Merlin Fanfiction: Love As Thou Wilt | Part 3b
A week goes by before they learn of Nimueh’s goal.
It is Uriens de Isidore who brings the news to the Emrys household, too stunned by the news to remember his quarrel with Kilgharrah.
They are roused from their beds by the clatter of hooves in the courtyard and Uriens’ unmistakable bellow from below, “Kilgharrah!” Merlin has known the Comte de Isidore since he was a child and never has he heard the man yell so.
They all scramble out of their beds, throwing on the closest garments. Kilgharrah is fastest, already dressed and sword in hand as he reaches the main door at the bottom of the staircase. Will appears from a different direction, silent as a ghost, sword in hand as well. Merlin and Freya are close behind.
Surrounded by his men-at-arms, Uriens sits atop his horse white as a ghost, oblivious to the sword in Kilgharrah’s hand. His horse is trembling, sweat coating its flanks as its sides heave with each breath. Uriens tightens his grip on the reins and the horse shifts under him.
“Valiant d’Alene has just accused House Escetia of high treason,” he says grimly.
“You must be joking,” Kilgharrah bites out as he lowers his sword.
Uriens shakes his head. “No. He has proof: letters, addressed to Morgause from Vela of Hibernia, the wife of the late Frumgar.”
“How?” Kilgharrah asks.
“Messenger birds.” The horse shifts again and Uriens quiets the beast. “They’ve been corresponding since the Frumgar’s visit. What do I do? I am innocent in this matter, but I have a home and family to think of. Uther has already sent his fastest riders to the Comte de Dieu. He is mustering the royal army. He means war.”
Merlin turns to look at Kilgharrah and can see the wheels turning in his head. “You say you knew nothing of this?”
Uriens stiffens in the saddle, looking offended. “You know me, my friend. I am loyal to the Pendragon family, despite my family ties.”
“There will be a trial. Uther will not let this go without one, despite it being Cenred’s own family.” Kilgharrah paces a few steps before stopping and turning back around. “Send your three fastest men to Isidore. Tell them to turn out the guard and admit no one unless they bear orders in Uther’s own hand. We will send a letter to Pellinore de Dieu, there is still time to intercept him. He knows you and will not move against Isidore without orders from the king. This is Morgause’s doing, not the entire line. He will not punish the whole line for her misdeeds.”
Some of the tension seems to bleed from the tired man’s shoulders. “Prince Dillon has been implicated as well.”
Merlin draws in a sharp breath and Freya grips his elbow, shaking her head in warning. Kilgharrah doesn’t even react to the noise.
“You better come in,” Kilgharrah says to Uriens, “and tell me everything you know. Get your men moving and we will write the letter. We shall petition Uther. He is no fool, he will hear you out.”
Uriens nods after a moment and dismounts, giving orders to his men and tossing them his purse for the journey. They leave in a clatter of hooves until the sound fades away. Voices can be heard shouting the news in the distance of Camelot. “Come in,” Kilgharrah repeats.
Kilgharrah orders food and wine brought. Uriens seems to settle with each bite and sip until he is no longer jerking at each sound that is heard from outside. Merlin and Freya hover in the background, making themselves useful as they wait for Uriens to tell what he knows.
“What happened?” Kilgharrah asks.
Uriens lays it out as best as he can from the limited information he has gleaned or was given from a friend who is one of Uther’s lords-in-waiting. Uriens had come directly to Kilgharrah the moment he had heard, not knowing where else to go or who else to turn to.
The story is that Valiant d’Alene had learned of the accusation through the drunken boasting of one of Dillon’s men, deep in his cups on leave after a patrol of the border. D’Alene had investigated and upon finding proof, had taken it straight to Uther, riding day and night to reach Camelot. Without waiting for an audience to be granted, he had stormed into a public hearing with his accusation: Morgause le Fey de la Escetia had conspired with Vela of Hibernia and her son, the new Frumgar, to join forces. Backed by a Hibernian army, she planned to invade Camelot from two different fronts and place Prince Dillon on the throne of the combined kingdoms. In exchange, she would put the forces of Escetia to aid the Frumgar in his attack against the Wigend and their allies to secure his throne in Hibernia. They would have little hope to stop the Fisher King, but hoping they could distract him long enough to ferry the Hibernian ships across, they would use the conquered Camelot navy to secure a passage back across the strait.
“A clever plan,” Uriens says, sipping morosely at his goblet of wine. “If D’Alene hadn’t proved loyal to the crown, despite being Dillon’s friend, he would have gotten away with it.”
Kilgharrah asks gently, “And what of Cenred?” Uriens had never lost any sleep over a friendship with Morgause, but he and Cenred had been friends as children, and he and his cousin were still close.
“If I knew, I would tell you, my friend. In my heart I would never think he could do such a thing, but with him at odds with Uther over the slight with Petit Fils’ fleet and his pride, I do not know. He has long felt slighted by Uther’s flaunting of his fleet and army. If Morgause presented him with her plan altogether…I don’t know.”
“I understand,” Kilgharrah says, resting a hand on his knee. “How did D’Alene get the letters?”
Merlin knows the answer before Uriens even speaks it, “Nimueh de l’Isle.”
Merlin goes to speak and Kilgharrah sends him a warning look. Merlin’s not stupid enough to divulge his knowledge of Nimueh’s involvement. “Dillon was under her thrall. Why give him up when he stood to gain the throne?”
Uriens laughs darkly. “I would like to say it is because she is loyal to the throne, but that is untrue. It was most likely she knew Morgause would never allow her to marry her step-son. Morgause wants an obedient daughter-in-law, preferably one with connections and money. I highly doubt that if Dillon hasn’t defied her yet, he ever would have over Nimueh. Nimueh is formidable, but she is no match for the Viper of Escetia.”
If Merlin hadn’t been Nimueh’s farewell gift to Dillon, he might have believed Uriens’ words, but he knows Nimueh is far too smart to simply throw Prince Dillon away without having a way to gain from it. The “proof” that she had acquired was most likely laid weeks if not months in advance. The treachery is real though, despite Nimueh’s plans. Morgause is an ambitious woman in her own right.
They will have to hold their tongues and allow Nimueh to gain the praise of being “loyal” to the crown. She and Duc d’Alene will gain greatly from this. People always say that warriors think with their swords, but Merlin isn’t so sure the Duc d’Alene fits that mold.
The next few days are full of tensions and tempers as war is narrowly avoided. Prince Dillon and his step-mother, who has been visiting a friend in Camelot, are brought before the high council for trial. Cenred arrives soon after the accusation is made, escorted by the Comte de Dieu’s soldiers, as well as his daughter Dalia de la Escetia. Under the laws of the five kingdoms, all shall be questioned before the high council to prove either their innocence or guilt in the matter.
As the royal army sweeps through Camelot on its way to the border, Uther hears Uriens petition. Granting him clemency to the house of Isidore, he places Uriens under house arrest until the start of the trial.
Kilgharrah is called in to testify on Uriens behalf, his loyalty still in question. Merlin and Freya are able to attend and Merlin has little time to take in the splendor of the castle for the first time. There are no seats for the attending nobles, but the three of them find standing room to the side with a good view.
Uther sits on his throne. To his right is Morgana and around them sit the twenty-seven other nobles who have been chosen for the trial, nobles from all five kingdoms. The Palace Guard stand at attention behind the table on the raised dais and two Knights stand at attention behind Uther and Morgana’s seats, their black tunics giving away their purpose.
