set and her eyes hard. A fine tremor runs through her body as the shock of the deal she just struck hits her.
She starts to walk away and Merlin lets her. As her footsteps fade, he emerges from the shadows and goes in the opposite direction. He emerges in the back gardens of the Court. They are still as he remembers, the fountain off to the side, the vine covered trellis on the back wall. But even here, Merlin is not alone. Lovers cling to each other under the moonlight.
He feels alone for the first time since he was a child. He wishes Gwaine were here. At least then he could laugh with his friend.
“Merlin.”
He knows that voice and turns to see Nimueh de l’Isle standing behind him, surrounded by night blooming flowers and moonlight. The light makes her pale skin glow and her eyes are as dark as the sky between the stars.
“Why are you here alone?” she asks. “Would you reject my hospitality so easily?”
Merlin shakes his head, clearing away the thought from earlier. He needs a clear head when dealing with this woman. “No, my lady.”
“Good,” she is close enough that Merlin can smell her perfume and feel the heat radiating from her body. “Do you know what is said about the very first warlock?” Merlin shakes his head, his senses already spinning out of control. “It is said that an ancient king offered him all the riches of the world, if the warlock would stop the great change from happening and that the man refused for his love of the balance of the Old Religion.”
Running a hand along his cheek, she caresses his skin, leaving a trail of fire in her wake. “I believe I have found the perfect gift for Prince Dillon tonight.” Sharp finger tips grip his chin in a harsh grip, pulling his head down hard and she kisses him.
Merlin gasps as she lets him go, falling to the rim of the fountain behind him. He presses a hand to his lips as he fights to control his magic as it roils in his body, fighting to be free of his control. Pulling his hand away from his mouth, he sees red. She had bitten his lip.
“Unfortunately, he is well entertained here and I promised to join him. I will talk with your mater on the morrow about making arrangements. I own him that much of a farewell gift,” she says, straightening her dress. She turns and beckons to a young man waiting in the shadows. “Merlin is my guest. See that he is well pleased.” He bows gracefully as Nimueh leaves.
~*~
Merlin isn’t sure if the others availed themselves of Nimueh’s hospitality like he did, but Kilgharrah gives his disheveled appearance a sidelong glance and a smirk on the carriage ride home.
True to her word, Nimueh sends a man around the next morning to Kilgharrah pay her a visit. Merlin spends Kilgharrah’s time away reading up on a book that Gaius had given him sometime back. It contained stories and legends of past warlocks and their feats. It is in Druidic and he spends most of his time translating it and honing his skills that have been neglected.
Merlin is still awake when Kilgharrah returns to find him curled up in a chair near the fire, reading the spidery and faded script on the yellowing pages. He arches a brow and Merlin lowers the book, using a piece of scrap parchment to mark his spot in the book. “You have somehow caught Prince Dillon’s eye and Nimueh has a mind to buy him a night with you.”
Merlin shrugs, setting the book on the table. “Is it not to our advantage? You know I am prudent when it comes to both of them.”
“You are agreeable then?” Merlin nods and he sighs, taking a seat next to the fire. He notices Merlin’s translations on the table and picks them up.
“How could I not be? With Uriens still mad at you and Sharia Gairn out of favor with Morgause, we have no channels into Escetia,” Merlin says, sitting forward.
“Prince Dillon de Escetia has not only been raised by Morgause and Cenred since birth, he has Nimueh in his shadow, controlling the strings. He is a dangerous man should he catch you at your game. You must promise me you will keep your lips sealed. One word from Nimueh and he will have you head, young warlock.” He set the parchment down, finished reading it. “A fair translation. Make a copy and I will send it to Plaine. He has interest in such things.”
Merlin nods to Kilgharrah. “My lady Nimueh is your friend, do you trust her so little to think she would betray you?”
Taking up his pipe, he lit it with a taper from the fire. Sucking in a drag, he let the smoke out with a mighty gust. “Nimueh has always played a subtle game, and I do not know what it is she plays at. If our paths were ever to cross, I would not rely too heavily on our friendship to see me through. She knows at what lengths I will go to-,” Kilgharrah stops his words. “It matters not. Just remember my words in that she is not to be trusted and say nothing to her, young warlock.”
“Was she your lover?” Merlin asks, wondering what their connection is besides friendship.
Kilgharrah smirks, “A long time ago.” His words give nothing away and Merlin frowns a little. “We are well matched, but that wasn’t one of them. Or it could be we were too well matched.” Taking another drag, he let it out slowly. “If it is your wish to accept the contract, then I will have it drawn up.”
“It is.”
~*~
The date is set for some weeks ahead. Merlin busies himself with the translations for Plaine de Bawes. They are interesting to Merlin, but when he shows them to Freya, she only skims them briefly. He can’t blame her though.
A week has passed since she gave Reynold her price and there has still been no word back. Merlin holds his tongue about his knowledge of Freya’s demand, not even telling Kilgharrah. He does speak of it with Alice when she drags him away to the hot springs.