Morgause le Fey de la Escetia is the first to be brought forth for questioning. Merlin has only seen Morgause once from a distance, but has heard tales all his life of this formidable woman, the Viper of Escetia. She sweeps into the hall with her head high, blonde locks shining under the torchlight. She is dressed in House Le Fey colors, the purple and black marking her for what she is, half-sister to Morgana. Shackles wrap around her wrists, something she had demanded be done.
For her part, Morgause neither admits nor denies anything as the proof is offered up to her, her chin rising. She does not speak to Uther, but to Morgana. She is ten years Morgana’s senior and there is no great affection between them, though there is the ties of kinship.
“How do you plead to these charges?” Uther asks her. His voice is like iron, resounding through the room as the council finishes laying out the evidence. His hand shakes were it rests on the arm of his throne.
Morgause laughs at that, head thrown back briefly before she turns her gaze on Uther. “You dare to ask me that?” her voice is full of disdain. “Let me ask you then and see what you say. You cripple this kingdom as you cling to the traditions of the past. You hide behind your illegitimate spawn and make alliances with everyone to keep the peace. It is time for change in Albion, for new ways to rise up. Why else has a warlock appeared now?” she yells out and Merlin shrinks back, hoping that no one is looking his way.
People stir restlessly and start to murmur. Some probably agree with Morgause’s words but the impassive faces of Uther, Morgana and the lords and ladies of the council keep them from saying anything. Uther glares at Morgause.
“Then you plead guilty,” Uther de la Pendragon says softly. “What part did your husband play in it? Your son and daughter?”
“They knew nothing. This was all my doing,” Morgause says.
“We shall see.” Uther looks to the council. “How will you sentence her?”
Slowly, one by one, they hold out their hands, thumbs extended, and turn them down: Death. Morgana is the last to give her vote. Her eyes are hard as they stare out at her half-sister who would have killed her to get the Camelot throne. Her hand points down. “Death,” she says evenly.
“So be it,” Uther says aloud. “Morgause le Fey de la Escetia, you have three days to name the manner of death.” He motions to the Palace Guard to escort her out of the room. She offers no struggle and leaves with her head held high.
Cenred de la Escetia is called in next.
The king of Escetia looks similar to his kinsmen Uriens. They both have the dark hair and thin blade of a nose that marks the Escetian line. This is Merlin’s first time seeing the King and he looks tired. Cenred holds up his empty shackled hands, drawing Uther’s gaze. “We Escetians have always been known for our pride as well as our passions. I have sinned against you, in pride and love.”
“Do you admit to helping Morgause in her plans to seize the throne of Camelot?” Uther asks.
“I say I loved her too well.” Cenred’s gaze never wavers from Uther’s face. “I loved her who shares blood with your own heir. I knew, but I did not stop her when she sent orders to the admiral of my fleet, nor the Captain of my Guard. I knew.”
Again just as slowly, the hands came out and turn downward. Morgana is again the last to vote, her gaze thoughtful as she stares at Cenred. “Let him be banished,” she says coolly, turning to look at her father and the rest of the council.
“What say you?” Uther asks the council. None speak, but all nod and hold out their hands, palms facing outward. “Cenred de la Escetia, for your crimes against Camelot and Albion, you are banished from Albion and you title as king forfeit. You have three days to leave this land and should you ever return a bounty of ten thousand gold pieces shall be placed on your head. Do you accept these terms?”
Cenred turned to look at Uther, “You jest.”
Uther draws himself up, eyes hard. “I do not jest!” His voice echoes through the room. “Do you accept?”
“I accept,” he says subdued. Cenred’s head jerks up, “Uther, my daughter knew nothing! She is innocent in this matter.”
“We shall see,” Uther says again as Cenred is escorted from the room. “Be gone from this land.”
The lords and ladies whisper up at the table. They have planned to call Dillon next, but they change their minds, calling instead Dalia de la Escetia, Dillon’s sister, into the room.
Few could tell that she is Prince Dillon’s half-sister. She is Morgause’s true child and she looks more like her mother than her father. Her blonde curls are cut short and she carries herself much like her mother, the thin Escetian nose held proudly in the air.
Within several minutes of questioning, it is obvious that she had known as much as her father and had done nothing. The vote is the same: banishment. Father and daughter will survive, but not on Albion soil.
Last to come forth is Prince Dillon de la Escetia.
Like Morgause, he comes into the room in chains, letting them shake with each step. He holds his head up high, glaring at those in the room.
“Prince Dillon de la Escetia, you stand accused of high treason. How do you plead?”
“I am innocent,” Dillon shouts.
Uther looks off to the side and Valiant, Duc d’Alene walks out from a side chamber. His face is stiff as a mask as he comes to stand before Dillon. He gives his testimony to the council. His story is the same as what Uriens had told them. D’Alene withdraws and Nimueh steps forward.
She is surrounded by her kinsmen and kinswoman, all bearing the stamp of House l’Isle: blue-black hair, sapphire eyes, all wearing the crimson and black of their house. Merlin can feel their magic from the other side of the room, his own magic reacting and he is grateful when Freya wraps an arm around his waist, grounding him to the here and now.
Although it must be hard, Nimueh pulls off, somehow, a semblance of modesty, giving her testimony in a subdued voice. She says that Dillon showed her the letters in boast.
It is enough and the council hold out their hands again, thumbs down.
Death.
Morgana is again last, eyes hard as she stared at Dillon, “Tell me cousin, would you have wed me off to the highest bidder or just killed me outright?”
Prince Dillon gives no answer and it is enough. Morgana holds out her hand and points her thumb down.
“So be it,” Uther intones. “Prince Dillon de la Escetia, you are sentenced to death. You have three days to pick the manner of your choosing.” The prince is not as graceful as Morgause, stumbling from the room, disbelief evident on his face.
Uriens’ trial goes without a hitch. There is no evidence and with Kilgharrah’s testimony to back him up, he is absolved of all charges and his titles kept. Merlin watches Morgana and her eyes never leave Kilgharrah as he speaks, something hidden in her gaze.
~*~
The executions are held in private.
Many believed that Morgause would have a public execution, just to prove her point, but in the end her pride wins out. She takes a swift-acting poison, falling into a gentle sleep to never wake again. Prince Dillon is ever the soldier, even in death. When he learns of his mother’s choice in death, he calls for his sword. His shackles are removed and the Captain of the Guard is called in to be his second. His aim is true and pierces straight to the heart.
The city and even the five kingdoms fall into a subdued atmosphere, as if mourning the deaths. With no heirs left in Albion, the Escetian throne is passed to a cousin, not Uriens who refuses. Merlin wonders how this will change the course of history and fate.
Even Gwaine is sucked in by the somber atmosphere, his usually flippant demeanor subdued. He had made a large amount of money on a bet for the manner of death, but ever the superstitious soul, refused to spend it.
“It is cursed money,” Gwaine says and spits.
“So what will you do with it, give it away?” Merlin asks as they walk along the road towards Gwaine’s stable. He has built it up over the years until it is now well-known place with a large clientele from all over Camelot.
“And pass it on, are you nuts?” He shoulders Merlin with a small grin. “No, I’ll use it to make an offering to the Balance and the Old Religion. Perhaps it will do them good in their next life. Let’s see if there are any horses to spare.”
The boy tending the stables is quick to jump up and get them their mounts. They didn’t wait long before the two mounts are brought out, saddled and ready for them to ride. It takes Merlin a moment to scramble up the horse and into the saddle but once seated, he follows Gwaine out of the stable and out onto the road proper.
Gwaine sets a slow pace, keeping an eye on Merlin who’d never ridden a horse until this moment. It takes most of his concentration to stay on the horse’s back, but he still hears the third set of hoof beats behind them, Will no doubt trying to keep up with them.
The streets are empty as they make their way through, only a few groups out here and there, talking no doubt about the executions. Many wear the black of mourning, though they turn away as Merlin and Gwaine draw near.
“Do you grieve for him?” Gwaine asks.
Merlin can’t answer right away, trying to stay on his horse as they go around a stopped cart. Finally, he looks up. “Prince Dillon?” Merlin remembers the arrogant soldier and noble, the man who had held him down, pressed against the table, the drunk and joyful man from nine years before at the Winter Masquerade. He remembers Nimueh presenting him to Dillon, the last gift he would ever receive: the gift of death. “I do.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwaine says softly.
Merlin shook his head. “It’s all right. Let’s go to the temple.” They ride for some time in silence, the trees rising up and swallowing them in their growing silence. Around them, the plants breath life and natural magic and Merlin basks in its glow, soaking up the very thing that defines him.
They are silent as they ride into the clearing. The last time Merlin had been here was when he had dedicated himself. It feels right to come back here, to make an offering. The hidden stairway is just as narrow as he remembers it and Gwaine goes first, their steps loud in the silence and gloom.
Merlin isn’t surprised to see a priest waiting for them as they emerge onto the flat top. The sky above is clear, just an endless blue. Merlin breaths in and feels peace envelope him like a blanket. They split the coin, each taking a turn at the altar.
Gwaine places the offering and kneels, ringing the bell once in a sharp peal. Standing with a soft groan, he steps aside for Merlin to come forward, the priest coming forward to bless Gwaine. Merlin places the coins into the depression on top of Gwaine’s. Kneeling, he reaches out and rings the bell, the sound seeming to vibrate up his arm and into his chest.
Not sure what to say or think, he lets his magic loose, free to weave amongst the natural magic all around him. For a drawn out moment, he feels connected with everything around him. His breathe is the breathe of the world.
Just as suddenly, the feeling is gone and he feels cut off. Blinking his eyes open, he notices the change in the light. Standing with a groan, his knees had gone stiff, he stands. The priest is right behind him, face full of compassion. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, brushing a slick finger over Merlin’s brow, leaving a line of lavender oil.
“I…yes,” Merlin admits.
“Then there is no more that needs to be done. May the Balance always watch over you, brother,” he says, pressing a small kiss to Merlin’s forehead before stepping back. Merlin walks over to Gwaine who is seated off to the side.
“How long was I knelt there?” he asks as they descend the stairs.
“About an hour. The priest said not to disturb you,” he says over his shoulder, voice echoing oddly in the stairwell.
Merlin touches Gwaine’s shoulder before he can mount. “Thank you,” he says with a smile.
“For what?”
“For giving me a way to find my balance again,” Merlin answers. Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to Gwaine’s cheek. “For being a friend.”
Gwaine tugs Merlin forward, wrapping his arms around the warlock. “You may have a large patronage, but I know few can claim to be friend to Kilgharrah’s warlock,” he mutters to Merlin, grinning. Snorting, Merlin pushes away from the man, climbing up onto his horse.
The ride back is just as silent, but it is lighter, as are their hearts, and so they make their way back to Camelot, laughing as they try to lose Will amongst the alleys of the lower city. Thus they came upon the l’Isle.
They ride down the main street in a group. Dressed in the crimson and black of their house, the group seems to blur and ripple as if a glamor has been placed over them. As if sensing their gaze, they stop as one, turning to look at Merlin and Gwaine.
Nimueh moves forward, guiding her mount with ease and grace. “Merlin nó Emrys,” she says with her usual smirk. “Well met. Will you come with us to mourn the loss of a fine man?” Merlin can taste the irony of her words, this woman who alone condemned Prince Dillon before his peers.
Merlin is about to answer but Gwaine speaks up before he can, “He is with me.”
As one they throw back their heads and laugh. Although Merlin does not know their faces, he can name them: Melias, Aglain, Edwin, Myror, Tauren, all with the spark of wild magic, but none so bright as hers which flares like a torch in the darkness.
“So you are his little friend,” Nimueh says, drawing out the little. “They say you are wise, for one so young. Come tell me, what advice would you give me?”
Gwaine stiffens at her words, eyes glaring at her. “My advice is this: that which yields is not always weak. Choose your victories wisely.”
Merlin has never doubted how dangerous Nimueh is. But in this moment, his doubt lessens substantially as she alone remains silent amongst her kin as they laugh. “Words indeed to be taken seriously, boy. I shall not have a debt though. Tauren, pay the boy so we may be on our way.”
Tauren steps forward, tossing a silver piece through the air that Gwaine catches with a lazy grin and a toss of his hair. Nimueh looks back at Merlin briefly. “You find friends in the strangest of places. As for Prince Dillon, you grieve for him in your way, and I will grieve in mine.” With that, she spurs her mount forward, the rest following with a whoop.
“That is Nimueh, if I am not mistaken?” Merlin nods, unable to answer. “Be wary of her Merlin. She may only be interested in Kilgharrah’s games, but you are one of his pieces and she will cut you down just like any other pawn.”
Merlin stiffens, glaring at Gwaine. “I am no one’s pawn except my own. And if you are implying that I would follow her, then know that I wouldn’t-,” Merlin says hauntingly.
“Nor will you,” a third voice says behind them. Merlin jerks around, almost falling off of his horse before straightening himself to see Will standing behind them, no longer on a mount. “I’m sure you would never betray Lord Emrys’ trust so, Merlin?”
“I thought you were on a horse?” Merlin asks, sidestepping his question.
Will snorts, but let’s himself be led off topic. “The way you two ride, it is almost too easy to follow you on foot. Though you have a decent seat on you when you’re not paying attention,” he says, pointing at Gwaine. “Kilgharrah should have taught you. Now if you’re done playing games, I will take you home and tell him this.”
They took the horses back to the stable, Merlin seething quietly at being forced to go home when he didn’t want to. Gwaine just shrugs and send Merlin an annoying grin. Will just rolls his eyes and calls the carriage around to take them back home.
Kilgharrah isn’t even home and Merlin sighs in annoyance. Sending a glare at Will who just shrugs it off, Merlin stalks off, restless with the night still young. Merlin prowls the house until he stumbles upon Freya in the study reading from a letter.
“What is it?” Merlin asks, letting his anger go.
Freya smoothes away the tatters to her emotions from her face, folding the parchment and sets it down. “An offer. It just came in, from Reynold Gunter.”
Merlin opens his mouth to say something and closes it with a snap, looking away. “You know,” Freya says. Merlin nods silently.
“I overheard you, that night. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop. I’ve said nothing of it,” Merlin says in a rush.
“It matters not,” she says after a small pause. “What I want to know is why now? Does he have less to fear now that the Escetian family is in tatters? Or is it that he fears that his usefulness to the Bois family is up now that he has lost a major patron?”
“He has grown overconfident, Freya. The last time something this huge happened was the Queen and Prince’s death and he gained from it. He assumes he will gain from this as well. He feels entitled and men who feel entitled want to celebrate their entitlement. He seeks you out to show his power. Have a care with him.”
“I will, only this once and be done with it,” she says hotly, looking up at Merlin.
“Will you tell Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks, sitting down across from her.