“You are right not to interfere. This is between Freya and the Balance. If her heart is true, all will right itself in the end,” Alice says, relaxing into the heated water.
“Her heart has always been true,” Merlin says with a smile, remembering his sister of choice.
“Then all shall be fine in the end,” Alice says with conviction.
~*~
Eventually, the day finally arrives for Merlin’s assignation. With it arrives clothing from Nimueh, an entire outfit made of cloth-of-gold. Merlin can’t help but caress the cloth. Merlin has never lacked for fine clothing since he came to be a part of Kilgharrah’s household, but he has never had something as fine as this.
Freya sits on his bed as he turns in the mirror, adjusting a hem there and a line there until he is satisfied.
“Be careful, Merlin,” she says softly.
“I am always careful,” Merlin assures her, looking at her dark eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“You weren’t careful with D’Cote and you will not be careful with Nimueh. You lose yourself every time she is near, I’ve seen it. And she knows what we are.”
“I am for the prince tonight, not Nimueh,” Merlin says instead of admitting her words right.
“She will still be there. I have heard rumors that she is the spark for his desire,” she tells him.
“I will be careful,” Merlin says softly. The carriage arrives and no more is said as they descend the stairs. Kilgharrah waits at the door to inspect him.
“Good,” he says, voice a deep rumble as he settles Merlin’s cloak over his shoulders, the deep blue-black contrasting sharply with the cloth-of-gold. “A member of the house of Emrys with a Prince of Escetia. Who would have thought this to be?” he says softly, a smirk playing over his lips. “Be wary, young warlock. I would hate to have to find another one as skilled as you,” Kilgharrah jokes softly.
Grinning, Merlin walks out with Will a silent shadow at his back.
Merlin isn’t sure how many residents Nimueh has, but he does know that she has one in the city. He had assumed it would be close to the castle, but instead it is on the outskirts of the city, butting up against the forests that surround Camelot. She uses it for private entertaining, for her and Prince Dillon.
Merlin is surprised when the servants open the door and Nimueh is standing there to welcome him like a guest. “Merlin,” she says with a smile, lips painted their usual crimson. “I do not believe you have been formally introduced yet to Prince Dillon de la Escetia?”
“Your majesty,” Merlin says with a bow.
“I am honored to have one so touched by the Old Religion to accept my invitation,” he says, pulling Merlin up with a hand to his chin. Up close he is handsomer than Merlin remembers. His face is tanned, a thin scar running up the side of his face. Crisp curling locks, like his fathers, accent the sharp lines of his face and bring out the honeyed highlights in his dark brown eyes.
“Come,” Nimueh says softly, laying a hand on Merlin shoulder. His magic sparks under his skin and for a second he trembles, caught between the two of them. “Would you play for us?” she asks and Merlin has to drag in a steadying breath before he can nod.
She motions to a servant who has just appeared. “See to Kilgharrah’s man.” The servant bows and leads Will away as Merlin follows Nimueh and Dillon into an adjoining room.
It takes Merlin a second to draw up the skills to play the small lute. It has been some years since he last played for anyone by request and even longer since he played for pleasure. Feeling clumsy, he starts to play until his fingers warm up and the music sounds as it should.
Servants serve the two seated at the table, bringing course after course. Nimueh and Dillon speak in low hushed tones, eating and feeding each other as Merlin plays.
As the last dish is served and cleared away, Nimueh turns to Merlin, “Come join us.” Setting the lute aside, Merlin stands and walks over to stand next to them at the table. “Drink,” she says handing him a goblet of wine. Merlin drinks deeply, thirsty after so long playing, and savors the rich wine.
“You were raised at the Court,” Dillon says sipping from his goblet, “are you as delicate as some of the members there seemed to be?” He stands and circles to stand behind Merlin.
“No, sire,” Merlin says softly, ignoring the desire to defend his old home. Sword calloused hands grip at his waist, pulling him back until he is pressed up against the prince. He can feel the prince’s cock stir against his arse through the layers of clothing and Merlin’s breathe catches in his throat.
“Merlin is a warlock, my prince. He is by no means delicate,” Nimueh purrs from across the table, sipping at her wine with smirking lips.
“It is hard to imagine so much power in one body,” he says softly, running a hand up Merlin’s side. “And yet you speak truthfully,” he says, thumbing at Merlin nipple, drawing a soft inhale from Merlin. “And dressed fit for a prince as well.” Strong fingers dig into his hair, pulling Merlin’s head back, bearing his neck as Dillon sucked at the pale skin there. “Shall I have him for dessert?” he asks, looking at Nimueh with a laugh.
“You have all night, my prince. This is but the first round. Have him on the table if you truly wish,” she says, settling back into her chair.
The hand in his hair lowers to Merlin’s neck, pressing him forward until he is bent over the table, cheek mashed into the fine linen tablecloth. With one hand Dillon yanks down Merlin hose and undoes his own breeches.