“No, I will wait until it is done. It only says that Reynold has agreed to my request for a patron-gift. Let him think it is nothing more. If he knew what I felt, he would never let me do this.” She turns dark eyes on him, “Promise not to say anything?”
Merlin cannot hate her for this. It isn’t her fault that she has been offered her freedom while his collar only seems to grow tighter around his neck. “I promise.”
~*~
Merlin watches as Freya hides her distaste for the assignation from Kilgharrah with the skill of a true actor. Merlin remembers Gwaine’s words, “That which yields is not always weak.” If anyone is the embodiment of those words, it is Freya.
Always true to his word, Will informs Kilgharrah of the gap in his teaching. Kilgharrah agrees whole heartedly and a trip is planned for the days before Freya’s assignation for a trip. Alice and Gaius offer their country house which was given to Gaius by Uther upon his appointment as Royal Physician.
They spend four days in Ealdor, a small parcel of land near the border between Escetia and Camelot. It has a small wood and many fields. With a little village on its northern most point it is a little piece of paradise.
Something in Kilgharrah seems to ease out in the open air and sprawling landscapes, a part of him loosening ever so slightly so that a smile comes more easily to his lips.
The four days are spent with riding lessons taught by a twelve year old child who can ride circles around them with ease. He sits bareback on his mount as if he and the creature are one and Merlin feels envious at this. They eventually put their pride away after Merlin ends up falling headfirst into the village pigsty and soon come to enjoy the lessons.
On the last morning, they put their new acquired skills to the test, riding out with some of the locals on a hunt. Around them, the earth hums with life and the sound of the hounds brays as they follow the scent of some prey.
They catch up with them amongst the trees, the fox they have been chasing having disappeared underground into its den. One of the men gives a yell and half the hunting party rides off after him chasing something. Freya is amongst them, cheeks flushed and eyes shining brightly.
They make it back to the manor in time for lunch, though Kilgharrah seems to be his controlled self again. It is with sad smiles and waves that they take their leave, the open-top carriage pulling away from the manor and heading back to Camelot.
~*~
True to his word, Merlin says nothing of Freya’s approaching assignation with Reynold Gunter. The night of, Freya sends him one look before heading for the main door of the house. She is wearing the same dress she wore on her first assignation, her face calm and serene. There is a minor confusion about transport as Reynold has sent his own carriage, but it is soon resolved with Freya in Reynold’s carriage, Will as a silent presence with her.
Since they never have a contract on the same day, Merlin has the night to himself and sees her off. He hugs her tightly before she leaves and he can feel the slight tremble run through her body. “Be well,” he whispers to her before stepping back. Kilgharrah gives Freya his blessing and she steps into the carriage and it leaves, disappearing around a corner.
The night is winding down towards dawn when Freya returns. Merlin is sound asleep and for a second, he thinks it is Uriens again, yelling to draw them out of their beds. It still takes Merlin a minute to realize it is Freya who yells, voice echoing in the courtyard.
Scrambling out of bed, he throws on the closest tunic and pants before racing down the stairs barefoot, Kilgharrah and half the house already there. “What is it?” Kilgharrah roars above the clamoring crowd.
Freya is seated on the back of one of the carriage horses, legs gripping tightly, struggling with the cut reins, the horse rearing with fear, forcing Freya to hold on for dear life. “The couch was attacked,” she finally gets out. She jerks on the horse’s reins, forcing it to settle back on all fours as it tries to rear again. “By the river. Will is holding them off but he’s out numbered. He cut the traces.”
“Get my horse,” Kilgharrah shouts, turning to the nearest man. Stepping forward, he grabs the horse’s bridle, forcing it to stand still, sides heaving with exhaustion. Freya pulls a leg over the horse’s side and dismounts, grimacing. Merlin can see a dark spot blooming on her dress.
“Are you…?” Kilgharrah starts to ask, reaching out a hand to her.
Merlin jumps when Freya slaps his hand away, face etched with fury. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had taught me battle magic!” she snaps.
The man returns with Kilgharrah’s horse. “Where?” he asks coldly.
“Near the bridge.”
Without another word, Kilgharrah mounts the horse. Wheeling it around, he rides out, the horse’s shoes sending up sparks in its wake. With something that sounds between a laugh and a sob, Freya crumples to the ground, Merlin barely catching her and slowing her descent. A purse at her side slips off and falls to the ground, spilling gleaming golden coins. “My Mearcung, Merlin.” She gasps out, “it will cost Will his life.”
“Shh, Freya,” Merlin says, running a comforting hand over her shoulder. She had lost her cloak somewhere and is shivering in the cold. His hand lands on something wet and he looks down at the dark patch that is growing on her dress. Realizing it is not the temperature she is shivering from, he presses down on the wound, feeling blood seep between his finger, hot and slick. “Someone get a physician. Garen, Hal, send for Gaius or Alice! Now!”
The time seems to drag by excruciatingly slow as Merlin waits, holding Freya, hand pressed against her side. Merlin spends it whispering fervent prayers to the Balance, asking it to keep her and Will alive. He curses every petty feeling he felt toward his sister and Will.
Gaius and Alice arrive quickly and quietly. “Why is she on the cold ground? Do you want her to die of chill if she doesn’t die of the wound? You and you, help me get her inside,” Gaius says with authority, directing the two men sent for him to carry Freya.
Merlin lets her go with reluctance, fingers glued together with her blood. She looks at him silently, thanking him without words. Merlin silently gathers the coins up and follows them into the house. Gaius already has her on a couch, cutting through the dress with steady hands.
Alice drapes a cloth over her chest, allowing her some modesty as she shoos the two men out. The wound is long and deep, still seeping blood, but it won’t kill her. Pulling out a needle and thread from his kit, Gaius settles on a stool in front of her while Alice get the fire going. “You have lost much blood, but it shouldn’t kill you, not if I have anything to say about it.”
The room is silent for some time as Gaius sews; only broken by Freya’s hisses and quiet groans of pain. Finished, he asks for strong spirits, washing the wound with the burning liquid. He bandages it quickly as Alice hands Merlin a container of salve. “I’m sure you know how to use this,” Gaius says, looking at the warlock.
“You lead a hard life, warlock. I hope whatever is it you are after is worth it,” Gaius says, even as Freya fumbles for one of the coins in her purse to hand to the physician to pay him for his services. Gaius and Alice both stand, intending to leave but before they can reach the door, it opens.
Kilgharrah walks in with a dreadful look on his face, Will cradled in his arms, limp. Gaius checks for a pulse briefly, but shakes his head, saddened, “I’m sorry, but it is too late for him.”
“I know,” Kilgharrah gets out hoarsely. “Thank you.”
Shaking his head, Gaius and Alice leave, the woman sending one quick gaze at them before following her husband. Kilgharrah lays Will on the floor, hands crossed over his torso in respect for the man. “You should have told me,” he says angrily, eyes flashing brightly as he stares at Freya.
“If I had told you, you would have never let me make the bargain in the first place,” Freya says defensively. A tear escapes to slide down a pale cheek, “I never meant for anyone else to pay the price.”
Kilgharrah sinks to his knees over the felled man, hands balled into fists, chest heaving with each breath. “Who was it then?” Kilgharrah asks, finally, looking up at her.
“Maria Tinatgel de la Bois…and Agravaine de la Bois,” she whispers the names out to him, “Queen Ygraine’s brother.”
Kilgharrah closes his eyes, looking wearier than he has ever looked, the lines on his face seeming to deepen with the deep breath he lets out. “Thank you,” he whispers, a shudder wracking his body. “Thank you.”
~*~
Part 4a
It is Uriens de Isidore who brings the news to the Emrys household, too stunned by the news to remember his quarrel with Kilgharrah.
They are roused from their beds by the clatter of hooves in the courtyard and Uriens’ unmistakable bellow from below, “Kilgharrah!” Merlin has known the Comte de Isidore since he was a child and never has he heard the man yell so.
They all scramble out of their beds, throwing on the closest garments. Kilgharrah is fastest, already dressed and sword in hand as he reaches the main door at the bottom of the staircase. Will appears from a different direction, silent as a ghost, sword in hand as well. Merlin and Freya are close behind.
Surrounded by his men-at-arms, Uriens sits atop his horse white as a ghost, oblivious to the sword in Kilgharrah’s hand. His horse is trembling, sweat coating its flanks as its sides heave with each breath. Uriens tightens his grip on the reins and the horse shifts under him.
“Valiant d’Alene has just accused House Escetia of high treason,” he says grimly.
“You must be joking,” Kilgharrah bites out as he lowers his sword.
Uriens shakes his head. “No. He has proof: letters, addressed to Morgause from Vela of Hibernia, the wife of the late Frumgar.”
“How?” Kilgharrah asks.
“Messenger birds.” The horse shifts again and Uriens quiets the beast. “They’ve been corresponding since the Frumgar’s visit. What do I do? I am innocent in this matter, but I have a home and family to think of. Uther has already sent his fastest riders to the Comte de Dieu. He is mustering the royal army. He means war.”
Merlin turns to look at Kilgharrah and can see the wheels turning in his head. “You say you knew nothing of this?”
Uriens stiffens in the saddle, looking offended. “You know me, my friend. I am loyal to the Pendragon family, despite my family ties.”
“There will be a trial. Uther will not let this go without one, despite it being Cenred’s own family.” Kilgharrah paces a few steps before stopping and turning back around. “Send your three fastest men to Isidore. Tell them to turn out the guard and admit no one unless they bear orders in Uther’s own hand. We will send a letter to Pellinore de Dieu, there is still time to intercept him. He knows you and will not move against Isidore without orders from the king. This is Morgause’s doing, not the entire line. He will not punish the whole line for her misdeeds.”
Some of the tension seems to bleed from the tired man’s shoulders. “Prince Dillon has been implicated as well.”
Merlin draws in a sharp breath and Freya grips his elbow, shaking her head in warning. Kilgharrah doesn’t even react to the noise.
“You better come in,” Kilgharrah says to Uriens, “and tell me everything you know. Get your men moving and we will write the letter. We shall petition Uther. He is no fool, he will hear you out.”
Uriens nods after a moment and dismounts, giving orders to his men and tossing them his purse for the journey. They leave in a clatter of hooves until the sound fades away. Voices can be heard shouting the news in the distance of Camelot. “Come in,” Kilgharrah repeats.
Kilgharrah orders food and wine brought. Uriens seems to settle with each bite and sip until he is no longer jerking at each sound that is heard from outside. Merlin and Freya hover in the background, making themselves useful as they wait for Uriens to tell what he knows.
“What happened?” Kilgharrah asks.
Uriens lays it out as best as he can from the limited information he has gleaned or was given from a friend who is one of Uther’s lords-in-waiting. Uriens had come directly to Kilgharrah the moment he had heard, not knowing where else to go or who else to turn to.
The story is that Valiant d’Alene had learned of the accusation through the drunken boasting of one of Dillon’s men, deep in his cups on leave after a patrol of the border. D’Alene had investigated and upon finding proof, had taken it straight to Uther, riding day and night to reach Camelot. Without waiting for an audience to be granted, he had stormed into a public hearing with his accusation: Morgause le Fey de la Escetia had conspired with Vela of Hibernia and her son, the new Frumgar, to join forces. Backed by a Hibernian army, she planned to invade Camelot from two different fronts and place Prince Dillon on the throne of the combined kingdoms. In exchange, she would put the forces of Escetia to aid the Frumgar in his attack against the Wigend and their allies to secure his throne in Hibernia. They would have little hope to stop the Fisher King, but hoping they could distract him long enough to ferry the Hibernian ships across, they would use the conquered Camelot navy to secure a passage back across the strait.
“A clever plan,” Uriens says, sipping morosely at his goblet of wine. “If D’Alene hadn’t proved loyal to the crown, despite being Dillon’s friend, he would have gotten away with it.”
Kilgharrah asks gently, “And what of Cenred?” Uriens had never lost any sleep over a friendship with Morgause, but he and Cenred had been friends as children, and he and his cousin were still close.
“If I knew, I would tell you, my friend. In my heart I would never think he could do such a thing, but with him at odds with Uther over the slight with Petit Fils’ fleet and his pride, I do not know. He has long felt slighted by Uther’s flaunting of his fleet and army. If Morgause presented him with her plan altogether…I don’t know.”
“I understand,” Kilgharrah says, resting a hand on his knee. “How did D’Alene get the letters?”
Merlin knows the answer before Uriens even speaks it, “Nimueh de l’Isle.”
Merlin goes to speak and Kilgharrah sends him a warning look. Merlin’s not stupid enough to divulge his knowledge of Nimueh’s involvement. “Dillon was under her thrall. Why give him up when he stood to gain the throne?”
Uriens laughs darkly. “I would like to say it is because she is loyal to the throne, but that is untrue. It was most likely she knew Morgause would never allow her to marry her step-son. Morgause wants an obedient daughter-in-law, preferably one with connections and money. I highly doubt that if Dillon hasn’t defied her yet, he ever would have over Nimueh. Nimueh is formidable, but she is no match for the Viper of Escetia.”
If Merlin hadn’t been Nimueh’s farewell gift to Dillon, he might have believed Uriens’ words, but he knows Nimueh is far too smart to simply throw Prince Dillon away without having a way to gain from it. The “proof” that she had acquired was most likely laid weeks if not months in advance. The treachery is real though, despite Nimueh’s plans. Morgause is an ambitious woman in her own right.
They will have to hold their tongues and allow Nimueh to gain the praise of being “loyal” to the crown. She and Duc d’Alene will gain greatly from this. People always say that warriors think with their swords, but Merlin isn’t so sure the Duc d’Alene fits that mold.
The next few days are full of tensions and tempers as war is narrowly avoided. Prince Dillon and his step-mother, who has been visiting a friend in Camelot, are brought before the high council for trial. Cenred arrives soon after the accusation is made, escorted by the Comte de Dieu’s soldiers, as well as his daughter Dalia de la Escetia. Under the laws of the five kingdoms, all shall be questioned before the high council to prove either their innocence or guilt in the matter.
As the royal army sweeps through Camelot on its way to the border, Uther hears Uriens petition. Granting him clemency to the house of Isidore, he places Uriens under house arrest until the start of the trial.
Kilgharrah is called in to testify on Uriens behalf, his loyalty still in question. Merlin and Freya are able to attend and Merlin has little time to take in the splendor of the castle for the first time. There are no seats for the attending nobles, but the three of them find standing room to the side with a good view.
Uther sits on his throne. To his right is Morgana and around them sit the twenty-seven other nobles who have been chosen for the trial, nobles from all five kingdoms. The Palace Guard stand at attention behind the table on the raised dais and two Knights stand at attention behind Uther and Morgana’s seats, their black tunics giving away their purpose.