Merlin had prepared himself before hand and the prince gives a low growl of approval as he thrusts into Merlin. Prince Dillon is no green lad to end it all quickly and Merlin can only gasp and clutch at the cloth beneath him as the man behind him moves with long, slow thrusts, pulling humiliating whimpers from Merlin’s throat.
The chair creaks as Nimueh stands and her dress rustles as she comes to stand behind the prince. “Drive him hard, my love,” she says with a sultry voice, “I want to watch him come from your thrusts alone.”
Merlin can only gasp and whine as Dillon’s thrusts drive him on and over the edge. He claws at the cloth, arching off of the table, as much as he can with Dillon’s hand still pressing him to the table. Dillon gives a howl, spending himself inside Merlin; thrusts slowing as he works himself through the aftershocks.
“I need to get me one of these,” he says panting as he pulls out of Merlin. Merlin straightens uncomfortably, fixing his clothing.
“Unfortunately, Merlin is a thing of rarity and he is pledged to Kilgharrah and the Balance. Besides, this was just a taste. There is more to be had…unless you wish to give the signal?” Nimueh asks, turning to look at Merlin.
Merlin shakes his head. He will not speak that word to Prince Dillon and certainly not to Nimueh while she serves his pleasure. “Well, then, let us play.”
Nimueh leads them down a short hall to another room. Inside is a whole play chamber from a bed set into a corner, to the flogging posts on the other side of the room. Merlin gulps slightly, but bites his tongue.
They usher him into the room and gently strip the cloth-of-gold from his body until he stands naked in the room. Shivering at a slight draft, he allows himself to be tied to the posts. With his arms and legs outstretched eagle-style, he is exposed. Merlin shivers again.
“How is it done?” Dillon asks, not on who usually uses toys. “Do I give a Pictish war cry and charge him?” he asks in jest. “Selises Arrœk!” he shouts and laughs again. Merlin flinches at the name.
“You may do it however you wish,” Nimueh says, walking around to see Merlin’s face. She has a flogger in her hand, the thin pieces of soft leather swinging with each step she takes. Stepping up behind him, she makes sure he is secured to the posts before stepping back.
“Like this,” she says and then lines of warmth run down Merlin’s back. She hadn’t hit hard enough to properly damage the skin, but the welts left will certainly be there for a few days. Merlin flinches as the flogger cracks and instead of lines, there are points of heat on his skin, only the tips of the leather striking his skin.
It goes on for some time with Nimueh showing Dillon the different ways to wield the instrument. After a while though, the prince grows bored with the warlock and tugs Nimueh over to the bed, leaving Merlin strapped to the posts.
Merlin isn’t sure when he passed out, but he wakes up in a bed in one of Nimueh’s guest chambers. His back is a little sore, but other than that he feels fine. A servant leads him to the dining room from the night before, Nimueh already seated at it, sipping at her tea.
She smiles as Merlin walks in. “The carriage is ready and Kilgharrah’s man is waiting for you.” She places a purse on the table between them. “The clothing is yours to keep and this is a patron-gift, to honor the Balance.” She smirks again as he picks up the pouch, feeling the heavy coins inside. “You are indeed a gift fit for a prince, Merlin.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Fit for a farewell gift, my lady? Who is saying goodbye?”
She laughs softly, “Kilgharrah’s pupil indeed. I will tell you if you tell me what you know of Selises Arrœk.”
Merlin doesn’t reply and she laughs again. Standing she comes around to kiss him on the cheek. “Give Kilgharrah my regards. One day, perhaps we can meet again, young warlock, and there will be no prince between us.”
Merlin shudders as she leaves. Shaking himself free of her spell, he walks out.
~*~
Merlin doesn’t even wait for Kilgharrah to summon him to his study. The moment he steps out of the carriage, he walks towards the study where he knows the man to be waiting. Although he does not tell Kilgharrah everything, some things are better left unsaid; he lays everything else on the table for Kilgharrah to pick through.
He frowns, thinking over all that Merlin has told him. “Dillon thought it was a Pictish war cry?” Merlin nods. “Did he give any sign that the words meant aught else to him?” Remembering the way he had laughed, Merlin shakes his head. Prince Dillon is ignorant of what the words truly mean.
“No, he joked about it, but he knew not what they meant. They meant something to Nimueh though.” Merlin leans forward, elbows braced against his knees.
“And he gave no acknowledgement that you were a…what did Nimueh call it? A farewell gift?”
Merlin shakes his head. “No, he gave no indication he knew and Nimueh only spoke of it when we were alone.” Merlin frowns, remembering how Kilgharrah had brought Nimueh to flaunt Merlin in front of her so many years before. “She wants an audience and she has chosen you, my lord. Whatever is to happen, she wants you to know that she is the hand behind it.”
Kilgharrah turns solemn eyes on Merlin. “You may be right, but the question remains: what is to occur?”
~*~
Part 3b