Morgause le Fey de la Escetia is the first to be brought forth for questioning. Merlin has only seen Morgause once from a distance, but has heard tales all his life of this formidable woman, the Viper of Escetia. She sweeps into the hall with her head high, blonde locks shining under the torchlight. She is dressed in House Le Fey colors, the purple and black marking her for what she is, half-sister to Morgana. Shackles wrap around her wrists, something she had demanded be done.
For her part, Morgause neither admits nor denies anything as the proof is offered up to her, her chin rising. She does not speak to Uther, but to Morgana. She is ten years Morgana’s senior and there is no great affection between them, though there is the ties of kinship.
“How do you plead to these charges?” Uther asks her. His voice is like iron, resounding through the room as the council finishes laying out the evidence. His hand shakes were it rests on the arm of his throne.
Morgause laughs at that, head thrown back briefly before she turns her gaze on Uther. “You dare to ask me that?” her voice is full of disdain. “Let me ask you then and see what you say. You cripple this kingdom as you cling to the traditions of the past. You hide behind your illegitimate spawn and make alliances with everyone to keep the peace. It is time for change in Albion, for new ways to rise up. Why else has a warlock appeared now?” she yells out and Merlin shrinks back, hoping that no one is looking his way.
People stir restlessly and start to murmur. Some probably agree with Morgause’s words but the impassive faces of Uther, Morgana and the lords and ladies of the council keep them from saying anything. Uther glares at Morgause.
“Then you plead guilty,” Uther de la Pendragon says softly. “What part did your husband play in it? Your son and daughter?”
“They knew nothing. This was all my doing,” Morgause says.
“We shall see.” Uther looks to the council. “How will you sentence her?”
Slowly, one by one, they hold out their hands, thumbs extended, and turn them down: Death. Morgana is the last to give her vote. Her eyes are hard as they stare out at her half-sister who would have killed her to get the Camelot throne. Her hand points down. “Death,” she says evenly.
“So be it,” Uther says aloud. “Morgause le Fey de la Escetia, you have three days to name the manner of death.” He motions to the Palace Guard to escort her out of the room. She offers no struggle and leaves with her head held high.
Cenred de la Escetia is called in next.
The king of Escetia looks similar to his kinsmen Uriens. They both have the dark hair and thin blade of a nose that marks the Escetian line. This is Merlin’s first time seeing the King and he looks tired. Cenred holds up his empty shackled hands, drawing Uther’s gaze. “We Escetians have always been known for our pride as well as our passions. I have sinned against you, in pride and love.”
“Do you admit to helping Morgause in her plans to seize the throne of Camelot?” Uther asks.
“I say I loved her too well.” Cenred’s gaze never wavers from Uther’s face. “I loved her who shares blood with your own heir. I knew, but I did not stop her when she sent orders to the admiral of my fleet, nor the Captain of my Guard. I knew.”
Again just as slowly, the hands came out and turn downward. Morgana is again the last to vote, her gaze thoughtful as she stares at Cenred. “Let him be banished,” she says coolly, turning to look at her father and the rest of the council.
“What say you?” Uther asks the council. None speak, but all nod and hold out their hands, palms facing outward. “Cenred de la Escetia, for your crimes against Camelot and Albion, you are banished from Albion and you title as king forfeit. You have three days to leave this land and should you ever return a bounty of ten thousand gold pieces shall be placed on your head. Do you accept these terms?”
Cenred turned to look at Uther, “You jest.”
Uther draws himself up, eyes hard. “I do not jest!” His voice echoes through the room. “Do you accept?”
“I accept,” he says subdued. Cenred’s head jerks up, “Uther, my daughter knew nothing! She is innocent in this matter.”
“We shall see,” Uther says again as Cenred is escorted from the room. “Be gone from this land.”
The lords and ladies whisper up at the table. They have planned to call Dillon next, but they change their minds, calling instead Dalia de la Escetia, Dillon’s sister, into the room.
Few could tell that she is Prince Dillon’s half-sister. She is Morgause’s true child and she looks more like her mother than her father. Her blonde curls are cut short and she carries herself much like her mother, the thin Escetian nose held proudly in the air.
Within several minutes of questioning, it is obvious that she had known as much as her father and had done nothing. The vote is the same: banishment. Father and daughter will survive, but not on Albion soil.
Last to come forth is Prince Dillon de la Escetia.
Like Morgause, he comes into the room in chains, letting them shake with each step. He holds his head up high, glaring at those in the room.
“Prince Dillon de la Escetia, you stand accused of high treason. How do you plead?”
“I am innocent,” Dillon shouts.
Uther looks off to the side and Valiant, Duc d’Alene walks out from a side chamber. His face is stiff as a mask as he comes to stand before Dillon. He gives his testimony to the council. His story is the same as what Uriens had told them. D’Alene withdraws and Nimueh steps forward.
She is surrounded by her kinsmen and kinswoman, all bearing the stamp of House l’Isle: blue-black hair, sapphire eyes, all wearing the crimson and black of their house. Merlin can feel their magic from the other side of the room, his own magic reacting and he is grateful when Freya wraps an arm around his waist, grounding him to the here and now.
Although it must be hard, Nimueh pulls off, somehow, a semblance of modesty, giving her testimony in a subdued voice. She says that Dillon showed her the letters in boast.
It is enough and the council hold out their hands again, thumbs down.
Death.
Morgana is again last, eyes hard as she stared at Dillon, “Tell me cousin, would you have wed me off to the highest bidder or just killed me outright?”
Prince Dillon gives no answer and it is enough. Morgana holds out her hand and points her thumb down.
“So be it,” Uther intones. “Prince Dillon de la Escetia, you are sentenced to death. You have three days to pick the manner of your choosing.” The prince is not as graceful as Morgause, stumbling from the room, disbelief evident on his face.
Uriens’ trial goes without a hitch. There is no evidence and with Kilgharrah’s testimony to back him up, he is absolved of all charges and his titles kept. Merlin watches Morgana and her eyes never leave Kilgharrah as he speaks, something hidden in her gaze.
~*~
The executions are held in private.
Many believed that Morgause would have a public execution, just to prove her point, but in the end her pride wins out. She takes a swift-acting poison, falling into a gentle sleep to never wake again. Prince Dillon is ever the soldier, even in death. When he learns of his mother’s choice in death, he calls for his sword. His shackles are removed and the Captain of the Guard is called in to be his second. His aim is true and pierces straight to the heart.
The city and even the five kingdoms fall into a subdued atmosphere, as if mourning the deaths. With no heirs left in Albion, the Escetian throne is passed to a cousin, not Uriens who refuses. Merlin wonders how this will change the course of history and fate.
Even Gwaine is sucked in by the somber atmosphere, his usually flippant demeanor subdued. He had made a large amount of money on a bet for the manner of death, but ever the superstitious soul, refused to spend it.
“It is cursed money,” Gwaine says and spits.
“So what will you do with it, give it away?” Merlin asks as they walk along the road towards Gwaine’s stable. He has built it up over the years until it is now well-known place with a large clientele from all over Camelot.
“And pass it on, are you nuts?” He shoulders Merlin with a small grin. “No, I’ll use it to make an offering to the Balance and the Old Religion. Perhaps it will do them good in their next life. Let’s see if there are any horses to spare.”
The boy tending the stables is quick to jump up and get them their mounts. They didn’t wait long before the two mounts are brought out, saddled and ready for them to ride. It takes Merlin a moment to scramble up the horse and into the saddle but once seated, he follows Gwaine out of the stable and out onto the road proper.
Gwaine sets a slow pace, keeping an eye on Merlin who’d never ridden a horse until this moment. It takes most of his concentration to stay on the horse’s back, but he still hears the third set of hoof beats behind them, Will no doubt trying to keep up with them.
The streets are empty as they make their way through, only a few groups out here and there, talking no doubt about the executions. Many wear the black of mourning, though they turn away as Merlin and Gwaine draw near.
“Do you grieve for him?” Gwaine asks.
Merlin can’t answer right away, trying to stay on his horse as they go around a stopped cart. Finally, he looks up. “Prince Dillon?” Merlin remembers the arrogant soldier and noble, the man who had held him down, pressed against the table, the drunk and joyful man from nine years before at the Winter Masquerade. He remembers Nimueh presenting him to Dillon, the last gift he would ever receive: the gift of death. “I do.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwaine says softly.
Merlin shook his head. “It’s all right. Let’s go to the temple.” They ride for some time in silence, the trees rising up and swallowing them in their growing silence. Around them, the plants breath life and natural magic and Merlin basks in its glow, soaking up the very thing that defines him.
They are silent as they ride into the clearing. The last time Merlin had been here was when he had dedicated himself. It feels right to come back here, to make an offering. The hidden stairway is just as narrow as he remembers it and Gwaine goes first, their steps loud in the silence and gloom.
Merlin isn’t surprised to see a priest waiting for them as they emerge onto the flat top. The sky above is clear, just an endless blue. Merlin breaths in and feels peace envelope him like a blanket. They split the coin, each taking a turn at the altar.
Gwaine places the offering and kneels, ringing the bell once in a sharp peal. Standing with a soft groan, he steps aside for Merlin to come forward, the priest coming forward to bless Gwaine. Merlin places the coins into the depression on top of Gwaine’s. Kneeling, he reaches out and rings the bell, the sound seeming to vibrate up his arm and into his chest.
Not sure what to say or think, he lets his magic loose, free to weave amongst the natural magic all around him. For a drawn out moment, he feels connected with everything around him. His breathe is the breathe of the world.
Just as suddenly, the feeling is gone and he feels cut off. Blinking his eyes open, he notices the change in the light. Standing with a groan, his knees had gone stiff, he stands. The priest is right behind him, face full of compassion. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, brushing a slick finger over Merlin’s brow, leaving a line of lavender oil.
“I…yes,” Merlin admits.
“Then there is no more that needs to be done. May the Balance always watch over you, brother,” he says, pressing a small kiss to Merlin’s forehead before stepping back. Merlin walks over to Gwaine who is seated off to the side.
“How long was I knelt there?” he asks as they descend the stairs.
“About an hour. The priest said not to disturb you,” he says over his shoulder, voice echoing oddly in the stairwell.
Merlin touches Gwaine’s shoulder before he can mount. “Thank you,” he says with a smile.
“For what?”
“For giving me a way to find my balance again,” Merlin answers. Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to Gwaine’s cheek. “For being a friend.”
Gwaine tugs Merlin forward, wrapping his arms around the warlock. “You may have a large patronage, but I know few can claim to be friend to Kilgharrah’s warlock,” he mutters to Merlin, grinning. Snorting, Merlin pushes away from the man, climbing up onto his horse.
The ride back is just as silent, but it is lighter, as are their hearts, and so they make their way back to Camelot, laughing as they try to lose Will amongst the alleys of the lower city. Thus they came upon the l’Isle.
They ride down the main street in a group. Dressed in the crimson and black of their house, the group seems to blur and ripple as if a glamor has been placed over them. As if sensing their gaze, they stop as one, turning to look at Merlin and Gwaine.
Nimueh moves forward, guiding her mount with ease and grace. “Merlin nó Emrys,” she says with her usual smirk. “Well met. Will you come with us to mourn the loss of a fine man?” Merlin can taste the irony of her words, this woman who alone condemned Prince Dillon before his peers.
Merlin is about to answer but Gwaine speaks up before he can, “He is with me.”
As one they throw back their heads and laugh. Although Merlin does not know their faces, he can name them: Melias, Aglain, Edwin, Myror, Tauren, all with the spark of wild magic, but none so bright as hers which flares like a torch in the darkness.
“So you are his little friend,” Nimueh says, drawing out the little. “They say you are wise, for one so young. Come tell me, what advice would you give me?”
Gwaine stiffens at her words, eyes glaring at her. “My advice is this: that which yields is not always weak. Choose your victories wisely.”
Merlin has never doubted how dangerous Nimueh is. But in this moment, his doubt lessens substantially as she alone remains silent amongst her kin as they laugh. “Words indeed to be taken seriously, boy. I shall not have a debt though. Tauren, pay the boy so we may be on our way.”
Tauren steps forward, tossing a silver piece through the air that Gwaine catches with a lazy grin and a toss of his hair. Nimueh looks back at Merlin briefly. “You find friends in the strangest of places. As for Prince Dillon, you grieve for him in your way, and I will grieve in mine.” With that, she spurs her mount forward, the rest following with a whoop.
“That is Nimueh, if I am not mistaken?” Merlin nods, unable to answer. “Be wary of her Merlin. She may only be interested in Kilgharrah’s games, but you are one of his pieces and she will cut you down just like any other pawn.”
Merlin stiffens, glaring at Gwaine. “I am no one’s pawn except my own. And if you are implying that I would follow her, then know that I wouldn’t-,” Merlin says hauntingly.
“Nor will you,” a third voice says behind them. Merlin jerks around, almost falling off of his horse before straightening himself to see Will standing behind them, no longer on a mount. “I’m sure you would never betray Lord Emrys’ trust so, Merlin?”
“I thought you were on a horse?” Merlin asks, sidestepping his question.
Will snorts, but let’s himself be led off topic. “The way you two ride, it is almost too easy to follow you on foot. Though you have a decent seat on you when you’re not paying attention,” he says, pointing at Gwaine. “Kilgharrah should have taught you. Now if you’re done playing games, I will take you home and tell him this.”
They took the horses back to the stable, Merlin seething quietly at being forced to go home when he didn’t want to. Gwaine just shrugs and send Merlin an annoying grin. Will just rolls his eyes and calls the carriage around to take them back home.
Kilgharrah isn’t even home and Merlin sighs in annoyance. Sending a glare at Will who just shrugs it off, Merlin stalks off, restless with the night still young. Merlin prowls the house until he stumbles upon Freya in the study reading from a letter.
“What is it?” Merlin asks, letting his anger go.
Freya smoothes away the tatters to her emotions from her face, folding the parchment and sets it down. “An offer. It just came in, from Reynold Gunter.”
Merlin opens his mouth to say something and closes it with a snap, looking away. “You know,” Freya says. Merlin nods silently.
“I overheard you, that night. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop. I’ve said nothing of it,” Merlin says in a rush.
“It matters not,” she says after a small pause. “What I want to know is why now? Does he have less to fear now that the Escetian family is in tatters? Or is it that he fears that his usefulness to the Bois family is up now that he has lost a major patron?”
“He has grown overconfident, Freya. The last time something this huge happened was the Queen and Prince’s death and he gained from it. He assumes he will gain from this as well. He feels entitled and men who feel entitled want to celebrate their entitlement. He seeks you out to show his power. Have a care with him.”
“I will, only this once and be done with it,” she says hotly, looking up at Merlin.
“Will you tell Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks, sitting down across from her.
“No, I will wait until it is done. It only says that Reynold has agreed to my request for a patron-gift. Let him think it is nothing more. If he knew what I felt, he would never let me do this.” She turns dark eyes on him, “Promise not to say anything?”
Merlin cannot hate her for this. It isn’t her fault that she has been offered her freedom while his collar only seems to grow tighter around his neck. “I promise.”
~*~
Merlin watches as Freya hides her distaste for the assignation from Kilgharrah with the skill of a true actor. Merlin remembers Gwaine’s words, “That which yields is not always weak.” If anyone is the embodiment of those words, it is Freya.
Always true to his word, Will informs Kilgharrah of the gap in his teaching. Kilgharrah agrees whole heartedly and a trip is planned for the days before Freya’s assignation for a trip. Alice and Gaius offer their country house which was given to Gaius by Uther upon his appointment as Royal Physician.
They spend four days in Ealdor, a small parcel of land near the border between Escetia and Camelot. It has a small wood and many fields. With a little village on its northern most point it is a little piece of paradise.
Something in Kilgharrah seems to ease out in the open air and sprawling landscapes, a part of him loosening ever so slightly so that a smile comes more easily to his lips.
The four days are spent with riding lessons taught by a twelve year old child who can ride circles around them with ease. He sits bareback on his mount as if he and the creature are one and Merlin feels envious at this. They eventually put their pride away after Merlin ends up falling headfirst into the village pigsty and soon come to enjoy the lessons.
On the last morning, they put their new acquired skills to the test, riding out with some of the locals on a hunt. Around them, the earth hums with life and the sound of the hounds brays as they follow the scent of some prey.
They catch up with them amongst the trees, the fox they have been chasing having disappeared underground into its den. One of the men gives a yell and half the hunting party rides off after him chasing something. Freya is amongst them, cheeks flushed and eyes shining brightly.
They make it back to the manor in time for lunch, though Kilgharrah seems to be his controlled self again. It is with sad smiles and waves that they take their leave, the open-top carriage pulling away from the manor and heading back to Camelot.
~*~
True to his word, Merlin says nothing of Freya’s approaching assignation with Reynold Gunter. The night of, Freya sends him one look before heading for the main door of the house. She is wearing the same dress she wore on her first assignation, her face calm and serene. There is a minor confusion about transport as Reynold has sent his own carriage, but it is soon resolved with Freya in Reynold’s carriage, Will as a silent presence with her.
Since they never have a contract on the same day, Merlin has the night to himself and sees her off. He hugs her tightly before she leaves and he can feel the slight tremble run through her body. “Be well,” he whispers to her before stepping back. Kilgharrah gives Freya his blessing and she steps into the carriage and it leaves, disappearing around a corner.
The night is winding down towards dawn when Freya returns. Merlin is sound asleep and for a second, he thinks it is Uriens again, yelling to draw them out of their beds. It still takes Merlin a minute to realize it is Freya who yells, voice echoing in the courtyard.
Scrambling out of bed, he throws on the closest tunic and pants before racing down the stairs barefoot, Kilgharrah and half the house already there. “What is it?” Kilgharrah roars above the clamoring crowd.
Freya is seated on the back of one of the carriage horses, legs gripping tightly, struggling with the cut reins, the horse rearing with fear, forcing Freya to hold on for dear life. “The couch was attacked,” she finally gets out. She jerks on the horse’s reins, forcing it to settle back on all fours as it tries to rear again. “By the river. Will is holding them off but he’s out numbered. He cut the traces.”
“Get my horse,” Kilgharrah shouts, turning to the nearest man. Stepping forward, he grabs the horse’s bridle, forcing it to stand still, sides heaving with exhaustion. Freya pulls a leg over the horse’s side and dismounts, grimacing. Merlin can see a dark spot blooming on her dress.
“Are you…?” Kilgharrah starts to ask, reaching out a hand to her.
Merlin jumps when Freya slaps his hand away, face etched with fury. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had taught me battle magic!” she snaps.
The man returns with Kilgharrah’s horse. “Where?” he asks coldly.
“Near the bridge.”
Without another word, Kilgharrah mounts the horse. Wheeling it around, he rides out, the horse’s shoes sending up sparks in its wake. With something that sounds between a laugh and a sob, Freya crumples to the ground, Merlin barely catching her and slowing her descent. A purse at her side slips off and falls to the ground, spilling gleaming golden coins. “My Mearcung, Merlin.” She gasps out, “it will cost Will his life.”
“Shh, Freya,” Merlin says, running a comforting hand over her shoulder. She had lost her cloak somewhere and is shivering in the cold. His hand lands on something wet and he looks down at the dark patch that is growing on her dress. Realizing it is not the temperature she is shivering from, he presses down on the wound, feeling blood seep between his finger, hot and slick. “Someone get a physician. Garen, Hal, send for Gaius or Alice! Now!”
The time seems to drag by excruciatingly slow as Merlin waits, holding Freya, hand pressed against her side. Merlin spends it whispering fervent prayers to the Balance, asking it to keep her and Will alive. He curses every petty feeling he felt toward his sister and Will.
Gaius and Alice arrive quickly and quietly. “Why is she on the cold ground? Do you want her to die of chill if she doesn’t die of the wound? You and you, help me get her inside,” Gaius says with authority, directing the two men sent for him to carry Freya.
Merlin lets her go with reluctance, fingers glued together with her blood. She looks at him silently, thanking him without words. Merlin silently gathers the coins up and follows them into the house. Gaius already has her on a couch, cutting through the dress with steady hands.
Alice drapes a cloth over her chest, allowing her some modesty as she shoos the two men out. The wound is long and deep, still seeping blood, but it won’t kill her. Pulling out a needle and thread from his kit, Gaius settles on a stool in front of her while Alice get the fire going. “You have lost much blood, but it shouldn’t kill you, not if I have anything to say about it.”
The room is silent for some time as Gaius sews; only broken by Freya’s hisses and quiet groans of pain. Finished, he asks for strong spirits, washing the wound with the burning liquid. He bandages it quickly as Alice hands Merlin a container of salve. “I’m sure you know how to use this,” Gaius says, looking at the warlock.
“You lead a hard life, warlock. I hope whatever is it you are after is worth it,” Gaius says, even as Freya fumbles for one of the coins in her purse to hand to the physician to pay him for his services. Gaius and Alice both stand, intending to leave but before they can reach the door, it opens.
Kilgharrah walks in with a dreadful look on his face, Will cradled in his arms, limp. Gaius checks for a pulse briefly, but shakes his head, saddened, “I’m sorry, but it is too late for him.”
“I know,” Kilgharrah gets out hoarsely. “Thank you.”
Shaking his head, Gaius and Alice leave, the woman sending one quick gaze at them before following her husband. Kilgharrah lays Will on the floor, hands crossed over his torso in respect for the man. “You should have told me,” he says angrily, eyes flashing brightly as he stares at Freya.
“If I had told you, you would have never let me make the bargain in the first place,” Freya says defensively. A tear escapes to slide down a pale cheek, “I never meant for anyone else to pay the price.”
Kilgharrah sinks to his knees over the felled man, hands balled into fists, chest heaving with each breath. “Who was it then?” Kilgharrah asks, finally, looking up at her.
“Maria Tinatgel de la Bois…and Agravaine de la Bois,” she whispers the names out to him, “Queen Ygraine’s brother.”
Kilgharrah closes his eyes, looking wearier than he has ever looked, the lines on his face seeming to deepen with the deep breath he lets out. “Thank you,” he whispers, a shudder wracking his body. “Thank you.”
~*~
Part 4a